A secretary by trade, Roz began her writing career in 1986 with a series of self-help articles. She sold a short story to a magazine in 1987. After much prodding from her then high-school-age daughter, Roz tried her hand at writing a contemporary romance. Roz began writing full-time in 1995.
Rozâs second book was a Romance Writers of America RITA>® Award finalist in the Traditional category, and sheâs also been a finalist for the Desert Rose Chapterâs Golden Quill Award and the Holt Medallion.
Currently, Roz resides in Tucson with her husband, Denny. They have two married daughters and five grandchildren. Readers can find out more about Roz by visiting her Web site, www.korynna.com.
DAPHNE MALONE put down her phone, threw her hands in the air and danced a zany victory dance around her perpetually unmade bed. Sheâd just been offered a job. Not the greatest in the world, but a start. In the middle of her jazzy dance to a blaring CD, a strand of curly dark hair caught on one of the four posters, bringing her up short. The jolt sobered her. This was real. A job. In a few hours.
She dashed to her cluttered closet, and because Daphne never did anything slowly, she rummaged around frantically until she uncovered an old beach bag. With her free hand she began pawing through costumes she might use today. She couldnât decide, so she tossed in accessories. The bag was already bulging, and she still hadnât settled on a costume. Maybe sheâd phone her mom for advice. Calandra Malone had taught both her daughters how to sew at an early age, which was why Daphne had such a splendid array of clown suits.
She grabbed the phone from her nightstand and hopped around, pulling on a pair of clean white jeans while punching in her parentsâ number. Daphne juggled the cellular between her cheek and shoulder and braided her long hair into a single, more manageable plait.
âMom? Guess what?â she said the instant Callie Malone answered. âIâve got a job at a birthday party this afternoon over near Commerce. I am so excited!â
Daphne rolled her eyes. âItâs near East L.A., not in East L.A. Yes, Moâ¦ther, I know Kieran says that part of the city isnât safe for a woman alone. But Iâm going to the home of someone whoâs a friend of a friend of the wife of one of Daneâs partners. Itâs a party for ten seven-year-olds. How safe is that?
âOkay, okay! Iâll check in when I get home.â Daphne glanced at her watch. âI called to see which outfits you think I should take, but I need to run. Be happy for me, please. It means money, at least, until I get the break Iâm really waiting for.â Daphne lowered the receiver at the last possible moment, listening to Callie, who continued to spout dire warnings. She ended with one good suggestion. âTake a variety, Daphne, and see which feels right when you get there. Justâ¦be careful, sweetheart.â
Daphne added her favorite clown suits to the bag, all the while wishing her parents and her three older brothers would believe she could take care of herself. After all, she was twenty-six. Granted, Kieran subsidized the apartment, but only until she could get herself established. Meanwhile, why couldnât the lot of them stop hovering? Her sister, Becky, was a year younger and they left her alone. Of course, Becky had a solid marriage, a good career, and she was already a mom herself. Daphneâs jobs had been a disaster up to now, and her love lifeâwell, that didnât bear mentioning.
Lugging the beach bag down to the vintage chartreuse VW Bug that her brother Perry had lovingly restored, Daphne let a perfect late-summer afternoon rejuvenate her spirits. She was an eternal optimist. She wasnât going to let her motherâs undue alarm change that.
Placing the directions to the party on the empty seat, Daphne dropped her sunglasses over her eyes and chugged off along the familiar streets of Culver Cityâthe suburb of L.A. where sheâd lived forever.
Like a pro, she cut from the I-10 freeway to the Santa Ana Freeway, eventually exiting on Atlantic Boulevard. A copâs siren screamed over her new Josh Groban CD. Daphne automatically moved to the right and rolled to a stop. Squinting into the sun out her side window, she watched in amazement as five police cars sped past. Daphne couldnât tell if Kieran was driving one. Her brother did sometimes patrol this area. She hadnât spoken with him since the previous Friday because sheâd spent the week babysitting her oldest brotherâs kids. As a rule, sheâd know Kieranâs schedule. The Malones were a close-knit family in spite of her complaints about their hovering.
Five blocks farther down the road she discovered the police had cordoned off the street she was supposed to turn into. Not familiar with this neighborhood, she wasted time locating an alternate route on a map stored in a side pocket of her car.