Hotel LaBelle by Sharon Buchbinder 💕 Series Tour & Gift Card Giveaway 💕 (Paranormal Romance)

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When hotel inspector, Tallulah Thompson, is called in along with her pug, Franny, to investigate renovation delays, she meets an extremely annoyed and dapper turn-of-the-century innkeeper. The only problem is he’s in limbo, neither dead nor alive, and Tallulah and the pug are the first to see him in a hundred years.

Cursed by a medicine woman, “Love ‘em and Leave ‘em Lucius” Stewart is stuck between worlds until he finds his true love and gives her his heart. When he first sees Tallulah, he doesn’t know what he’s feeling. Yet, her stunning beauty, and feisty attitude pull him in.

With the fate of Hotel LaBelle on the line, Tallulah with the help of a powerful medicine woman turns Lucius back into a flesh and blood man. She and Lucius team up to save the hotel, but Tallulah can't help but wonder if he will ever let go of his past love and learn to love again.

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For over a century, Lucius Stewart has been alone, talking only to the wild animals and watching the time go by. Now, this remarkable woman can see and hear him—and he wants to know how.

Chapter Two

Hotel LaBelle, Billings, Montana, Present Day

The long, white flannel nightgown did little to hide the shapely figure of the woman with the wild blonde hair and wide blue eyes. Lucius Stewart found her womanly charms incredibly distracting but remained startled beyond belief—she could actually see him. Really see him. How was it possible?
“Is this some kind of joke? Hazing the hotel consultant? Tell Will it isn’t funny, and get out of my room. Now.”
She pointed toward the door, her white-tipped fingernail reminding him of the breath feather on the tip of Beautiful Blackfeather’s medicine stick. He inspected her face, his gaze traveling slowly over her pouty red lips and her cheekbones. He inspected her longer than any civilized woman would deem polite. She glared back at him, fists on her hips—just like someone else he’d known years ago.
Her mannerisms, regal bearing, and commanding presence sucker punched him, turning his limbs to jelly and his mouth to mush. If he believed in reincarnation like he’d heard some of the Alaskan tribes did, he’d say she was Mourning Dove reborn with blonde hair and blue eyes. He let out a long breath and managed to untie his tongue.
“You Crow?”
Her frown became deeper, her voice angrier. “Excuse me?”
Perhaps she didn’t understand him. He spoke slower and louder, “Your tribe. Are. You. Crow?”
“I. Am. Not. Deaf.” She patted her thigh. “Franny come. Get away from him.”
The little dog with the pushed-in face and bug eyes jumped and wagged its curly little tail harder as if in defiance of her owner’s orders. What’s with this so- ugly-it’s-cute creature, anyway?
“Franny! Come here.” The little dog plopped on its haunches and looked back and forth between the disturbingly familiar woman and him as if trying to decide which way to go.
Lucius stood and stretched, still trying to reconcile this woman’s ability to see him and her uncanny resemblance to the woman he’d loved and lost.
“Don’t you come near me.” She backed up to the desk, hands scrabbling on the mahogany surface. “Or I’ll, I’ll—”
“What? Hit me?” He laughed at her surprised expression—the mirror image of Mourning Dove’s wide-eyed, open-mouthed look when he’d proposed to her. “Throw something at me. Please.” He almost hoped he’d get smacked so he could feel something. Anything was better than this nothingness. A book flew at his head—and sailed through him, bouncing off the wall and landing on the floor.
Mouth agape, the woman stared from him to the book and back to him again. “You’re a ghost.”
“Not exactly. Shall we start over?” He leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest.
“After a hundred years of being invisible to everyone except you, I’d like to know who you are and what you’re doing here.”
“Of course. Why not? Could today get any weirder?” She sank into the desk chair, shook her head, and sighed. “My name is Tallulah Thompson. I’m a hotel inspector, hired by the current owner as a consultant to find out why the renovations are delayed and what he needs to do to fix it. He’s teetering on the brink of bankruptcy.”
“What tribe are you?”
She jerked her head up and those doggone lapis lazuli eyes of hers sparked as if she’d strike him with lightning and kill him with one look. “No one asks that. It’s not politically correct.”
“Well, I guess you haven’t been talking to the right people. And I don’t know what you mean by that last part. I’ve never been involved in politics.”
“Nowadays, it’s considered rude to ask about another person’s national origins.” She threw her hands up. “Why am I giving a ghost an etiquette lesson? What am I thinking?”
“The Crow gal who cleans this place can feel me but never hears or sees me. You can. How is that possible?”
Tallulah wrapped her arms around her shoulders and shuddered as if chilled. “I’m Choctaw. My grandmother is a Medicine Woman. I see…things.”
“I knew you had Indian blood.” The cheekbones sealed the deal for him.
“Native American.” “What?”
“The proper terminology these days is Native American. And it’s genes, not blood.”
“You just gotta correct everything I say, don’t you? Here’s another rude question for you. Why are you blonde? In my day, only the painted ladies changed their hair color.”
“Oh. My. God. You just don’t stop, do you? Okay, okay, you win.” She shook her head. “This is my real hair color. My grandfather was a German immigrant who went to Oklahoma for the land lotteries, met and married my grandmother, and had a mess of kids. My mother married a nice German man, then they both died in a car accident, and my grandmother raised me. Happy now?”
“Yes. Thank you. Was that so hard?”
She glared at him. “What about you? Why are you still hanging around here? Don’t you have a long, dark tunnel to go into and a light to follow?”
“What?” He had no idea what she was talking about. There were no tunnels in Hotel LaBelle, and the only lights were the ones he installed a century ago. “You sure do speak in riddles.”
“Since we’ve dispensed with being polite, I’m just going to lay it out for you. You’re dead. You don’t belong here. It’s time for you to move on.” She pointed to the ceiling. “Heaven awaits you. Or, whatever the alternative is.”
He sat down heavily on the bed, and the little dog yapped and jumped again. “Let me tell you how I got here.” He recounted his last evening in his office and the visit from Beautiful Blackfeather. “She didn’t kill me, Ms. Tallulah. She cursed me. I don’t know the exact words she used. I don’t speak Crow that well. For all I know, I’m stuck here for eternity.”

