My latest erotic historical novella, Color Me Bad, releases today from Ellora’s Cave! Here is the lovely, lovely cover — please to click to purchase!

{Disclaimer: the following excerpt in no way endorses historical burglary. Unless you, the heroine, are absolutely sure it’s necessary — in which case, go right ahead! I’m sure that will work out brilliantly. Color Me Bad releases on April 17.}

The first thing went wrong before she even got in the door.

Hecuba Jones had learned to pick locks on the old tumbler locks on the doors of her family’s home. Her father had eventually installed a Barron double-acting and it had taken months for Hecuba to find the right amount of pressure to use on the pick—too little and the lock stayed locked, too much and it re-locked itself. It had been nearly ten years since she’d tried something that complicated.

The Earl of Underwood was apparently quite mindful of his security, since the lock on the tradesman’s entrance to his home was the very latest model—a Chubb detector lock.

Which was, to the full extent of Hecuba’s knowledge, unpickable. By anyone, much less an amateur thief a decade out of practice.

She raised the pick and hook to the edge of the lock and took a deep breath, willing her hands to remain steady. The Chubb’s main feature was that it could only be unlocked by one specific key. Using a copy—or lifting one of its inner levers the slightest bit too high with a pick—would jam the lock entirely. Then, when the owner came home with the right key, the lock would only open if the key was turned the opposite way—so the lock’s owner would know that someone had attempted an entry.

Hecuba’s palms grew damp and she scrubbed them against the material of her black trousers. There was no time for this, damn it all.

She gritted her teeth and leaned closer.

And paused.

A thought occurred.

She transferred pick and hook to her left hand and reached out with her right.

Slowly, she wrapped her hand around the door handle and turned it.

The door opened with demure, well-oiled silence.

Hecuba didn’t know whether to curse or sing with joy. Instead of doing either, she moved quickly across the threshold and pulled the door quietly shut behind her.

It was a strange thing indeed to move through the darkness of an unfamiliar house. She paused for a long while, just listening, until she was finally convinced that even the most disciplined and devoted servants had long ago sought their beds. Her baggy men’s trousers and high-collared coat were deep black and well-worn enough not to rustle or catch the light as she padded along the corridor of the first story. Five minutes and two wrong doors later brought her to the Earl of Underwood’s study.

Twin shafts of moonlight slipped in through the two tall and imperfectly curtained windows in the far wall. On the right, a pair of paintings hung above a broad old desk bristling with scars. Two more paintings flanked an ancient, cracked mantelpiece on the room’s left-hand side. A few weathered armchairs stood about the room like battered veterans of some ancient upholstery war . One would have expected the earl to be more particular about the state of his décor, but the room was undeniably cozy, in an old-fashioned, masculine kind of way.

She reminded herself not to relax. Despite the room’s welcoming air, disaster would result if she were caught here.

Hecuba stepped forward in her soft leather shoes and raised the darkened lantern. The flick of a wrist set free one slender beam of light, just bright enough for her to see a few telltale colors of the room’s four paintings.

Relief bubbled up in her heart. Yes, these were the four she’d been looking for.

She set the lantern on the desk and took down the left-hand painting from that wall, grasping its carven frame with great care.  Night obscured most of the painting’s details, but she knew it as well as she knew her own face and her memory filled in the gaps. This painting showed a twilight scene in the back garden of a country cottage—serenely drooping blossoms, rustic white walls, the merest hint of a dusky blue horizon in the distance. On the balcony of the second story, a tall figure dressed all in black with a black mask over his face pressed his back against that white wall, focused on the tempting open window to his right.

It was titled: The Thief.

And there was the signature, in the lower right-hand corner—C. F. Jones.

The painting had caused a scandal and a sensation when it had been offered for auction after the artist’s demise. Rumor had it that the masked figure was the culprit behind several highly talked-over burglaries of the previous generation and that the artist had received payment for his work in the form of priceless, purloined jewels.

Nobody knew The Thief’s true identity.

Nobody, that is, except Hecuba Jones.

Hecuba turned the painting facedown and snicked open the blade of her knife.

From behind her, a large hand moved into view on her left and snapped the lantern shut.

Hecuba was plunged into darkness.

While she stood frozen in shock, her right hand—with the knife still clutched in it—was pressed gently yet firmly to the rough wood of the desk. A man spoke, so close that his breath stirred the hair by her right ear. “It seems we both have found ourselves a thief,” he murmured.