Katie Allen Likes 'em Warm and Wild. Win a Copy of Chasing Her Tail

Whom do you think are sexier?  Werewolves or vampires?  Why?

Werewolves, definitely. I go for the more animalistic heroes. I like ‘em rough, hairy and not quite tame. Vampires seem more civilized…and awfully pale. Plus they’re, you know, dead. I haven’t had the privilege of doing the nasty with a vampire, but I always figured it would feel a little cold and clammy, kind of like the sleepy little toad I moved off the sidewalk the other chilly morning.

Eric or Bill?  (Extra credit if you explain why)

Um…I haven’t read/watched True Blood (ducks missiles thrown at head by angry fans).

What is the most unsexy thing you see on the streets, these days, as far as fashions and trends go?  (male or female)

I’d have to say people in the full-on cycling wear. Spandex can be scary. Also, why are there ads on your jerseys? Is Gatorade paying you to pedal around the neighbourhood? No? Then stop.

[Well, that's a new one...]

Your most favourite, pulse-pausing hero in film or in novels?  What did he do that stopped your pulse?

I’m not sure if he could be considered a hero, being a serial killer and insane and all, but Francis (Ralph Fiennes’ character) in Red Dragon is the first one to pop into my head. He tried so hard not to be crazy after he met Reba. I really appreciate that kind of effort and dedication. I must admit that I like intense, even obsessive heroes (although I don’t write mine quite as crazy as Francis).

Why do you think vampires are so sexy?

Yeah, I’m not really on the vampires-are-sexy train (see above: cold, clammy and dead). Give me a hairy beast instead. I’ve read some great books where the authors have convinced me to give their pale heroes a chance, but as a group, vampires just don’t do it for me (“No, I’m not going back to your coffin with you tonight. I don’t care how many Bloody Marys you buy me. Shoo.”).

Your favourite paranormal romance author?

Kelley Armstrong. I’m loving her YA series right now.

Your favourite urban fantasy author?

Jordan Castillo Price. The PsyCop series is great.

What are you currently reading?

Um…honestly? John Seymour’s The Self-Sufficient Life and How To Live It. Yep, I’m a geek.

[Sounds fascinating!]

What will you be reading next?

Cop school textbooks! Yes, I’m going back to school in Law Enforcement. One of my first classes is Basic Handgun. How cool is that? Since I love having cops and PI’s as my heroes, I’m considering this research (plus—fun!).

Tell us about your book.

Chasing Her Tail is a were-mutt ménage featuring Hammer from One-Two Punch. As a first-grade teacher, Bridget thinks she’s prepared for anything a classroom of six-year-olds can throw at her. So it’s a bit of a shock when she’s bitten by a were-puppy and transformed into a dog.

As if peeing outside, excessive furriness and squirrel-chasing urges aren’t enough, it seems as if everyone is after Bridget—including a billionaire with an unhealthy interest in the paranormal, and Micah, the smoking-hot uncle of her were-puppy student.

When she takes refuge with Hammer, a kind stranger who has the body of a god and feeds her hamburgers, Bridget thinks she’s safe. Micah’s hot on her trail, however, and the crazy billionaire isn’t about to let a were-dog slip through his fingers. Meanwhile, Hammer is determined to discover the truth about the mysterious woman who visits his bedroom at night—wearing nothing but a black leather collar.

And an excerpt – (PG 13 if possible)

Jodi popped her head into Bridget’s classroom. “What are you still doing here?” she asked.

Bridget glanced up, startled, and then smiled at the sight of Jodi’s freckled face. “Parent conference,” she explained.

“Let me guess—Sam Foster?” When Bridget nodded, Jodi rolled her eyes. “What a wild child. Nadine was so happy when the school year was up last spring so she could pass the hellion on to you…and she only had him half-days.”

“He’s not so bad,” Bridget protested.

Jodi snorted. “Sure, he’s an angel. That’s why you’re having his parents come in for a conference two weeks into the new school year.”

Bridget just shrugged and smiled.

“Well, come join us over at the Blue Donkey for a drink when you’re done,” Jodi told her.

“I’ll try,” Bridget said but Jodi shook her head sternly.

“Don’t just try—come. You need to get out more, have some wild nights before you’re old like me.”

“Please,” Bridget scoffed. “You’re not old. You have another good ten, twelve years ahead of you.” Laughing, she ducked when Jodi lifted her bag as if she were going to chuck it at Bridget’s head.

“You’d better show up,” Jodi threatened one last time before disappearing from the doorway with a final wave.

