"...MORE THAN A HUNCH is a very, very hot short story. There are some very interesting twists that make it stand out from the pack...Rich in plot and erotic detail, this blending of suspense, character and sex is a great example of the quality work that Elloras's Cave produces."

"...More Than a Hunch' is a high-spirited parody of a detective story with a marvelous, strong heroine and a hero to make your toes curl. This quickie was over way too soon!"

"...It was a treat to read about people my age having hot, passionate sex. If you want something exciting to read and are limited for time, More Than a Hunch is a good choice."

"...The paranormal aspects weave seamlessly with the suspense of the story and had me riveted! An over-forty hero and heroine were much appreciated and added an additional layer to this already full story! Two thumbs up!"

"...More Than A Hunch is rich in its description and sultry in its sensuality; story telling at it's best. This is a novella not to be missed. I will definitely be looking for more works from Kate Douglas."

"...This quickie starts off hot and doesn't let up from there. I really liked the fact that the heroine wasn't an 18-year- old virgin, but a real woman. The connection between the main characters is strong and hot. I found this quickie definitely worth reading."

The following material contains strong sexual content meant for mature readers. MORE THAN A HUNCH has been rated Hard R-Borderline, erotic, by three individual reviewers.

I am alive to his familiar presence; it is powerful, sensual, compelling. He steps out of the shadows into an indistinct shimmer of light. I must look at him. Turning away is not an option. He exudes power-power laced with enough potent sensuality to bring a flush to my face and throat and a heavy ache to my loins.

He is nude, clothed only in muscle and sinew, a thick mat of iron gray hair defines his chest, trails down his belly where it darkens and shades his groin. I am naked as well, my flesh tingling with expectation-knowledge-my breasts aching with the sense of what might be.

His cock is a rampant beast. It exudes power and strength, but the length and breadth of his erection is not what compels me. Though I see it, acknowledge it, his eyes are what draw me.

Dark, glinting in the pale light, reflecting shards of blue diamond; they're inhuman, compelling. Uneasy, afraid of their power, I study his face, the forceful line of his jaw, the commanding, arrogant tilt of his head. I should know him. Something about him tugs at my memories, begs me to recall-but the need to remember cannot compete. I am lost, floundering deep within his dark, hypnotic gaze.

Suddenly, without sound or warning, the shadows burst into brilliant light, throwing his tall figure into stark relief. I cry out. He reaches for me, reaches out of the light and takes my hand. His touch is magic, elemental, as our fingers touch, brush lightly, grasp and hold.

There is knowledge in his touch, a sensual knowing I have yearned for, prayed for. My breasts ache, my nipples tighten in heady expectation. Thick moisture dampens the sensitive folds between my legs.

My fingers clasp his ever more tightly. He draws me closer, his mouth hovering barely the space of a breath from my waiting mouth. I lick my lips. I am aware of his dark gaze, his eyes following the damp sweep of my tongue.

He reaches out, his fingers so close, almost touching the swell of my breast.

I stumble, reach for him again, but I'm falling, falling away from the light, away from the mystifying stranger, falling until the sound of the ocean crashing against the cliffs grows louder in my ears, pounds faster, faster in cadence with my racing heart, my aching breasts, the soft clenching of the muscles between my thighs.

"Damned hot flash!" Fighting the remnants of terror, the frantic heat of sex unfulfilled, I groped for the lamp on the table next to the bed. Perspiration flowed in rivulets between my breasts and my hair clung to my neck and face.

I grabbed my notebook, scribbling furiously to record the details of what I had begun to think of as my serial wet dream. My fingers trembled so violently, I dropped the pen. I clasped my hands tightly together and hunched my shoulders, weighed down by a sense of foreboding.

Nothing. Damn! His face, the sensual line of his jaw, the lean, muscular chest-all of it was so clear in my dreams. Now, all I could see was that huge erection, his cock standing proud and dark amidst the thick mat of hair.