When a wild mustang is shot in Montana, renowned horse whisperer and telepath, Emma Horserider, is called in to calm the herd and find out what happened. Once on scene she is almost killed by a bullet-spewing drone, and calls her black ops brother for back-up.

Emma's help roars into her life covered in tattoos and riding a Harley. Remote viewer Bronco Winchester takes the assignment because he is ordered to, but he wonders what type of assistance, his boss's sister needs. That is until he sees Emma, a valiant Warrior Woman proud of her Crow heritage.

Posing as a married couple, Emma and Bronco go undercover to infiltrate and stop a hate group. Both are anxious enough without the now growing attachment they feel for one another. When the lives of many are on the line, they are not sure if they will live or die—let alone have a chance at love.

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Chapter One
Crow Reservation, Montana
Brandon Winchester, aka Bronco, rapped at the door of the address his boss, Bert Blackfeather, had texted him that morning with instructions to get there pronto. Pushing the big bike as hard as he dared, it had taken him most of the day to get from Colorado to the Crow Reservation in Montana. Once there, he had to navigate his way through the maze of streets, pick-up trucks, SUVs, horseback riders, kids kicking a soccer ball, clusters of adults, and a yappy little dog determined to pursue him for the last mile. Saddle sore, tired, and hungry, he thought about his breakfast back in Denver, and his stomach growled.

Much earlier that day, he’d been sitting in a restaurant, the kind he preferred with three glass sides and the kitchen at his back. On a much needed break between cases, Bronco had been inhaling a mountain of sausages and pancakes dripping with syrup, occasionally slipping a link to his whining friend in his mesh-topped leather backpack. When his phone buzzed and Bert’s number popped up, he knew it was urgent. Sticky fingers smearing prints on the screen, he had finally gotten the phone up to his ear.

Bert’s voice boomed. “We’ve got a situation, and you’re the closest guy I’ve got in the region.”
“What’s the assignment?”

