Excerpt from Irons in the Fire Chapter One On Fridays the fairies have special power over all things, and chiefly on that day they select and carry off the young mortal girls as brides for the fairy chiefs. But after seven years, when the girls grow old and ugly, they send them back to their kindred, giving them, however, as compensation, a knowledge of herbs and philtres and secret spells, by which they can kill or cure, and have power over men both for good and evil. ....................Lady Wilde, 1826-1896 Chapter One The blinding flash of sunlight bouncing off chrome trim caught Britt Jenkins' attention and distracted him from the task at hand. Frowning, he glanced out his kitchen window to see a gray Caprice pulling into the Taylors' driveway next door. He hadn't expected Catherine Fiona Mullaney to arrive in an aging sedan with rust holes mottling the finish. He had envisioned her stepping out of a limousine equipped with a properly starched chauffeur. Britt continued to stare as Miss Mullaney emerged from the car wearing a gray, neatly tailored suit that clung to a slender frame. She looked to be about twenty-two, and in the slanting afternoon rays, her lush fall of hair gleamed like ebony silk. He whistled softly, admiring the fluid motion of shapely legs. Though her uncle, Mike Taylor, had repeatedly sang the praises of his �wee� Catherine, Britt hadn't believed she would look quite this good. He�d thought his neighbor's niece would be an overindulged dumpling. She gave an energetic wave and dashed toward the bulkhead where Mike always docked his cabin cruiser. Britt rolled his eyes. He already knew she had her uncle wrapped around her little finger. Mike had told him of his plans to take her out on the boat and then to one of the most posh restaurants on the waterfront. Britt turned away from the vision of the delectable Miss Mullaney and resumed the job of stirring the Arctic white paint. Jabbing his stick to the bottom of the paint can, he swirled with furious strokes. The repetitions released only some of his anger. He had worked hard to become a journeyman reporter at the Daily Press, but Catherine Mullaney�s job had been handed to her on a silver platter. After her father, Ed Mullaney, died a year ago, a collection of his syndicated columns had been published. The book, A Good Argument, still remained on the bestseller list. The editor expected her byline to sell papers--and it would. But the kicker came when the editor gave Britt the job of showing the ropes to Miss Mullaney. And that galled him. Climbing up the stepladder with can and brush in tow, he surveyed the ceiling. Within an hour he would have it finished. One more room completely renovated in this century-old Victorian. A deep, throaty rumble, followed immediately by a shattering explosion, shook the back wall of the house. Startled, Britt paused with the paintbrush in midair before dropping it to hurry down the ladder. Then he heard another sound, a splitting crack that could only be the sharp report of a rifle. Dashing to a window overlooking the channel, he stared in horror. Across the channel, near the vast stretches of marsh, black smoke billowed from a mass of orange flames drifting in the waves. Britt grabbed the binoculars that hung on the back door. His gut churned as he spotted hungry tongues of fire licking the gleaming gold figurehead of the Cliona, Mike Taylor's cabin cruiser. Praying Mike had jumped overboard before the flames touched him, Britt grabbed the phone and punched in the numbers to report the disaster. His heart thundered while he relayed the information. When he heard a scream, he dropped the phone. He ran out the door as another ungodly shriek rent the air. Rushing to the edge of the bulkhead, he saw Miss Mullaney hanging by the tips of her fingers from the floating dock, which now bobbed vertically in the water. His blood ran cold as he saw that one of the chains holding the float to the massive timbers had snapped. The sound of groaning wood made the inevitable crystal clear. The float�s remaining chain, stressed to the limit, looked about to sever at any second. Catherine didn't think she could hold on much longer. Her arms ached and her hands were going numb. Then, just as her fingers slipped down another inch, an angel of mercy appeared at the top of the bulkhead. Except the stranger didn't look like an angel. He looked more like Satan with wild black hair and eyes that reflected the hellish fires of her uncle's flaming boat. "I can't swim!" she screamed. "Please, help me!" Buy it at: Crescent Moon Press Barnes & Nobles Amazon   * * *