Fever Dream
Dr. Sara Alderson isn’t used to her patients dying for no reason. When a young boy succumbs to a mysterious illness that defies all her efforts to treat it, she refuses to accept defeat.
After two months of questions, Sara has attracted the attention of powerful people who don’t want their secrets uncovered, and will go to any lengths to make sure they stay hidden.
Now, time is running out for Sara to unravel the mystery before anyone else falls victim to the illness. And before her career, her family and her freedom are taken from her by enemies she doesn’t even know she has.
Fever Dream is the eithth book of the Dream Doctor Mysteries.
Read an excerpt:
It’s one in the morning, and the last guests have gone. Other than the cleaning crew, Brian and I are the only ones left in the ballroom. I know we need to leave, but I can’t bear the thought of standing up and trying to walk out of the room, down to the garage and then to the car. I think my feet might literally fall off.
“You’re going to have to carry me out of here,” I tell Brian, and he gives me a wicked grin in return.
“I was planning on it,” he says, and he stands, takes a deep breath, and lifts me right out of my seat. I yelp and throw my arms around his neck as he carries me out of the room and over to the elevator, barely showing any strain at all. He has to put me down once we get to the elevator, though. “I need a free hand,” he says, hitting the “up” button. But the garage is – oh. I should have known.
“You booked a room.” He nods. “And you told my parents we wouldn’t be home tonight.” Another nod. It’s all part of the fantasy, I guess. He’s been imagining that he’s James Bond all night, and after a glitzy evening at the casino, James Bond doesn’t hop into the minivan so he can get home, walk the dog and collapse into bed. No way. He takes his conquest for the evening up to the five-star hotel room, where the champagne is already waiting. On ice, no doubt.
The bell dings, he ushers me into the empty elevator, and as the door closes, I feel my fatigue suddenly, instantly, drain away, and I’m all over him. I may not be a fan of those movies, but I know how they go, and it’s not as though I need much of an excuse to throw myself at my husband. By the time the door opens onto the third floor, I’m panting and extricating my hands from his tuxedo jacket. “You woke up in a hurry,” he says, panting himself, pulling his hand off the zipper of my dress, which is already halfway down my back.
“Well, I know what you were thinking, and I also know that no girl can resist James Bond, right?” By way of an answer, he leads me down the hall, opens the door to our room, picks me up again and deposits me on the bed. In seconds, he’s finished the job of zipping me right out of my dress, and his tuxedo is in an undignified mess somewhere on the floor. After that – there’s no more thought, just feeling, just his hands and his lips and his – his everything.
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