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The Shimmering
When skeptic journalist Sandra Lowell interviews a doctor who claims to have mastered astral projection, she volunteers to prove the doctor wrong. Except he’s not. Sandra finds herself on another world, forced to help warrior Daveck recover the Zorash—an ancient totem that protects his planet. Without the Zorash, neither the planet, nor the love they begin to feel, will survive.
Seeker
In 2405, Sara accidentally triggers a machine that brings sexy scientist and womanologist, Kendar, from the future. His life’s work has been the study of Sara Tolliver's doomed attempt to shut down the machine that ultimately obliterates the female population. In a race to interpret ancient Martian writings and find the truth about Sara's heirloom chest, failure is not an option. Because failure means Kendar loses Sara to the same disaster that cost the world everything . . .
Stargazing
Hounded by paparazzi eager for news of the disastrous surgery that paralyzed her vocal chords, megastar singer Merline Sullivan takes refuge in an antique shop, only to be catapulted hundreds of years into the future. Merline stands at a crossroads of love, stardom, and an intriguing promise of an exotic and erotic planet.
Susan Kearney writes full time and has sold books to the industries' top publishing houses — Grand Central, Tor, Simon & Schuster, Harlequin, Bell Bridge Books, Berkley, Leisure, Red Sage, and Kensington. Kearney's knowledge and experience spans throughout the romance genre, and her fifty plus books include contemporary, romantic suspense, historical, futuristic, science fiction, and paranormal novels. She resides in a suburb of Tampa—with her husband, kids, and Boston terrier. Currently she's plotting her way through her 54th work of fiction.
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Excerpt
Prologue
SANDRA
LOWELL tossed in her bed, half-asleep, her dream too delicious to wake up from. Without opening her eyes, she flung her
hand toward the ringing alarm clock, hit the snooze button, and slipped back
into the arms of her dream lover. And oh... wow. Her dream
man had powerful biceps that sported a two-headed serpent symbol that twisted
around them, a chest as wide as a Kodiak bear’s, and the arrogant features of a
Viking, except for his dark hair. Perfect lips. Perfect cheekbones. Perfect
fingers that wrapped around her neck and drew her mouth to his for a kiss that
ravished, seduced, stroked.
Yum. Threading her hands
into his hair, she tugged him closer and breathed in his exotic scent, an alien
and erotic scent that caused her heart to pound. She leaned into his kiss,
arched into his touch, ground her hips into his. He traced a path from her
mouth to her collarbone, and in anticipation of him going lower, her breasts
tingled.
Her alarm clock shrilled
again and she wakened, pulse pounding, heart jolting. Her arms clutching...
her pillow.
Breathing in deeply and
exhaling slowly, Sandra groaned. Another minute. She’d only needed one more damn minute to find release. Instead,she’d overslept and had no time to take off the edge herself. When it came to
men, her social life was nonexistent. So it figured she’d run out of time and
wake up from her dream—just when things were turning deliciously interesting.
With a sigh of
frustration, she ripped back the sheet and padded toward the bathroom. Even in
her dreams she’d never been that lucky.
Chapter One
"YOU THINK THE astral
projection machine is legit?”
At Dr. Liza Mancuso’s
question, Sandra halted on the concrete steps of the Psychophysical Research
Institute, shaded her eyes from the Florida sunshine, and frowned at her best
friend. "Do I think a machine can sling someone’s mind into an out-of-body
experience? Of course not.”
Really, how could Liz
even seriously consider the possibility? The chances of Sandra having an
out-of-body experience were no more likely than bumping into her dream man as they
approached the institute’s front doors.
Setting down her medical
bag on the steps, Liza wrinkled her brow in confusion. "Then why don’t we just
forget it?”
If only Sandra could forget it. This lightweight
assignment was not at the top of her make-a-difference-in-the-world list. Nor
was it even on the page. But reporters had to work their way to the top within
a hierarchy of corporate politics. Until Sandra was one of the lucky few who
could choose their assignments, she had to take the stories her editor handed
out.
As Sandra answered Liza she ticked off points on her fingers. "I’m a reporter. My boss believes that astral
projection is newsworthy, if only for its quirkiness. He assigned this story to
me. So here I am to uncover the facts, while you protect me from becoming a
medical malpractice victim.” She refrained from
mentioning her boss was currently none too pleased with her after she’d taken a few risks while covering a celebrity murder trial last
month. She’d gotten her scoop, but word had gotten
back to corporate that she’d impersonated a book
editor to gather background material and apparently that was a no-no. Of
course, if one of her male colleagues had pulled the same trick, he’d be accepting free drinks in the bar for a month. Her reward
after putting the follow-up to bed was this bizarre assignment, a definite
comedown. "Come on.” She glanced at her
watch. "I’m on deadline.”