His boss barked, “When you get there you’ll find out.”

Bert never snapped at his agents. Calm and cool under pressure, the big man’s voice held a note of panic.

Something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong.
“Hey, man.” Bronco waved at the server for the check. “I’m not trying to give you a hard time. Just trying to figure out what you need me to take care of.”

“I’m texting you the address. Drop whatever you’re doing and get out there. Call me on my secure line when you arrive.”

Bronco licked his fingers and sighed. He’d been hoping to break the long dry spell created by his last two assignments. So much for asking that cute little blonde in the next booth who’d been flirting with him for the last thirty minutes if she wanted to go for a ride.

“Okay, boss, I’m on it.”

“Good. And by the way, don’t take no for an answer.”

He stared at the silent phone. Don’t take no for an answer? What was that supposed to mean? Mounting his bike and kicking it into high gear, he guessed he’d find out soon enough.

Bronco now stood squinting in the late afternoon sun, knocking at a door with no bell, and waiting for a response. Dogs barked and a window curtain twitched. Good. Someone was home. He adjusted his pack, leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and said, “Any time now.” As the words slid out of his mouth, he heard the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being pumped.

Uh. Oh.

He raised his hands. “Don’t shoot. I’m unarmed.” Turning slowly to face his fate, his jaw fell open, and his heart rate kicked up a notch from being on the wrong end of a shotgun or from the weapon holder’s looks, he wasn’t sure. A raven haired Amazon in a tank top, jeans, and metal tipped cowboy boots held the Mossberg 500 in a perfect military stance. Long strands of hair blew across her face in the hot breeze. A large purple bruise bloomed on her left cheek. She squinted her dark brown eyes and gave him a laser-beam once over from his dusty black boots to his sweat soaked do- rag.

“Who are you, and what do you want?”

If he hadn’t been so intent on not getting killed, he would have spent more time staring at those full, luscious, kissable lips and thinking about how she would taste. As it was, he guessed he had less than a minute to respond before getting blasted into the next county.

“Bronco Winchester. Bert Blackfeather sent me.”

Shaking her head, she lowered her weapon, a grimace pulling those pretty lips downward. “Tell him I said no.”

“We have a problem. My boss specifically ordered me not to take no for an answer.”

She scowled, and he could have sworn sparks flew from her eyes. “Asshat.”

“Pardon me?”

She pointed at the door. “Go ahead. It’s not locked. I don’t need a security system.”

Bronco stepped aside. “Ladies first.” Just as the woman passed him to enter the house, his backpack shifted and wiggled. Not a good time. The weight bounced up and down and paws thumped his back in response.

She stood in the doorway and waved him inside. Three large, mixed-breed dogs greeted them with howls and wagging tails.

He chuckled. “These are your watch dogs?” His laugh caught in his throat when she gestured and the pack stood and began to growl and raise their hackles. “Just kidding. Good doggies.”

Another hand signal and the snarling Cujo wannabes sat and wagged their tails. He could have sworn they were smirking at him. “I stand corrected.”

“Yes, you do. And yes, you will be.” After retrieving the chambered shells, she placed the weapon in a rack at the side of the door. “We’re going to call my darling brother and get this little misunderstanding straightened out.”

Bronco’s tongue untangled, “Your what?”

She snorted, “Let me guess. He didn’t tell you I’m his sister.”

He shook his head, and the backpack quaked and emitted a low growl.

The dogs took note, three heads swiveling in a choreographed move that would have broken the Internet, had he gotten it on video. The largest dog, a German shepherd mix, stood on his hind legs like a human and stared at the now dancing rucksack.

“Whatever you’ve got in your pack, you’d better let it out before my dogs knock you down.”

“Probably not a great idea.” The beast on his back yowled. Bad timing, my friend.
Hand on her hip, Amazon woman stared at him and waited in silence.

Bronco sighed. “Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. You can come out now, Gaucho.” He set the pack on a chair and unzipped the mesh top. An enormous harness-wearing spotted cat with long tufts at the tips of his black ears launched himself out of the bag, landed on his shoulder, teetered for a nanosecond, and then wrapped himself around Bronco’s neck. The end of a long leash rested in Bronco’s hand. Loud purring commenced—and the dogs erupted in howling.

