Black Swan

Roses have thorns…

At first look, Tess’ life seems absolutely flawless.

She’s gone from a scrappy little tomboy who grew up on the streets of Brooklyn to a gorgeous and sophisticated Manhattan socialite. She has money, influence, and a devilishly handsome husband who dotes on her. A real housewife of New York City.

But, deep down, Tess isn’t happy with any of it, and she quickly discovers that there’s a steep price to pay for her perfect existence – and that things on the surface are almost never what they seem.

Sensing that something is very wrong, she starts searching for answers. But one day, she digs a little too deep, and what she finds ends up being so much worse than she ever imagined.

But Tess has a few secrets of her own. Secrets that resurface at the worst possible moment and trap her between a messy past and an increasingly perilous future. Secrets that – try as she might to outrun them – may be the only thing that saves her in the end.


This is the first one of your books I’ve ever read, but believe it…it sure won’t be the last. Absolutely outstanding, in every phase! Couldn’t put it down, except to turn on a better light to read by.

Craig Buchanan - Amazon Reviewer

It’s been a long time since I’ve sat (or in this case, stood) in one place and wanted to read a book from start to finish. Black Swan was that book for me – I LITERALLY blew through it in a day, it was that captivating. The subtleties of each character, marching their way to the ending that you don’t see coming – kept me spellbound. I cannot wait for round three of this series!

K.P - Amazon Customer


Cold, unrumpled sheets were all that greeted me when I rolled over to the other side of my bed.

The sun beamed through the curtains, illuminating the spot where there should have been another warm body. I stretched and then let out a breath, scrambling to get upright. When I sat up, my hand brushed against something, a piece of paper laid neatly on the pillow next to mine. There was a single rosebud taped to it, plucked from the bush outside the very front of our building.

I picked up the note. It had Hannibal’s lovely scrawl all over it.

My darling, it read. He was always one for baroque flourishes of the language. It made me giggle sometimes. Even now, I smiled in spite of myself, all former traces of annoyance vanishing into thin air.

I apologize for not being here when you woke this morning. I had a rather urgent meeting to attend. I will return home as soon as I am able.

He hadn’t signed it. No “Love, Hannibal” or anything like that. Instead, he stamped it with his official seal, a monogram of his initials encircled with raised dots. I’d seen him put it firmly to important documents on so many occasions that by now, he surely repeated the action on muscle memory alone.

I was annoyed again. Full frown and all. Dammit, it was Saturday. I was starting to wonder why my husband even bothered to leave notes at this point.

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