Praise for Her Last Whisper
*** 
“A tightly written ghostly romantic suspense novel with intriguing supernatural elements and sizzling sexual tension.”—Kirkus Reviews
 
“An absolute winner . . . explodes with both passion and mystery . . . a tale that will haunt you, providing both thrills and chills.”—Bookreporter*
 
“Outstanding . . . Robards is truly a master storyteller.”—RT Book Reviews**

Praise for Karen Robards
** 
“One of the most popular voices in women’s fiction.”—Newsweek
* 
“Draw a line between two extremely popular genres, mysteries and romance novels, and in the middle you will find the bestselling Robards. She merges the two worlds like no one else, deftly interlacing plot and passion.”—Albany Times Union*

From the Hardcover edition.

Autorentext
Karen Robards is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of forty-six books and one novella. The mother of three boys, she lives in her hometown of Louisville, Kentucky.

From the Hardcover edition.

Zusammenfassung
Readers who relish heated passion and chilling suspense love New York Times bestselling author Karen Robards’s acclaimed novels featuring Dr. Charlotte “Charlie” Stone. A heroine with a keen mind for catching killers and a soft heart for bad boys, Charlie is back in this third sizzling paranormal romance thriller.
 
HER LAST WHISPER
 
Madness and murder invaded Dr. Charlotte Stone’s life when she was just a girl—and made her a woman determined to save others from the horror she survived. An expert in the psychology of serial killers, she’s faced down more than her share of human monsters. But Charlie can also communicate with the spirits of those who die violently, an extrasensory skill that has helped the FBI bring lethal predators to justice. Now, after narrowly escaping death a second time, Charlie’s ready to step away from the edge . . . before her luck runs out.
 
Too bad Charlie is too dedicated for her own good—and too devoted to federal agent Tony Bartoli to say no when he asks her to ride shotgun on yet another risky mission. Of course, she already has her hands full with Michael Garland: the handsome, roguish ghost with whom she’s hopelessly in love—a spirit who depends on Charlie to keep him from slipping forever into the dark side of the afterlife. But in the mortal world, beautiful single women are vanishing from Las Vegas hotels at night. All signs indicate that a psychopath is on the prowl in Sin City, and Bartoli’s FBI colleague Lena Kaminsky has reason to fear that her missing sister may be just the killer’s type.
 
In a town full of fast players and few rules, flushing out a smooth-talking stalker like the Cinderella Killer might be a loser’s game. But for Charlie, the only way to cage her quarry is to plunge back into the homicidal hell she vowed to leave behind—and may not leave alive.

Praise for Her Last Whisper
*** 
“A tightly written ghostly romantic suspense novel with intriguing supernatural elements and sizzling sexual tension.”—Kirkus Reviews
 
“An absolute winner . . . explodes with both passion and mystery . . . a tale that will haunt you, providing both thrills and chills.”—Bookreporter*
 
“Outstanding . . . Robards is truly a master storyteller.”—RT Book Reviews**

Praise for Karen Robards
** 
“One of the most popular voices in women’s fiction.”—Newsweek
* 
“Draw a line between two extremely popular genres, mysteries and romance novels, and in the middle you will find the bestselling Robards. She merges the two worlds like no one else, deftly interlacing plot and passion.”—Albany Times Union*

Leseprobe
Chapter One

Whoever said that only the good die young had obviously never met Michael Garland.

He was thirty-­six years old, sexy as hell, a total badass—­and dead as a doornail. Right at that moment, he was also in the process of driving Dr. Charlotte “Charlie” Stone totally around the bend.

“We could be on a beach right now,” he groused, referring to the fact that she had elected to return to work rather than take the extended vacation that had been recommended after her most recent death-­defying experience. His tone was light. His eyes on her were dark and watchful. He was worried about her, she knew. To tell the truth, she was worried about herself. “Sand. Sun. You in a bikini. Come on, Doc, confess: you’ve got something against fun.”

He only ever called her Doc anymore when he was seriously ticked off at her. Short version: he felt she needed to take some vacation time while she disagreed. At thirty-­two years old, Charlie had been in charge of herself since her early teens. She did not need a man—­ghost, whatever—­constantly second-­guessing her decisions.

Her brows snapped together.

“Go away,” she mouthed at him soundlessly, after a quick glance assured her that her living companion’s attention was occupied elsewhere.

Michael snorted. “Not in this life, buttercup.” One corner of his mouth quirked up slightly. “Or in this death, either.”

Oh, ha, ha. But she didn’t—­couldn’t—­say it aloud. If they’d been alone, Charlie would have done more than shoot him an exasperated look. She would have told him to take his fun and stick it up a bodily orifice. Fun was not what life was all about. Life was serious. Purposeful. Sometimes painful. And—­well, definitely not fun.

But they weren’t alone. In fact, they were even less alone than he thought they were.

“I won’t tell.” The agonized whisper made Charlie’s heart thump. Her fingers tightened around the pen she was holding. The (living) convicted serial killer chained to a seat on the other side of the poured concrete table from her never changed his expression. Neither did the dead convicted serial killer—­that would be Michael, looking as alive as she did herself, in a snug white tee, faded jeans, and boots—­who leaned broad shoulders against the beige-­painted cinder-­block wall to her left as he played self-­appointed spectral bodyguard. Which was a complete waste of time, as she had told him when he’d insisted on following her into the interview room rather than waiting outside in the hall as she would have preferred so that she could concentrate fully on her research subject. Number one, there was no need: in this heavily guarded maximum security prison, of all places, she was perfectly safe. And number two, if something were to go wrong, if she were to find herself in danger, there was nothing he could do about it anyway. He was ectoplasm; ether; air. He couldn’t so much as swat a fly, because in this earthly plane he no longer existed. In the past, he had occasionally managed to manifest physically for the briefest of moments, but because in typical-­for-­him aggressive fashion he had pushed the boundaries of that until he had gone a heavenly bridge too far, he had, apparently permanently, rendered himself as insubstantial as a breath. And even if he could once again manage to manifest physically, he still couldn’t: he’d been warned that if he did, if he once again took on a corporeal aspect, the bond holding him here might very well snap like a rubber band and he would be sucked …