One soars like an eagle. One strikes like a thunderbird. But for both hearts, revenge can be deadly when it's nourished.

Anomaly Defense Director and shapeshifter Bert Blackfeather doesn't need a boss with no experience. So what if she's beautiful or gives him a jolt when she shakes his hand? He never plans to get seriously involved with another woman--not in this lifetime.

Phoebe Wagner, an empath with psychometric abilities and an advocate for the deaf, gets more than she bargained for with Bert. One touch and she relives his IED injuries. So what if he's handsome and hot? She doesn't need to add his secrets to her own. Phoebe's are bad enough.

When his niece goes missing from Hotel LaBelle, Bert goes to Montana to help--and Phoebe insists on going with him. Can these two hard-headed people share their darkest secrets in order to work together? It may be the only way to save an endangered child--and their own hearts when Bert's past rears its ugly head.

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Day 3

Bert Blackfeather doesn’t know how to categorize this new Under Secretary. She’s smart, sure, but still a green horn. But that doesn’t explain her effect on him.

Chapter One (Continued)

Washington, D.C.
Homeland Security Headquarters

Bert tugged at his suddenly too tight shirt collar. The photograph did not do her justice. Ms. Phoebe Wagner was even more beautiful in person than on the computer screen. Tall, lean, and leggy, dressed in a navy-blue pants suit and a white blouse accented with a black pearl necklace, she looked like she belonged on a catwalk in Milan, not in a rundown building with windows in desperate need of cleaning. Long, dark lashes framed sky-blue eyes, and the cut of her hair accented her perfectly symmetrical face, as if gilding the lily. He held her gaze a beat too long and a flush crept up her cheeks. Adjusting her pearls, she straightened her back, and shifted the oversized purse on her shoulder—which began to shake and bark. A long-haired red dachshund’s head popped over the edge of the bag, startling Bert into laughter.

“Does your dog go with you everywhere?” he signed in American Sign Language, or ASL. “Or just to meet your new employees?”

Surprise crossing her face, she smiled and signed, “Everywhere. Her name is Bisou.” She made the ASL sign for the letter b and waved it back and forth like a dog’s wagging tail, her descriptive sign.

“Well, hello, Bisou,” Bert signed and spoke. “How many signs does she know?”

Do not stare at her. Focus on the dog, not her full red lips. She’s your boss. Your unqualified, unprepared, politically appointed new boss.

“The last time I counted, one-hundred.” Frowning, she pushed her hair behind her ear, revealing dangling pearl earrings and a neck like a swan's, long and graceful. She signed to Jean. “You didn’t tell me he could sign.”

Jean shrugged and shook her head. “I didn’t know.”
“You never know what talents are hidden in the Anomaly Defense Division.” Bert motioned to his visitor chairs. “Have a seat. Please. What would you like to know about this unit?” The truth would probably send her running. Unless she was like her tough-as- nails mother, which he doubted. Living in D.C., he’d seen lots of beautiful women like her before. Haughty. Cold. Born with a silver spoon in her mouth.

She was nothing like his dearly departed, down-to- earth fiancée, Susan. Nothing. Except, maybe a little around the lips. And maybe the way she played with her hair. And her long, lovely neck. Otherwise, Susan and Ms. Wagner had nothing in common.

“What does the Anomaly Defense Division do? I couldn’t find any paperwork describing its mission.” Her gaze locked on his. “What’s its charge? Really.”

Time to get this attractive nuisance out of his office and his life—for good.

“There’s nothing available because this Division performs improbable functions considered by many to be impossible. If an eager senator like your mother were to get her hands on documents describing what we do, there would be more questions than answers.”

A frown furrowed her brow, and her full lips pulled down, ruining her flawless face. “My mother has nothing to do with this conversation.”

“Okay.” This is going well. Not. “Are you familiar with the history of the use of psychics and parapsychology by our government?”

