Sexual healing…there's nothing like it. And Ecstasy Island is where it happens. Meet two heroes who know exactly how to vanquish a woman's every fear and teach her to love—and fully live—again. But this erotic escape is by invitation only...

Killing Me Softly: Chris Cavanaugh considers it his calling to breathe life into women with troubled pasts. From the moment he brings Claire Vaughn to the beautiful, isolated outpost of Ecstasy Island, he's surprised by her strength and spirit—and held captive by her sensual imagination and skill, night after night after night…

"Missing my college graduation last week, I can forgive. Just. Missing Mom's birthday party last night, no way. Fifty years. That's old, Claire. One freaking step away from the grave."

Claire Vaughn lifted her face off her red silk brocade pillow and, with her open eye, glared at the phone in her hand and the chastising voice rattling from the receiver. Damn her natural reflex for answering. And damn her younger sister even more for calling so early. It was barely after seven, and Erin knew she slept till nine.

She would never be able to fall back asleep now. Because of Erin, Queen of the Melodramatic, over an hour and a half had been added to her day.

An extra hour and half to do what exactly? Read the New England Herald where she'd been relegated to a miniscule online-vendor review column in the last pages of the paper's entertainment section? Flipping dandy.

Facing the inevitable, Claire rolled onto her back. Hot Stud, her portly white Persian and co-recluse, stretched out next to her on the Victorian four-poster.

Scratching the cat's neck in the manner that soothed them both, she brought the phone to her ear. "Fifty is not old, Er. Besides, Mom knew I couldn't attend."

"Wouldn't."

"Couldn't."

"That's no one's fault but your own."

Claire groaned. It wasn't enough Erin had to call before the sun was up and royally screw with her schedule, but she was going to detour down the "I know what's best for you" road again. "This is about the quack again, right?"

"You need professional help."

"I need a sister who knows how to mind her own business!" Beneath Claire's fingertips, Hot Stud jumped with the severity of her tone. Finger-kissing the cat's pink nose, she mouthed an apology.

"I miss you." Sorrow entered Erin's voice. "It's like losing Dad all over again, only worse. I can barely remember him. You . . . you were someone to envy."

Low blow, Sis. Dredging first, their runaway father and then, her one-time, flourishing life into the conversation—once upon a time Claire's columns had substance enough to garner more than a few front-page spreads and syndication to boot. Not to mention brought in enough of a wage to buy groceries, pay bills, and support her antiquities-buying habit in the same month. "Maybe I do need help. Maybe I'm a regular nut job. Considering I can barely afford to make rent on the peanuts the Herald's tossing me these days, there's no way I can swing a shrink's fee."

"What if I knew of a place with great credentials and minimal fees?"

"I'd ask to hear the catch." And why she could hear hesitation past her sister's sudden exuberance. With their mother working two jobs to make ends meet, Claire had been Erin's primary caregiver from the time her sister was seven and Claire thirteen, and it left her with those all-hearing ears generally reserved for parents.

Erin sighed. "I know you'll never believe me, but the whole world isn't out to get you, Claire. These guys are good. Their healing rate topnotch. Just give them a try." After pausing—no doubt for effect—she added a pleading, "For me."

Ah, hell. The effect paid off, pummeling Claire in the belly with illogical guilt. She pulled in a heavy breath and then let it whoosh out. "All right. Fine."

Maybe she'd only imagined her sister's hesitation because of the topic under discussion. Even if she hadn't and guilt or no, they both knew sooner or later she would cave to Erin's appeal. Sooner or later, she always did.

The obvious positive to caving this time around was that therapy sessions could prove worthwhile. Some of the things Claire left behind in the wake of the incident six months ago, she would never miss—relying on short skirts, low-cut blouses, and killer heels to earn her the same stories her male colleagues got in their standard wear for one. Then there was the smell of the New England shoreline after a rainstorm. Handpicking her fruits and vegetables from the vendors at the Saturday morning farmers market instead of relying on her elderly neighbor's taste. Sex that wasn't of the auto-eroticism variety.

Yeah, that last one definitely sucked.

Not so long ago she'd been dating and doing one of the most affluent attorneys in Massachusetts. Then the side effects of the incident set in and he'd bailed on her, saying he dealt with too many victims during the day, he didn't need one in his bed at night. Now the only male who ever saw her, naked or otherwise, was Hot Stud.

"Killer." Erin's jubilant grin sounded in her voice. "I'll call their office as soon as they open at nine."

Maybe these guys wouldn't be so bad that they were smart enough to start their day at a respectable— "Office?" The word invaded Claire's mind and snapped past her lips. Fingers stalled on Hot Stud's neck, she sat up in bed, stomach lurching. "This is something I'd have to leave the apartment for? Because if it is, I think you're seriously forgetting the point of why I need to see a shrink."

"Trust me, there's no way I could forget the incident—as you insist we call it—that made my sister go from sexy, sassy reporter extraordinaire to an ain't getting no lovin', ain't getting no nuthin' recluse." Erin exhaled audibly before adding in a voice that sounded a little too foreboding for Claire's comfort, "You don't have to go to their office. They'll come to you...