Bridget gave an answering wave before dropping her eyes back to the papers on her desk and picking up her pen. Jodi’s visit had distracted her, however, and the pen sat idle in her fingers. Bridget doubted she would go to the bar—she very rarely did. Her looks were fine, she supposed, although nothing flashy—just brown hair and brown eyes and a mildly pretty face. Her plain-Jane exterior, combined with her tendency to say idiotic things when she was nervous, made going to bars uneventful at best and downright embarrassing at worst. It was so much more pleasant to curl up at home in her pajamas with a hot cup of tea and a book.

“Ms. Grace?”

Bridget jumped and dropped her pen, her startled gaze flying to the doorway. When she saw the owner of the gravelly voice, she swallowed. This man had to be Sam’s dad—the two were an exact match, from the tousled, dirty blond hair to the full, sulky bottom lip. Well, an exact match except that Sam’s dad was huge and quite definitely grown up.

“Mr…ah, Foster?” She flinched inwardly at the hesitation in her voice. Bridget was small enough and young enough to give parents doubts about her ability to control twenty-five rowdy first-graders. She tried to project confidence during parent conferences, to speak clearly, shake hands firmly and offer plenty of eye contact. Sam’s father, though—he threw her off her game.

When he nodded, she gestured to a chair next to her desk. For conferences, she always borrowed an adult-sized seat from the teachers’ lounge. There was nothing more uncomfortable than spending an hour crouched on a chair meant for a six-year-old.

Mr. Foster crossed the room and Bridget swallowed again at his approach. As he lowered himself onto the chair, she had to keep herself from pushing back from her desk. For some reason, this man made her feel as if she were being stalked.

Shaking her head to clear it, she forced a polite smile and opened her mouth to speak but Mr. Foster beat her to it.

“What did Sam do this time?”

Bridget blinked at him. “What?”

“Was it the hedgehog thing again?”

“Hedgehog thing?” she repeated faintly.

“Is he messing around with that Jack kid? In Sam’s defense, that Jack’s a little shit.”

Bridget covered her snort of laughter with a cough. She had to agree with him on that one. “Mr. Foster—”

“Whatever Mrs. Schiller’s told you, Sam’s really a good kid,” Mr. Foster interrupted again. “Just…sensitive.”

“I know. I—”

“I don’t want him to be blacklisted in every class just because he had a few problems adjusting in kindergarten.”

“Mr. Foster.” Bridget used her biggest voice, the one she used to cut through the babble of a classroom full of kids hopped up on Valentine’s Day candy. It was his turn to blink at her.

“Mr. Foster,” she started again more quietly. “Sam did nothing wrong. He’s a nice little boy. I like him.”

“Oh.” He chewed on that for a few seconds. “So why am I here?”

“Your son—”

“Nephew,” he corrected.

“You’re not his father?” she asked in surprise. He was truly a grown-up version of Sam, down to the same blue-green eyes. Sam’s changed color with his mood—intense, vivid green when he was excited or happy and moody blue when he was upset. Bridget found herself wondering whether his uncle’s eyes changed as well and forced herself to concentrate on his answer.

“No. My brother—his father—is on tour. He’s in a band,” he explained. “Sam stays with me when he’s on the road.”

“His mother?” she asked.

“Gone.” His tone was clipped and his eyes did go stormy blue, to Bridget’s reluctant fascination.

Focus, she ordered her brain. “The reason I asked you to come in is because Sam has drawn a…disturbing image.” She pulled the marker drawing out of a manila file and offered it to Mr. Foster. “It’s unusually violent for a six-year-old.”

He looked at the picture, his face expressionless.

“Did you have a small pet die recently?” she probed when he didn’t say anything. “A rabbit, perhaps?”

“No,” Sam’s uncle said slowly, his eyes still on the paper. “He saw a dead rabbit the other day, though. The neighbor’s dog had killed it.”

Relief washed through Bridget. The day before, when Sam had drawn the picture, she had been walking up and down the aisles during the students’ art time, admiring the pictures of rainbows and cars, houses and stick people, when she had first glimpsed the drawing that Sam was bent over, coloring with fierce concentration.

The picture showed a large, hairy creature, fangs bared, standing over the blobby brown shape of a small animal with bright red marker blood pooling around it. Sam had watched her hopefully, waiting for praise, and Bridget had tried to keep her expression impassive. She had finally murmured something about the picture being “very colorful” but she knew he could tell something was wrong. His eyes had darkened and dropped to his marker-flecked hands.

“Is this from a movie?” Bridget had asked gently. After a quick, guarded glance, Sam had returned his gaze to his hands and shook his head. Bridget had asked if she could have the drawing and Sam had nodded without looking up. She had brought the picture back to her desk, her stomach clenched in dread, terrified that something was very wrong with sweet little Sam.