Liza hesitated, her warm brown eyes filled
with concern. "You’re supposed to report the stories,
not become the experiment yourself.”
"A little risk comes with
the job.” Especially if Sandra wanted to get ahead.
When she’d started as a cub reporter three years
ago, she’d made up her mind to stand out from the
others in the fiercely competitive world of journalism. An A student in
college, she’d also worked on the student paper. When a
slot opened at the Sun, a professor had recommended her. Sandra had made
herself available nights, weekends, and triple shifts, determined to get
ahead. And now she refused to give up because of a minor setback. If she had to
write soft news, she’d search for a different
angle to make the story fresh and riveting. And if she had to try astral projection
for the sake of her work, she was up for that, too.
Liza’s tone had an edge of
Southern-accented disapproval. "Was it your job to
skydive out of that helicopter and break your leg?”
Sandra flexed her limb. "You fixed me up good,
doc.”
"Was it your job to
volunteer as a hostage when those crazy kids robbed Citibank? I had to remove a
bullet from your arm that time. Another four inches over and it would have
been your heart. And remember when—”
"I’ll be careful,” Sandra sighed. It wasn’t as if she had a family to worry about her. No parents, grandparents,
aunts, uncles. Not even a lover. Being alone had advantages. She could do what
she wished; take risks to get ahead, prudent risks to kick her career into high
gear. However, Liza worried so Sandra did her best to ally her fears. "If I put in another medical claim, my boss has threatened to
demote me to writing classifieds.” Yet, despite his
annoyance and Liza’s worries, Sandra recalled with
satisfaction how her investigative pieces had made page one.
She enjoyed her career too much to turn down this assignment. Or
to give it up for a family. Sure, someday she’d have a guy like the
one in her dreams—but not yet. Nothing pleased her more than
uncovering the layers to a story, learning secrets, and finding the truth. The
sense of satisfaction as she gathered bits and pieces of a puzzle until she had
the entire story kept her working long after her colleagues went home to their
families. The only downside was she’d sacrificed her social
life. She had a crazy schedule—it wouldn’t be fair to ask anyone to put up with her eighty-hour work
week. Plus, she was too young to make commitments to anyone since she yearned
for her career to soar. Damn. She didn’t need a shrink to tell
her why her unconscious was inundating her with lusty fantasies. Three times
this week, the same lover with the exotic serpent symbol had invaded her
dreams, leaving an impression that splashed over into her waking hours.
"Here we go again.” Rolling her eyes, Liza’s words pulled Sandra’s attention back to the conversation.
Sandra shrugged. "There’s no real danger involved this time, because nothing’s going to happen. The astral projection machine is a hoax.”
"How can you ignore all
those people you interviewed who claim they’ve left their bodies?”
Three years as a reporter had left her cynical. Sandra might
still want to make a difference, but she was no longer dewy-eyed and innocent.
"Maybe they’re kooks. A few centuries ago, hundreds of people reported
abduction by fairies. Or maybe they hyperventilated. Lack of oxygen causes
hallucinations. Look how many people claim to have been visited by aliens.”
"Maybe they have.”
She winked at Liza. "That’s why I need you. If anything does go wrong, you’ll patch me up like always.”
"Don’t count on it. I’m a general
practitioner, not a soul catcher—and this experiment is
way outside my field of expertise. Perhaps—”
"Dr. Flores earned a
Harvard medical degree and completed his residency at Johns Hopkins. I highly
doubt he’s going to harm me. Just make sure he doesn’t slip me a hallucinogen or put me in a hypnotic trance, okay?” Despite Liza’s reservations, she was
obviously as curious to see the machine as Sandra—which is why Sandra had
so easily talked her into taking the afternoon off from her busy medical
practice.
They hurried up the steps to Dr. Flores’s imposing steel building. A revolving door spun soundlessly,
depositing them in a vast foyer, decorated with all the personality of a gloomy
cave. The hushed air smelled stale... like the interior of
the county jail. They crossed the foyer toward the elevators, the only sound
the click of their heels on the black marble floor.
Surely the chilly air, not the idea of astral projection or the
unnatural silence, caused the goose bumps to rise on her neck. They stepped
into the elevator, and she jabbed the button for the top floor. They rose
smoothly, but Sandra’s stomach somersaulted
like a gymnast. According to her research, many Eastern cults accepted astral
travel as an everyday matter. Supposedly, the mind or astral spirit could
separate itself from the body.
But then thousands of people believed in Roswell and little
green men, too.
