Denise is a Southern girl who has lived in Louisiana all her life, and yes, she has a drawl. She has a wonderful husband and two incredible children, who not only endure her writing moods, but also encourage her to indulge her writing passion. Besides writing romantic suspense, she enjoys traveling, reading, and cooking.Accounting is a skill she has learned to earn a little money to support her writing habit. She wrote her first story when she was a teen, seventeen handwritten pages on school-ruled paper and an obvious rip-off of the last romance novel she had read. She's been writing off and on ever since, and with more than a few full-length manuscripts already completed, she has no desire to slow down.
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Content with the direction her life takes…
Until trouble walks around the corner and into her life again…
Dylan Hunter almost turns down the Wakefield Manor restoration job until Les Wakefield tells him Sophia is the interior designer hired to oversee furnishing the old plantation house. Sophia has been the ghost in his life since the day she left him, haunting his heart with her memory every day and every night.
Stirring up more than just the spirits of the dead…
Sophia and Dylan fight with each other until a much bigger threat puts both their lives in danger. Discovering that generations of Wakefields have restored the plantation only to disappear months after moving in to the manor house stirs up spirits that would rather remain undisturbed.
Can love survive the long nights at Wakefield Manor with the unmistakable scent of gardenias hanging so heavily in the air?
Snippet:
The dirt track wound through a stand of centuries-old oak trees hung with draping wisps of gray-blue-green Spanish moss. Like dark sentinels with drawn swords, the trees arched their limbs over the newlyweds as they drove deeper and deeper into the heart of the plantation.
On a humid, south Louisiana evening, the moisture-heavy air rushed through the open windows and expanded in the interior of the car. A trail of sweat rolled down Celia Wakefield’s backbone. She shivered as the first glimpse of the house came into view, and the meal she’d consumed miles up the road rumbled in the lower regions of her stomach. Despite the heat, chill bumps prickled on her forearms. An inexplicable reaction, really.
She glanced at her husband Les out of the corner of her eye and cringed. An intense tightness defined his jaw line, which meant he was in one of his dark moods.
His fingers curled around the steering wheel. “There’s no telling what condition the main house will be in when we get there.”
He had warned her of its disrepair repeatedly since the day he first told her that he’d inherited the old Wakefield Plantation. It was as if he was apologizing in advance for the state of their first home. She had, of course, wanted something newer, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. She was lucky Les Wakefield had found her appealing enough to overlook her past.
On a humid, south Louisiana evening, the moisture-heavy air rushed through the open windows and expanded in the interior of the car. A trail of sweat rolled down Celia Wakefield’s backbone. She shivered as the first glimpse of the house came into view, and the meal she’d consumed miles up the road rumbled in the lower regions of her stomach. Despite the heat, chill bumps prickled on her forearms. An inexplicable reaction, really.
She glanced at her husband Les out of the corner of her eye and cringed. An intense tightness defined his jaw line, which meant he was in one of his dark moods.
His fingers curled around the steering wheel. “There’s no telling what condition the main house will be in when we get there.”
He had warned her of its disrepair repeatedly since the day he first told her that he’d inherited the old Wakefield Plantation. It was as if he was apologizing in advance for the state of their first home. She had, of course, wanted something newer, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. She was lucky Les Wakefield had found her appealing enough to overlook her past.
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