The Collection


Kentucky, 1923 — Green rolling pastures studded with Thoroughbreds, the hypnotic chorus of crickets singing their promise of good luck—all so seemingly bucolic on the surface. Unseen, deception and deceit hang in the air like poorly kept secrets. After young Jamison Jones Davenport’s lifelong playmate Carrington Marcs disappears while hunting with her father where he inadvertently becomes the Colonel’s prey, Jamison is determined to control her own fate. She flees to Europe and lands in the world of rubber tycoon Jon Roe, a control fiend with unusual sexual predilections, a dark past and a fierce desire to possess her body and soul.

In order to possess her, Jon bares his soul, sharing a past that would shame even the devil.

Meanwhile, Carrington, now an artist, recreates his past using memories of Jamison as inspiration, for his love for her has grown into an obsession.

When their paths cross, passions ignite and new allegiances are formed, creating a triple bond. As Book One of THE COLLECTION trilogy ends, Jon and Crystal stand dockside, ready to board the Saint Lucia, embarking on a journey around the world that will take them to destinations ripe with passion, madness and murder.

Life is sometimes a collection of moments that reveal who we are, what we think . . . and most of all, what we want.

In their own words . . .

Jamison / Crystal

Every night I prayed to God that when I awoke, I would be a boy so they would love me. God didn’t listen.

Every day I tried to show them that I was valuable. My parents didn’t see.

Every moment I spent with Carrington, I knew he loved me just as I was, an innocent girl growing up on a Kentucky stud farm in 1900.

I loved Carrington too; he was supposed to be mine. But my father made that impossible. I lost my first love.

Hatred is a great motivator. Fear is inspiring. They helped me recreate myself, re-emerging a continent away as Crystal, stepping into a world controlled by a man I barely knew, a stranger accustomed to getting what he wanted.

Jon saw my passion, he felt my pain and he taught me how to use them to fulfill my destiny. Little did we know that our journey together—at times seemingly mad, at moments only maddening— would lead us back to Carrington . . . and to murder.


I used to watch her, pigtails bouncing as she ran to meet me in the paddock. I burned with the desire to touch the goose bumps on her arms when we got caught in a thunderstorm.

I never stopped thinking of her: that golden brown mane of hair, her porcelain, radiant skin and how she would feel in my arms.

When she eventually appeared back in my life, I could not help but wonder what it would be like to kill a man.


She was alone when I first saw her, teasing that crystal necklace along her lips while she watched the skaters on the lake in Lucerne, Switzerland.

I wondered what she was thinking . . . I knew what I was thinking:

I wanted to see her delicate hands bound behind her back.

I wanted to see the longing in her eyes as she waited for me.

To say that I wanted control is an understatement—I demanded it.

We both had desires; we both needed each other.

What we created was a life like no other; whatever she wanted is what I wanted to give. When she said she needed him too, for the first time I wondered if her passion was greater than my need to control.