Not Sam, she had wailed silently, glancing at the top of his bent, dark blond head. Although she tried to be fair, Bridget had to admit to herself that, just two weeks into the new school year, Sam was already her favorite.

“Good,” she sighed and then shook her head at Mr. Foster’s bemused expression. “Not good about the dead rabbit. I mean…it just…I was afraid that it indicated something much worse.”

Sam’s uncle nodded. “I’ll bring him to his doctor; see what he recommends, just in case.”

“That’s a good idea,” Bridget said. “I’m sure the drawing was just a reaction to seeing the rabbit, but it wouldn’t hurt for him to talk to someone—especially with his father’s absences.”

“Sure,” he agreed, his eyes lightened to green now. “So everything else is good? No hedgehog issues? No problems with the little sh— I mean, Jack?”

“None.” Bridget beamed. “Sam’s an absolute joy to have in class.”

Mr. Foster raised an eyebrow. “Really. Well, good. He’s crazy about you, by the way. Everything is Ms. Grace this and Ms. Grace that.”

“I’m glad.” She tucked the picture back into the folder, feeling as if fifty pounds had been lifted off her back. “He’s lucky to have you. With his dad’s travels, I’m sure you’re his rock.”

He shrugged as if embarrassed by the compliment. “Could I have that picture?” he asked. “To show to the doctor.”

Bridget hesitated for a moment and then handed it back. “Sure. All his artwork will come home with him by the end of the year anyway. This will be one less thing to cram into his backpack.” She smiled at him and one side of his mouth curled up in response.

Bridget’s stomach squeezed again but, this time, it wasn’t from worry.

What the holy howling fuck was he doing?

Micah Foster shifted in the driver’s seat of his car, wondering for the five thousandth time that hour why he didn’t just drive away. The light was fading and his friend Laz was probably wondering where Micah was. He pulled his cell phone from the holder on his belt and hit a button.

“Yeah?” Laz answered after a few rings.

“Everything okay?” Micah asked.

“Fine and dandy,” Laz told him cheerfully. “The kid helped me work on the truck ’til we lost our light. We’re just making a manly supper now.”

“‘Manly’?”

“Hot dogs in the microwave with some processed cheese on top.”

Micah winced. “Could you at least give him some kind of vegetable?”

“Vegetable?” Laz repeated doubtfully. “Um, of course I’m giving him a vegetable.” After a pause, he asked, “Does root beer count?”

“No. What the hell kind of vegetable would be in root beer?”

“I don’t know. Aren’t roots vegetables? Like a carrot or something?”

Micah groaned. “Never mind. I’ll just double up the healthy stuff tomorrow.”

“Ketchup!” Laz said triumphantly. “Ketchup is a vegetable! We’re definitely having ketchup.”

Micah heard Sam faintly in the background, announcing that he loved ketchup.

“Hey Laz…” Micah trailed off, knowing that he shouldn’t even ask. He should just go to Laz’s house, pick up Sam and avoid a whole shitload of trouble.

“Yeah?”

“Forget it. I’m leaving the school now. Should be there in twenty minutes.”

“Don’t hurry home on our account,” Laz told him. “We were going to watch a movie with cartoon bears or dogs or some shit in it—”

“Laz!”

“Oops, sorry.” Laz didn’t sound too contrite. “We’re going to watch a lovely film filled with upstanding moral values then. Why don’t you take the next couple hours and try to have a life? Go have a drink, find a hot babe and have some fun for once.”

“You’re expecting a lot out of two hours,” Micah told him dryly, although his heart accelerated at the thought of going out. What would it hurt?

“Whatever. Just so you know that I’m fine, the kid’s fine and we’re not even letting you in the front door until the last beaver or penguin or whatever has danced across my TV screen. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good, ’cause my hot dog’s getting cold and that makes the cheese rubbery. Later.”

“Thanks Laz.”

Micah hung up the phone and saw Bridget Grace hurrying through the parking lot, her slight figure lit by the halogen lights that had just flickered to life a few moments ago. Micah’s entire body tightened at the sight of her.

His fascination baffled him—she wasn’t his usual type. He liked his dates taller, more muscular and…well, more male. He’d slept with plenty of women but he normally preferred men. There was a rough edge to the sex that drove him wild.

There was something about this teacher though, something that made him pay attention to things he never noticed—the way the classroom lights caught the highlights in the chestnut fall of her hair, or how she looked at him, her dark brown eyes intrigued and wary at the same time.

She made him hungry and eager to hunt.

She tossed her bag into the passenger seat of her car and climbed in. After she drove off, Micah counted to five and then started his own engine, pulling out of the dark corner space and following her taillights down the street, cursing himself the entire way.

________

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