This time the dream had been different. We'd made contact, barely, but the shock of that brief touch still tingled through my fingertips, resided in my breasts, my aching cunt. It raced along my arm and settled deep in my gut.

I felt a vague heaviness, a deep sensual longing not usually associated with my nightmares-or my dreams-at least until this most recent series had begun.

I added a comment to that effect in my notes, not nearly as descriptive as it could have been, then placed the dog-eared tablet back on the table.

The digital clock blinked 5:28. There wasn't much point in trying to sleep for the half hour left to me.

The room seemed to sway, almost to pulsate in cadence with my thundering heart as I crawled from bed and toddled to the bathroom. I shouldn't have-I knew I must look like hell warmed over-but I stopped a minute to stare at my rumpled reflection in the mirror. My blond hair was matted and tangled, the shadows under my brown eyes looked like bruises.

Hot flashes, serial nightmares-slash-wet dreams and a sexy guy I could never completely remember. Double damn. I turned around and started the shower, thankful for the extra settings on the shower massage.

I adjusted my briefcase under my arm and bit my lips to keep from grinning. God, how I loved my work! No matter what my frame of mind, I couldn't help but pause every time I took that first of twenty-four marble steps up to the huge oak and brass front doors guarding the offices of San Francisco's premier newspaper, The Bay Reporter.

I was born to write news, the kind of news that exposes lies and uncovers secrets. I grew up in a tiny apartment off Nineteenth Avenue in, what to me, was heaven on earth-close enough to the Pacific to glimpse the sun setting over the ocean, only two blocks from Golden Gate Park.

I loved the city from the beginning, her cold, foggy summers and mild winters, the energy that's as much a part of her as the musical clang of cable car bells and her eclectic citizenry.

I felt a synchronicity with San Francisco's pulsing life from the very first, an inner sense of truth, a knowing, that never failed me. That sense led me to take that first marble step at The Bay Reporter, to take that step, and the next, and never look back.

I've covered the news beat for The Bay Reporter since my first break over twenty-five years ago, a riveting exposé on Elvis Presley's criminal ties. It was the story that got me out of the society pages and into hard news where I belong.

I love my work, the digging and interviewing, the bursts of intuition that often flower into facts, the hunches that pan out, even the rare ones that don't. The editor teases me about my nose for news, but I've sniffed my way into more stories than anyone else on staff.

It's that knowing, that sense that something is not quite as it should be-a feeling about people or situations that brings me up short, makes me stop and ponder and often leads me to information and conclusions without basis.

Then I'll dig deeper, follow leads that miraculously seem to come to me and eventually I find the proof that leads me right back to the conclusion I blithely assumed in the beginning. I don't understand it, but I'll take it.

After awhile, though, it's difficult to keep your perspective when your senses are constantly alive to every nuance, subtlety and trace of suspicion. Especially in a city where the rich and powerful exist in a rarefied atmosphere far above the law.

Which is why I didn't doubt my sources on my first big story one bit, or my instincts. There was something fishy about Elvis's death. It was too perfect, too apropos, almost as if it had been scripted for the six o'clock news.

I was certain the King had faked his death, taken the money and run. It's just that I've never been able to prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Elvis was still on my mind this particular day. It was either Elvis or obsessing over the erotic dream I'd had the night before. Elvis was a lot easier to deal with.

Unfortunately, the dream wouldn't go away. Today it appeared to have followed me, lying await for me in my subconscious.

It was late in the afternoon-I'd just plopped my butt down on the leather chair in front of my computer and was mulling over a feature story I'd been working on, my mind sort of wandering with ideas when the words on my computer screen suddenly appeared to sway and throb, almost as if the text within the monitor were alive.

I stared, hypnotized by the ebb and flow of text as it rushed and tumbled and finally found its cadence in perfect timing with my heartbeat. My heart. Beat. Beat. In, out, in-out...in...out...

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