Hi, I'm Sarah Raplee, author of the Pychic Agents Series
|WHAT A LIFE!!!|
Although I have yet to be eligible for Medicare or Social Security, I do qualify for the “Honored Citizens” menu at Shari’s Restaurants. Recently, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m no longer a “spring chicken”, as my grandmas used to say.
I like to think I’m evolving to become more like the pet free-range hen that will never lay another egg, but who digs grubs like nobody’s business. Her antics keep her city-transplant family so entertained that they forgive her when she doesn’t always come when called.
Instead, they stumble around in the dark with flashlights, call fruitlessly and forge through the row of ancient arbor vitae standing tall above the fence line. There they find her roosting on a wooden fence rail. She greets them with a purring chuckle that elicits a fond shake of the head. “Silly old chicken! What have you been up to?”
|WHY DID THE CHICKEN CROSS THE ROAD?|
TO GET OUT OF THE SNOW!
Delighted to have another country life story to tell their city friends, they carry her back to the safety of the hen house and give her a handful of meal worms (aka “chicken treats”) to boot.
That’s my rambling fantasy of me reinventing myself as an elderly person. I’m holding onto it, beak and claw! ~ Sarah Raplee
A tenacious FBI Psychic Agent who can find anything…
A lonely blind woman with a dangerous kiss…
A brutal psychic criminal obsessed with killing one and controlling the other…
Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, the undercover FBI agent poured his champagne into his neighbor’s empty glass. He couldn't take a chance on dulling his thought processes. Being Hector was like wearing an ill-fitting-but-familiar old suit that pinched in a couple of places, but not so badly he couldn’t ignore the discomfort most of the time. But he had to be at the top of his game, one-hundred per cent in character to survive long enough to bring down the Mendoza Cartel.
The murmur of the crowd muted. Casting a glance over his shoulder, Hector spotted Killingsworth staring through the open French doors beside the musician’s dais like a lion spotting a threat—or prey. The back of the agent’s neck prickled.
Turning his head for a better look, he made out a shadowy female figure wearing a long gown. Why was Killingsworth so interested in her?
A swirl of iridescent fabric the color of sagebrush in springtime accompanied a dainty, green-slippered foot into the soft circle of light spilling from the ballroom. Conversation near the doorway hushed. Every male in the room homed in on the woman who left the shadows, a woman like no other the agent had encountered in the underworld of the Cartel.
Coppery curls spilled over the curve of one shoulder in a long, loose ponytail. Rhinestones shimmered in her burnished hair and winked from the frames of her mysterious dark glasses. Her demure, floor-length gown failed to curb the sweet, girl-next-door sexiness she exuded.
For the first time in four years, desire unfolded in the agent’s belly.
In the world of the Cartel, women survived and sometimes thrived using a combination of cold cunning and artifice. They grew cynical and hard, or worn-down and resigned. Yet everything about this woman sang the siren song of wholesome, soul-deep beauty. Even the warm, humid air smelled fresher with her in the room.
She hesitated, brushing back an errant curl with a small hand covered in sage-green lace to match her gown. Her wide mouth curved in a tremulous smile.
One of the blue-suited mariachis descended the dais steps and spoke softly to her. She nodded. Tucking one of her hands into the crook of his arm he led her to the little stage. He murmured something into her ear and she smiled. They ascended the three steps and crossed to the middle of the raised stage. The mariachi guided her gloved hand to a microphone stand.
Hector’s heart bucked like a wild burro. ¡Carajo! The woman was blind.