The elevator doors opened directly into a murky room with dozens
of widely spaced reclining leather chairs
with headphone attachments. Carpeting muffled the footsteps of
attendants who checked blinking monitors above their patients, who lay with
eyes closed, gentle music lending a soothing sound to the still atmosphere.
"What kind of laboratory
is this?” Liza whispered.
Before Sandra could respond, a smallish man in a lab coat a size
too big strode forward with an eager grin plastered across his cherubic face.
His benevolent smile, his guileless eyes, and his rosy cheeks seemed so compassionate
and out of place that Sandra found it hard to believe he was Dr. Flores, the
head of the institute.
He pumped her hand enthusiastically, blue eyes twinkling behind
a set of bifocals. "Thanks for visiting. Are
you ready for the experience of a lifetime?”
"I have a few questions I’d like to ask first, please.” Sandra almost hoped he’d refuse to answer. It would be a good indication he had something
to hide.
No such luck. Instead he dismissed an assistant before leading
them to his private sanctum, a surprisingly cozy office with oriental furniture
and tapestries on the paneled walls. He offered sweetened iced tea with lemon
slices and delicate sugar cookies. Sandra placed the recorder on Flores’s immaculate desk, so she could quote him exactly. She might not
believe in his theory, but as always she was determined to report the facts—not her opinion.
Leaning over his desk, his gaze directly on her, he spoke right
into the microphone. "What would you like to
know?”
"Tell me about your
invention.” She’d begin by accumulating
background information with an open-ended question.
Resting his elbows on the desk, he propped his chin in his palm."Very simply, my astral machine allows the
mind to leave the body.”
"How?”
"Let me back up a second.
Before my invention, it took years of study to attain the necessary level of
relaxation needed for the mind to separate from the body. One must relax to the
point of ‘hearing’ silence and ‘listening’ to the inner workings
of one’s mind.”
Yeah, right.
Three years as a reporter made it easy for
Sandra to keep her face blank, her disbelief hidden.
"To ensure the astral
spirit is free to leave the body,” he continued, "extraordinary relaxation is required. During the process a slow
paralysis creeps over the body. However, fear of that very paralysis is a great
deterrent to out-of-body experiences. Untrained people tense, stopping them
from successfully freeing the mind from the body.”
She raised an eyebrow. Was he going to claim in advance that it
was her fault, her fear, if the machine didn’t work as designed? "Go on, please.”
"My techniques eliminate
the fear, but not the paralysis.”
Okay, he had the fear angle covered. But paralysis? Sandra
exchanged a long glance with Liza, a silent urging for her to ask the medical
questions.
Liza didn’t disappoint. "Wouldn’t a sedative take away
fear?”
"Yes. Of course. But
eliminating the fear is only the first step in the process.” Flores popped a cookie into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. "Once the subject relaxes, my machine boosts the patient out of
his or her body.” Sandra tried to keep the skepticism from
her face. "Your machine works every time?”
"Every time.” Dr. Flores beamed.
"Do you administer drugs?” Liza asked.
"Only a minor relaxant.
My machines’ vibrations do the rest. If you decide to
go ahead and try the process,” he said to Sandra, "your friend is free to observe the procedure.”
Sandra nodded. "Have you had any
difficulties?”
At the question, the happy expression on Dr. Flores’s face dimmed, and he stood, drawing himself up to his full five
feet of height. "Our past experiments are not a secret.
There’s someone you should see.”
Sandra grabbed her recorder, and she and Liza followed the
quick- stepping doctor to a curtained-off cubicle in the corner of the lab. At
the hissing and sucking noises behind the screen, Sandra experienced a sudden
twinge of apprehension and dryness in her mouth.
Doctor Flores yanked back the curtain. A handsome man lay in
bed, hooked to a respirator. At their rude interruption, Sandra half-expected
his eyes to fly open, but he remained completely still, the only indication of
life being the rise and fall of his chest beneath a crisp cream-colored sheet.
His unlined, pale face didn’t so much as twitch a
muscle—not his sensuously full lips, not his
masculine nostrils, not his ultra-long eyelashes. If he’d been healthy, he’d have been as handsome
as her dream man.
"You’re keeping him alive with the machine?” Liza asked.
The hiss of air pumping oxygen into the man’s lungs grated on
Sandra’s nerves. She fumbled and
switched on the recorder. True, she wanted a story, but even she would only go
so far. "What happened to him?”
"He didn’t choose to come back.”
He didn’t choose? "Excuse
me?”
"It’s the truth.” Flores tucked the
blanket more snugly around his patient’s feet. "After he paid for this entire wing, I saw no reason to refuse
his request to try my machine. Before he astral projected, he made out his
will, named an executor, and signed power of attorney over to his chief accountant.”
