Dear Reader,

Welcome to the third installment in the Violet Femmes Round Robin. Our site traffic has been wonderfully busy, and we hope you are enjoying our spunky heroine, Amelia, and her Italian cioccolato eye candy, Rafaele.

 Each of the Violet Femmes has their own unique writing style, which is why this project is so fun to do!  It sure makes critiquing manuscripts so much more interesting. (BTW: Thanks Maria for leaving me at the tail end of such a steamy scene!)

 My goal was to up the conflict a notch. Somehow, a diamond necklace wove its way into the plot, twisting the genre toward a romantic suspense. Be forewarned, Joanna’s writers pen is lethal so you never know where this story might go.

 I hope you like it.

 Happy reading,

 Michele

 ***

Amelia’s hands fell to her sides as she faced the source of their interruption. A gloriously spitting mad Madonna—or rather Prima Donna—who seemed to be everything that Amelia was not, stood glaring from the doorway.

She was tall, with long legs immaculately dressed in crisp, white linen pants. Not a wrinkle or crease in sight, as the material shifted from the incessant stomping of a high heel shoe. A fuchsia colored silk shirt, unbuttoned at her collarbone, adorned her thin body. Rich, dark hair cut in a sophisticated bob framed her perfectly symmetrically features. Amelia despised her on sight.

And when Amelia caught sight of the object around her lovely neck shimmering from the chandelier light, she hated her even more.

So this was Rafaele’s fiancé, and in all likelihood, partner in crime? The dossier hadn’t done her justice. Beautiful and arrogant, yes, but she also possessed an overabundance of confidence Amelia could never pull off. It was Tuesday afternoon, for crying out loud. No sane woman wore a diamond necklace—a stolen diamond necklace—around her neck as if it were a simple, everyday adornment. Especially not a 747 c. Ming diamond worth millions.

What Amelia had neglected to tell Rafaele was that aside from her B.S. and Master’s degrees, she already had a PhD. in Criminal Justice. Her first assignment, two years ago, had been to investigate the sexy man standing so close to her, every nerve in her body stood at attention. Rafaele.

Clearly, her passion for him hadn’t faded over distance and time. Her lips felt hot and swollen from his kisses. Her body burned from the memory of his touch. Yet her mind was cold. A kind of frigidness a rational woman felt after her emotional hormones had run their course, and all that remained was that nagging feeling of being dupped.

A year in his arms, and she’d been convinced of his innocence. Convinced she’d had it all wrong. Convinced she’d never love someone as much as him. What had started as a strictly business had turned personal, very personal, within a few months. Getting intimate with an accused criminal hadn’t exactly been on her investigative job application.

Turns out, she wasn’t suited for undercover work after all—either type. Her rascal of an Italian stallion had had the necklace all along. Proof lay around Prima Donna’ s beautiful neck.

She had risked everything by letting him go.

You broke my heart, cara. I’ve been lost here without you. She glanced over at hunky, cioccolato eye candy. He didn’t seem so broken hearted or lost at the moment. His eyes caught hers, and he . . . shrugged.

I’m driving a fiat the size of a jewelry box because of you!  The bruise on her leg still throbbed. Resisting the urge to give him a swift kick with her wedged sandal, she ignored him and the realization that she still loved this handsome thief, despite what he was and in spite of the consequences.

A year had passed. She’d hung up her investigative badge for fancy wallpaper, with a hope of starting at new career as an interior designer. Clicked the end button on her cell phone more times than she could count. Sugar beets! She’d even returned his airline ticket—the hardest decision of the year. That is, aside from letting him go.

Amelia took a step toward Prima Donna. She wasn’t going home empty handed, or empty-bedded.