She thought the mullo was just a myth…she was dead wrong.


Adam Flint's Gypsy visions always guide him to those who need his paranormal gifts. He gets more than he bargained for in Pearl Kizzy, a beautiful spitfire from Liverpool. Adam knows that to save Pearl, he must help her accept her own Gypsy heritage.

Although Adam and Pearl fight their burning attraction for one another, a night of passion sparks memories of their treacherous former lives. Unable to face the loss of Pearl in this century, Adam scrambles for distance from the love of his life. A rejected Pearl falls into the arms of a Mullo - a gypsy vampire - who lays claim to her heart, and her life.

To survive, Adam and Pearl must accept their tragic past, and find a way to kill the undead.



Genre: Paranormal, vampire, romance

Heat level: 3

Cover art by Dara England



~When a Mullo Loves a Woman is our April 2011 "Read for a Cure" story. All publisher proceeds during this month will be donated to the American Cancer Society's Relay for Life program.~




~Excerpt~

“Is he still behind us?” I nudged Celeste’s pink lycra-clad ribs to steal her attention away from a store window. No use. The mannequins decked out in scanty outfits mesmerized her. I nudged her again. She shrugged and pointed to a little black number clinging to a plastic body.

“I bet that would look great on me. What’d ya think?”

“Really, Celeste? I mean, really? We’re being followed, and you’re picking out outfits?” I scanned the sea of tourists stampeding through the palm tree lined streets of Carmel-by-the-Sea, California. The would-be purse snatcher, who'd been behind us for four blocks, was hard to miss with his dark and grungy attire.

The early evening breeze skimmed his hood, throwing it back to expose a stare laced with purpose, eyes deep, soulful. He caught my gaze, and a look of recognition hit him. He picked up his pace to a jog. Friggin’ Nora. I focused my attention ahead, my breath fast, my pulse pounding.

“Maybe he wants a date?” Celeste giggled, her blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders. She cocked her head to one side and smiled. My heart sank; certain madness would follow that cunning smile.

“Look, he’s all dressed up for you and everything. You should totally buy this dress. You could wear it on your first date with him and loan it to me for the weekend.” She flipped open her purple purse and rummaged through it. “Here, you should put some lippy on before he catches up. I bet he’s a frosty pink guy.” Celeste produced a lipstick. “Voila.”

“Arr, ey, Celeste. Pack it in.”

“Someone’s upset.”

“Nope. Just concerned.”

She honed in on me, eyes alight with mischief.

“You are too. I can tell. Your Liverpool accent always comes out when you’re peeved.”

“Seriously, pack it in.”

To prove her point, she swiveled the lipstick up. I threw my arms up in defense, but my delayed reaction was futile. She tackled me. After smearing pink over my lips, and a little on my face, she admired her handy work through a finger-formed picture frame.

“Beautiful.” Celeste hiccupped.

“That’s the last time I put you in charge of the tequila when we’re making margaritas.”

“Are you suggesting I’m drunk?”

“Nope. Just… how do I put it nicely… three margaritas to the wind?”

“Hey. I only had two.”

“Three actually, but who cares? In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s the matter of the stalker on our heels.” I glimpsed back at the grungy stranger. He’d be disappointed. Art students aren’t exactly known for being loaded with cash.

Now only a few yards away, he weaved in and out of tourists with ease.

“Celeste, we should get moving. He’s getting closer,” I snapped, nervous energy creeping over me. She nodded, finally on the same page. “Let’s walk, fast.”




Author Bio:

JoAnne Kenrick grew up in a small sea-side town in North Wales. Having experienced life in several different countries, she now lives in North Carolina with her husband, two children and a lazy cat. When they aren’t demanding her attention, she can most likely be found watching a vampire movie, reading, or baking up a British feast in her kitchen. And if she isn't in one of those spots, she is probably hiding in her writer's cave.