"Does he have a name?”
"He’s a wealthy Romanian prince. Telling you his name would violate
doctor-patient confidentiality.”
A wealthy Romanian prince? If Sandra were at her computer, she’d have his identity within a few keystrokes. Instinct prompted
her next question. "There’s more to his story than choosing not to return, isn’t there?”
"He specified in a living
will that if his mind didn’t rejoin with his body,
the institute was not to keep him alive by artificial means.”
"Then why all this?” Liza pointed to the machines surrounding the patient.
Dr. Flores sighed. "Before he left on his
astral journey, the prince turned over the day-to-day operations of his
financial empire to others. Rather than accept new management and forfeit huge
salaries, private jets, and luxurious yachts, his lawyers and accountants
prefer to run the companies themselves. They overturned his will and as long
as he lives, they can run his companies. A court order prevents me from
shutting down the machines that breathe for him. There’s nothing I can do.”
Sandra studied the handsome prince in wary fascination. If only
he could speak, what would he say? Had he really left? Or had the machine
forced him into a coma-like state? And if he’d gone, why hadn’t he returned? Or had he changed his mind and couldn’t find his way back? Most important of all, could the same thing
happen to her?
She inhaled deeply to steady her nerves. "How long has he been like that?”
"Several years. He’s my only deviation from the norm. I assure you, Ms.
Lowell, my machine is perfectly safe.” Sandra looked to Liza,
who perused the monitors. "He’s in a vegetative state—almost no brain
activity. Sandra, I have a bad feeling. You should reconsider.”
"Nonsense.” Dr. Flores patted Liza’s shoulder. "Your concern for your friend is admirable but unwarranted. At
first, I blamed the prince’s predicament on my
machine, too. We stopped the astral projections, double and triple checked our
data. But it wasn’t our error or a technological malfunction.”
"How do you know?” Sandra asked, still skeptical.
"We received a letter
dated before the prince left, stating the unequivocal fact that he didn’t intend to return to an existence trapped inside a body.” He handed her a note. "This is a copy. Read for
yourself. Experts verified the handwriting. It was his choice not to return,
not any fault of my machine.”
"And what’s to prevent this fiasco from recurring?” Liza asked.
Flores didn’t appear to take
offense. "We screen our candidates more carefully
now, and we also subject everyone to the same exhaustive battery of
psychological tests Sandra took last week.”
Sandra sighed. Flores had impeccable
credentials. And the fact that he’d openly admitted one failure was to his
credit. "Am I a good candidate?”
He didn’t flinch. "You’re perfect. Now come. It’s time to experience my invention for yourself.”
They followed Dr. Flores down a long corridor, and Liza
whispered in Sandra’s ear. "You don’t have to do this. No
job is worth ending up like that.”
Sandra ignored her suggestion. "I have a few more
questions, Dr. Flores. Why is the Romanian at the institute instead of a
hospital?”
"If we move his body, the
astral spirit won’t know where to return—if he should so choose.”
Since Flores’s sincere tone reflected
complete frankness, Sandra swallowed her disbelief. His spirit refused to
return? She found it much more likely that the guy had had a mental breakdown.
Flores had sent her a DVD of background material about astral projection. She’d watched a patient sit in a chair, his heart rate slowing a bit
on the monitor. Breathing deepened. Then absolutely nothing happened for twenty
minutes until the patient returned and made all sorts of unverifiable claims.
Perhaps the Sun’s experts could discredit
Flores’s machine, if not his theories. "Could you describe the mechanism behind your invention?”
"Later. I’ll explain everything once you experience astral travel for yourself.” His tone implied she’d be more receptive
later. Didn’t he know reporters lived to poke holes in
other people’s theories?
Dr. Flores opened a door into a well-lit room. If not the same
room, it was a twin to the one she’d viewed on the tape. A
reclining chair in the middle of the floor eclipsed the rest of the equipment.
Overhead, a brown box hung from the ceiling.
"Have a seat, please.” He gestured to the chair, his tone confident. "Don’t worry. I’ve done this thousands
of times.” Sandra handed Liza her purse and ignored
her friend’s disapproving frown. Flores must have noticed
Liza’s dubious expression because he redoubled
his assurances. "I’d hardly invite the
press to a demonstration if I hadn’t worked out the bugs,
now, would I?”
"Of course not.” Sandra settled back in the chair and grinned at Liza, reminding
herself that the larger and more outrageous the scientific scam, the bigger the
headline.
She took a deep breath. "I’m ready. Let’s do it.”
