Explosive Eighteen: A Stephanie Plum Novel (Stephanie Plum Novels)

moment. “Better,” he finally said. “Warm.” His eyes got dark and soft, and the corners of his mouth tipped into a smile. “Very friendly.” He reached out for me and pulled me into him. “Come here, Cupcake.”

A LSO BY J ANET E VANOVICH
     
THE STEPHANIE PLUM NOVELS
Smokin’ Seventeen

Sizzling Sixteen

Finger Lickin’ Fifteen

Fearless Fourteen

Lean Mean Thirteen

Twelve Sharp

Eleven on Top

Ten Big Ones

To the Nines

Hard Eight

Seven Up

Hot Six

High Five

Four to Score

Three to Get Deadly

Two for the Dough

One for the Money
THE LIZZY AND DIESEL NOVELS
Wicked Appetite

Wicked Business
THE BETWEEN THE NUMBERS NOVELS
Plum Spooky

Plum Lucky

Plum Lovin’

Visions of Sugar Plums
THE BARNABY AND HOOKER NOVELS
Trouble Maker #2
(graphic novel)
Trouble Maker #1
(graphic novel)
Motor Mouth

Metro Girl
NONFICTION
How I Write

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
     
    J ANET E VANOVICH is the #1
New York Times
bestselling author of the Stephanie Plum novels, twelve romance novels, the Barnaby and Hooker novels and graphic novels,
Wicked Appetite
(the first book in the Lizzy and Diesel series), and
How I Write: Secrets of a Bestselling Author
.
    Visit Janet Evanovich’s website at
www.evanovich.com
Facebook/JanetEvanovich
or
write her at PO Box 2829,
Naples, FL 34106.
     

COMING JUNE 19, 2012
     

JANET EVANOVICH’S
#1
New York Times
bestselling Lizzy and Diesel series continues!
There’s no business …
          like
WICKED BUSINESS
!
               
Read on for an excerpt …
JOIN JANET ON FACEBOOK
FACEBOOK.COM/JANETEVANOVICH
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FOR UPDATES, EXCERPTS, AND MUCH, MUCH MORE!

Janet Evanovich’s bestselling Lizzy and Diesel series launched with WICKED APPETITE. Don’t miss the second book in the series….
WICKED BUSINESS
    MY NAME IS LIZZY Tucker, and I used to think I was normal. My hair is blond, with some chemical assistance. My eyes are brown from my Grandpa Harry. I’m 5’5” tall, and my breasts measure more than my waist so I’m a happy camper. I had a mildly embarrassing childhood free from any truly significant disasters. I wasn’t a cheerleader or the prom queen. I didn’t graduate with honors. I chose culinary school after high school, where I limped my way through butchering beasts and excelled at baking cakes. I was engaged and disengaged. Good riddance to him. In January, three days after my twenty-eighth birthday, I inherited a house from my Great Aunt Ophelia, and I took a job as pastry chef at Dazzle’s Bakery in Salem.
    For five terrific months I felt like my life was finally coming together. And then two men and a monkey dropped into my world and changed it forever.
    One of the men is called Wulf, short for Gerwulf Grimoire. He’s eerily handsome with midnight-black, shoulder-length hair that waves over his ears. His skin is pale, his eyes are dark, and his intentions are even darker. The other guy is big and scruffy, and beach bum blond. He has a hard muscled body, a questionable attitude, and a monkey named Carl. The big, scruffy guy is unexplainably charming, and he has only one name … Diesel. The men are my age. And if I’m to believe these guys, we’re part of a loosely organized band of humans with abilities beyond the ordinary. I don’t entirely believe all this, but I don’t disbelieve it either. I recognize that some people are smarter, braver, stronger, can sing better, are luckier than others. So who’s to say some people don’t have abilities just north of normal. I mean it’s not like he’s telling me he’s Superman from the planet Krypton, right?
•  •  •
    This is my first October in New England. I still love my job and Ophelia’s small, two-bedroom saltbox that sits on the crest of a hill, overlooking Marblehead Harbor. The house was built in 1740, and over the years has had some renovation with varying degrees of success. It’s a little lopsided and the windows aren’t plumb, but it has a working fireplace, and from day one it’s felt like home.
    Usually I work from five in the morning until one in the afternoon, but today is Sunday, my one day off. Rain was slanting against my kitchen windows, and the ancient oak in my back yard rattled in the wind. I was in the middle of chopping vegetables for soup when my back door blew open, and Diesel stepped into my tiny mudroom. He was wearing motorcycle boots, washed-out jeans, a T-shirt that advertised beer, and an unzipped