Kristine didn’t pick up her first romance novel until she was in her late twenties. Immediately hooked, she read a bazillion books before deciding to write one of her own. After the birth of her first son, she needed something to keep her mind from turning to mush, and Sesame Street wasn’t cutting it! While that first book would never see the light of day, something good had come from writing it. She realized her passion, and had found a career that she loved.
When Kristine is not writing contemporary romances and dark, romantic suspense novels (or reading them!) she is chasing after her four kids and two neurotic dogs
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Books available on Amazon, B & N, iBooks
But now a bit more about Shadow of Danger!
Four women have been found dead in the outskirts of a small Wisconsin town. The only witness, clairvoyant Celeste Risinski, observes these brutal murders through violent nightmares and hellish visions. The local sheriff, who believes in Celeste’s abilities and wants to rid their peaceful community of a killer, enlists the help on an old friend, Ian Scott, owner of a private criminal investigation agency, CORE. Because of Ian’s dark history with Celeste’s family, a history she knows nothing about, he sends his top criminalist, former FBI agent John Kain to investigate.
John doesn’t believe in Celeste’s mystic hocus-pocus, or in her visions of the murders. But just when he’s certain they’ve solved the crimes, with the use of science and evidence, more dead bodies are discovered. Could this somehow be the work of the same killer or were they dealing with a copycat? To catch a vicious murderer, the skeptical criminalist reluctantly turns to the sensual psychic for help. Yet with each step closer to finding the killer, John finds himself one step closer to losing his heart.
ExcerptFingers clawing at the sheets, tearing them from the mattress, Celeste Risinski woke with a scream. Panicked, disoriented, she shoved at hands she swore still gripped her. As she struggled, she knocked the alarm clock from the nightstand. When it hit the hardwood floor, the radio blared. The loud music, laced with crackling static, startled her.
She whipped open her eyes, relief slowed her racing heart as she looked down at her body, to where her arms and legs were tangled in the thin sheets and comforter. Brutal hands weren’t holding her down. She wasn’t in the woods. She wasn’t fighting for her life. She was in her bedroom, waking up from another nightmare, another look into hell.
Dragging in a deep breath, she pulled herself to the edge of the mattress, bent and retrieved the clock. After turning off the radio, she placed it back on the nightstand, then wiped tears from her face she didn’t remember crying.
No, not true. In her nightmare, she’d cried and screamed, begged and pleaded, while trapped in the body of another woman. She hated the way her mind had been sucked into the woman’s soul. She’d experienced every ounce of the terror, and even the pain the woman had endured. She rubbed her neck where the phantom cord had been wrapped during the dream. Even though she was blessedly free of the nightmare and sitting in her bedroom, claustrophobia wrapped tightly around her, making it difficult to breathe.