Eyes narrowed, she turned to Jean, sparks practically flying off her fingers as she signed. “Is this some sort of joke on the new kid? If it is, I’m not laughing.”

The interpreter shook her head. “I have no idea what he’s talking about.”

Bert waited until the Under Secretary looked at him again. “Not a joke. History—but it’s not really in the past.” He paused. “In the seventies, the CIA had a program to see if certain paranormal methods would have intelligence applications. One of these activities was remote viewing. Researchers would ask someone to envision a place or object which a sender would be looking at. In other experiments, they would put a photograph into an envelope and ask the person to describe the picture. In addition to remote viewers, they had other people with paranormal abilities. You name the talent, they had someone with it.” He paused. Had she flinched when he said the last part? “Is there something wrong? You look like you want to ask me a question.”

“No.” She shook her head, and rubbed her little dog’s floppy ears. The dog grinned at him as if sharing a secret. “Please go on.”

“The program continued for about twenty years. A large evaluation study found the results were positive. However, while the statistics were good, the intelligence wasn’t detailed enough for practical uses in the field. The military picked up where the CIA left off. As far as the world was concerned, the Army, Air Force, and Defense Intelligence Agency discontinued their psychic soldier units a decade later. However, what really happened is they all went underground.”

She leaned forward. “And?”

“After 9-11, based on the top-secret recommendations of the Senate Intelligence Committee and the House Committee on Homeland Security, those units were consolidated and moved under the Department you now manage.”

You’re in over your head, pretty lady. No one would fault you if you resigned. Then we could go for coffee. Or dinner. Whoa! Knock it off, man. She’s your boss.

She studied him with a thoughtful expression. “You mean you’re psychic?”

He shook his head. “Not me. But many of our Special Agents are—and much more.”

She fell back into the chair. “I don’t know what to say. This is most unexpected. I need time to process this.” Glancing at Jean, who looked as if she’d had the wind knocked out of her also, she signed. “Jean looks like she could use a break.” She turned her probing gaze back to Bert. “I want a complete inventory of your agents’ talents, by end of business day Monday. Since today is Friday, it’s plenty of time to pull it together.”

He bit his lower lip. An inventory? Were his agents in cans stored on shelves, waiting to be taken down and counted?

Bert tried to make a joke. “Is there something in particular you’re looking for? Lost keys perhaps?”

A line creased between her eyes. “I never lose my keys. I’m here to do a job, Director Blackfeather. As Under Secretary of Management for the Department of Homeland Security, I’m accountable for billions of dollars. I take my responsibilities seriously. Every division—not just yours—is being asked to provide me with details of what I won’t see in the financial statements. The accountant’s footnotes, if you will.”

Rising, his new boss extended her hand and waited for him to return the gesture.

One beat. Two beats. Reluctantly, he reached out, accepting his small defeat. Maybe she’s more like her mother than I thought.

She clasped his big hand with her smaller one— and an electromagnetic charge pulsed between them. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up—and downy feathers began to poke at his collar. Her gaze bore into him, her mouth opened in an o, and her large blue eyes widened. After holding his hand for a length of time most people considered polite, she jerked out of his grasp, stared at her palm and then back at him as if momentarily stunned. First time he’d ever had that kind of effect on a woman. And the first time a woman had ever had that kind of effect on him.

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Legacy of Evil: 2018 RONE Winner, Short Paranormal

Eye of the Eagle and the Hotel LaBelle Series : First Place: Series, Paranormal Romance Guild's Reviewer's Choice Awards

Legacy of Evil: First Place in Romance Genre in the Florida Writers Association 2018 Royal Palm Literary Award Competition

Sharon Buchbinder has been writing fiction since middle school and has the rejection slips to prove it. An RN, she provided health care delivery, became a researcher, association executive, and obtained a PhD in Public Health. She is the author of the Hotel LaBelle Series, the Jinni Hunter Series, and the Obsession Series. When not attempting to make students and colleagues laugh or writing, she can be found fishing, walking her dogs, herding cats, or breaking bread and laughing with family and friends in Baltimore, MD and Punta Gorda, FL.