Shadow's Lady (Pajaro Bay)
Book Details
Author(s)Barbara Cool Lee
PublisherPajaro Bay Publishing
ISBN / ASINB00MQAIIYC
ISBN-13978B00MQAIIY2
Sales Rank42,552
MarketplaceUnited States 🇺🇸
Description
Winner of the Romance Writers of America®'s Golden Heart® Award for Romantic Suspense.
He was supposed to seduce her, not get rescued by her. So how did Matt DiPietro find himself lying in a brass bed being fed chicken soup by a sheltered girl with innocent blue eyes and a pretty good right hook? He had to find a way to get back in control of the situation before both of them ended up as shark bait....
Welcome to Pajaro Bay, where mystery and romance mingle on the California coast. Readers praise the series for its "sweetness," its "excellent characterization," and say the books are "adorable, lively and like a warm hug."
Read an excerpt from Shadow’s Lady:
Left arm, right arm, turn head, breathe.
Matt DiPietro ignored the fact that he could no longer feel his left leg, that it dragged uselessly behind him while his other leg did its best to propel his body through the sea.
Left arm, right arm, turn head, breathe.
He ignored the fact that the waters of Pajaro Bay were their usual numbing 52 degrees, the same temperature as the pelting rain that threatened to drown him every time he lifted his head above the waterline for a breath of air.
Left arm, right arm, turn head, breathe.
And most of all he ignored the fact that the flash from the lighthouse on Pajaro Isle had gotten farther away in the time he'd been swimming toward it, because if he thought about that too much he might start listening to the little voice warning him that the tide was carrying him out into the Pacific Ocean, where his body wouldn't touch land until it hit Hawaii.
There was no point going to Hawaii now, he thought idly. He'd already seen Waikiki Beach in January. It had been the senior trip at Pajaro High, after they'd won the big game. They'd partied all night at the luau, and the guys had taken turns slapping him on the back and saying 'way to go, dude,' and the cheerleaders had fought with each other to ask him to dance, and he'd wandered off down the beach alone in the darkness, feeling vaguely unhappy, but not knowing quite what to do about it.
An odd thing to think about now, fourteen years later, while vainly swimming for his life through the unforgiving Pacific. Maybe not so odd, though. It was that same vague restlessness that always drove him out in the pre-dawn hours to kayak until his arms ached and he'd drowned his aloneness in sweat.
He'd allowed himself to lose track of his surroundings out here, focusing on the rowing and the sheen of the water as the last of the moonlight was obscured by the approaching storm. He had been off his guard in the wrong place at the wrong time, so now his life would end with his body drifting off to Hawaii at the ripe old age of 32.
Not likely. He'd be passing over the Pajaro Trench before he even got out of the bay. And in the trench there would be some great white shark lurking, ready to rise out of the fathomless deep to polish its teeth on his sorry hide.
Something brushed against Matt's right leg.
Like this great white. He fought down the energy-draining panic that surged through him, and forced himself to keep swimming straight toward the lighthouse.
Left arm, right arm, turn head, breathe. Same rhythm, only a little faster now as the adrenaline warmed him like a swallow of double-caf espresso.
A shark had not bumped against his leg. It was a piece of driftwood. Or it was a tendril of kelp. Or it was a fat halibut heading out to deeper sea before it could get hauled up on someone's line and end up on a slab of ice back at the wharf.
It was not a shark. And his numb left leg was not leaving a bloody wake behind him, like a neon sign guiding every ocean predator to where his battered body flailed uselessly toward that blinking light on the horizon.
Matt decided this would be a good time to pray.
He was supposed to seduce her, not get rescued by her. So how did Matt DiPietro find himself lying in a brass bed being fed chicken soup by a sheltered girl with innocent blue eyes and a pretty good right hook? He had to find a way to get back in control of the situation before both of them ended up as shark bait....
Welcome to Pajaro Bay, where mystery and romance mingle on the California coast. Readers praise the series for its "sweetness," its "excellent characterization," and say the books are "adorable, lively and like a warm hug."
Read an excerpt from Shadow’s Lady:
Left arm, right arm, turn head, breathe.
Matt DiPietro ignored the fact that he could no longer feel his left leg, that it dragged uselessly behind him while his other leg did its best to propel his body through the sea.
Left arm, right arm, turn head, breathe.
He ignored the fact that the waters of Pajaro Bay were their usual numbing 52 degrees, the same temperature as the pelting rain that threatened to drown him every time he lifted his head above the waterline for a breath of air.
Left arm, right arm, turn head, breathe.
And most of all he ignored the fact that the flash from the lighthouse on Pajaro Isle had gotten farther away in the time he'd been swimming toward it, because if he thought about that too much he might start listening to the little voice warning him that the tide was carrying him out into the Pacific Ocean, where his body wouldn't touch land until it hit Hawaii.
There was no point going to Hawaii now, he thought idly. He'd already seen Waikiki Beach in January. It had been the senior trip at Pajaro High, after they'd won the big game. They'd partied all night at the luau, and the guys had taken turns slapping him on the back and saying 'way to go, dude,' and the cheerleaders had fought with each other to ask him to dance, and he'd wandered off down the beach alone in the darkness, feeling vaguely unhappy, but not knowing quite what to do about it.
An odd thing to think about now, fourteen years later, while vainly swimming for his life through the unforgiving Pacific. Maybe not so odd, though. It was that same vague restlessness that always drove him out in the pre-dawn hours to kayak until his arms ached and he'd drowned his aloneness in sweat.
He'd allowed himself to lose track of his surroundings out here, focusing on the rowing and the sheen of the water as the last of the moonlight was obscured by the approaching storm. He had been off his guard in the wrong place at the wrong time, so now his life would end with his body drifting off to Hawaii at the ripe old age of 32.
Not likely. He'd be passing over the Pajaro Trench before he even got out of the bay. And in the trench there would be some great white shark lurking, ready to rise out of the fathomless deep to polish its teeth on his sorry hide.
Something brushed against Matt's right leg.
Like this great white. He fought down the energy-draining panic that surged through him, and forced himself to keep swimming straight toward the lighthouse.
Left arm, right arm, turn head, breathe. Same rhythm, only a little faster now as the adrenaline warmed him like a swallow of double-caf espresso.
A shark had not bumped against his leg. It was a piece of driftwood. Or it was a tendril of kelp. Or it was a fat halibut heading out to deeper sea before it could get hauled up on someone's line and end up on a slab of ice back at the wharf.
It was not a shark. And his numb left leg was not leaving a bloody wake behind him, like a neon sign guiding every ocean predator to where his battered body flailed uselessly toward that blinking light on the horizon.
Matt decided this would be a good time to pray.
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