Okay, this is Wednesday instead of Saturday, but Mists of Time, the final book in my DaVinci Time travel series, comes out on the 20th, so you’ll see several excerpts here in the coming week or two.
In Mists of Time, Diana Dearborn is a romance writer who’s never been in love. An orphan with no knowledge of her origins, she longs for the days of Camelot, when courtly love ruled. Using Leonardo’s wonderful machine she’s about to embark on a journey that will reveal surprising secrets about herself, about the mysterious man who is stalking her, and just might change the world.
She pushed open the doors and pulled her charge into the glare of the security lights over the parking lot. She glanced around for Clancy. Was that his shadow making its way down the colonnade toward them? Uh-oh. The shadow didn’t have Clancy’s paunch. As she watched, the figure emerged into the light.
Her stomach fell. She knew this guy, at least by sight.
Dark hair, fair skin, bulky shoulders. She might have been mistaken when she’d seen him across the lake as she came out these very doors the other day. He could just have been someone who looked like the guy who had pushed past her in the corner liquor store near her apartment.
But this time there was no doubt. It was the same guy all right. If he got closer, she’d see the gray eyes (or maybe green?) and classic features she’d glimpsed in the liquor store. Was he stalking her? You can’t stalk somebody if you look like the cover model for a romance novel! she wanted to shout. People notice a guy like you! Women anyway. And while she might not be someone guys ever noticed, she was still a woman. In the liquor store, as his whatever-colored eyes had met hers, she’d experienced some thrill of… well, of the sort she only wrote about. Spooky, really. You couldn’t be attracted to a man you didn’t even know. Not like that. But it meant you’d recognize him when you saw him again.
A thrill of fear found its way into her stomach as she stood, frozen, in the parking lot. Maybe he wanted her to recognize him, wanted her afraid. Why would any man be stalking someone like her? Romance writers occasionally acquired stalkers. The guys who wrote all those fan letters from prison sometimes got out. But she wasn’t a big name or anything. She wasn’t rich and she wasn’t beautiful. He just stood there at the entrance to the colonnade, the huge columns and the angels who crowned them dwarfing him. He looked … well, he looked as shocked as she did—even more than he did at the liquor store.
And he looked…familiar, somehow. She couldn’t know him…and yet…it felt like she knew him more intimately than she ever could if she’d only seen him three times.
Get hold of yourself, she thought, panic layering on top of panic. And get out of here.