The Red-Hot Cajun


By Sandra Hill

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The fourth book in Sandra Hill’s Cajun series serves up laugh-out-loud humor and sizzling romance in equal portions.

The long, hot Louisiana summer just got hotter for Rene LeDeux. He returns home to southern Louisiana after quitting his job in Washington as an environmental lobbyist. Years of battling with the oil industry and land developers have left him completely burnt out, and now all he wants to do is work on his cabin on Bayou Black. But his peace of mind is disrupted by a few things.

One, his great-aunt Tante Lulu is determined to get him hitched. Two, a couple of his activist friends have hatched a plot to bring national attention to their cause to save the bayou. They’ve kidnapped a TV celebrity and brought her to Rene’s cabin. And three, the celebrity is none other than Valerie “Ice” Breux, Rene’s nemesis while growing up.

Now Val’s stranded in Rene’s remote cabin, besieged by irrepressible LeDeux relations, not to mention a dingbat duo out to save the swamp. It’s bad enough being kidnapped, but did she have to land in the lap of the most irritating, sexiest hunk she’s ever laid her eyes on? Val vows she’ll give her heart to the Cajun bad boy when alligators fly. Rene swears to get the girl who got away.

It’s never been steamier in the bayou than with two people this red-hot with desire…and more than ready for love.






"Hill will tickle readers' funny bones yet again as she writes in her trademark sexy style. A real crowd-pleaser, guar-an-teed."

Booklist (starred review)

"An intoxicating addition to her Cajun Bad Boys series."

Publishers Weekly

"A pure delight. One terrific read!"

Romantic Times (four stars)

"Sandra Hill's writing is fabulous. Look forward to a book by her because it will be a great read."

—The Literary Times

"Ms. Hill has a marvelous way of weaving a story chock-full of frivolity, sensuality, and delight . . . Her talent for comedy brings a unique quality that entertains."

—Under the Covers


"Humor and author Sandra Hill are definitely a winning team. Tall, Dark, and Cajun is flat-out funny, sexy, and touching. A treat!"

Romantic Times (four stars)

"Fast-moving...the bayou setting filled with humor . . . The love scenes had me running for a tall glass of iced tea. This is one of those books I wanted to devour in one sitting."


"Get ready for hours of laughter, page-turning intrigue, passion, sexy hunks, and danger . . . Tall, Dark, and Cajun is even better than I dreamed it would be."


"A funny, sexy sizzler that's smokin' hot and spicy enough to flame roast a reader's sensibilities . . . zesty, witty, outrageous, and very, very enjoyable."


"If you like your romances hot and spicy and your men the same way, then you will like Tall, Dark, and Cajun . . . Eccentric characters, witty dialogue, humorous situations...and hot romance . . . [Hill] perfectly captures the bayou's mystique and makes it come to life."


"Downright laugh-out-loud funny. You'll need to splash water on yourself between giggle fits. The novel has everything . . . to keep you interested from beginning to end."


Also by Sandra Hill

Tall, Dark, and Cajun

The Cajun Cowboy

This book is dedicated with much love to my good friend and critique partner Cindy Harding. Cindy has the most extraordinary talent for putting sensory detail in a book, and she's always berating me, "But how do they smell?"

Cindy does all the day-to-day work on her farm, runs a bed-and-breakfast on the side, for a while was an interior decorator, which she still continues as a hobby, is raising five children, and still manages to write. Someday, she will win a prize for her literary fiction; it is that good.

Most of all, I admire the love Cindy and her husband, Jeff, have for each other. Many times readers ask if the love we portray in romance novels is realistic. What I see with Cindy and her husband and family convinces me it can happen, even in this cynical world.

Thanks for all your help, Cindy.

Chapter 1

The long hot summer just got hotter . . .

"That Richard Simmons sure is a hottie."

Whaaat? René LeDeux put down the caulking gun he'd been using to chink the logs of his home-in-progress and stared in astonishment at his great aunt Louise Rivard, who'd made that astounding announcement. Tante Lulu, as she was known, lounged on a hammock in the front yard, cool as a Cajun cucumber.

He wore only cargo shorts, a tool belt, and heavy work boots in deference to the scorching heat of the hottest summer in Louisiana history. He swiped his forearm across his brow, as much to gather patience as sweat before speaking. "Tante Lulu! Richard Simmons is not a hottie. Not by any stretch of anyone's imagination."

"He is in mine. Whoo-ee! When he wears those short shorts, I just melt."

Now that was an image he did not need. He tried picturing his seventy-nine-year-old great aunt in hormone overload. Talk about! But it did explain her attire: a pink headband encircling tight white curls, a red tank top with the logo Exercise That!, purple nylon running shorts, and white athletic shoes with short anklets sporting pink pom-poms on the back. She was a five-foot-zero package of wrinkled skinniness, the last person in the world in need of a workout. The fact that she was a noted traiteur, or folk healer, while at the same time being a bit batty, was a contradiction he and his brothers had accepted all their lives.

He adored the old lady. They all did.

He started to walk toward her and cracked his shin against the big wooden box in the middle of the porch. "Ow, ow, ow!" he howled aloud, while inside he screamed much fouler words and hopped about on one foot.

"I tol' you ya shoulda put yer hope chest inside," Tante Lulu said as she raised her head slightly to see what all his ruckus was about. "Doan wanna get rain or bird poop on it or nuthin'."

Actually, inside wasn't much better than outside when it came to René's raised log house. He had the roof and frame up, but no windows, only screens. It was all just one big room with an unfinished loft, aside from the bathroom, which was operational thanks to a rain-filled cistern. A gasoline-operated generator provided electricity for the fridge and stove. Except for a card table and two folding chairs, a bookcase, and a bed with mosquito netting, there was no furniture. That's the way he liked it. It would do till the construction work was completed.

Of course now he had a hope chest to add to his furnishings. And the midget-sized plastic St. Jude statue sitting in the front yard, another of Tante Lulu's "gifts." St. Jude was the patron saint of hopeless causes. René was no fool. Tante Lulu was giving him a message with both her gifts.

"Auntie, there is something I need to say to you. My life is in shambles right now. I quit my job. I'm burned out totally. Don't even think of trying to set me up with some woman. I am not in the market for a wife."

Whenever his great aunt thought it was time for one of her nephews to bite the bullet, she started in on them. Embroidered pillow cases, bridal quilts, doilies for chrissake. She was a one-woman Delta Force when she got a bee in her matchmaking bonnet.

Right now, he was the bee.

Tante Lulu ignored everything he said and continued on about the exercise guru. "Charmaine is gonna try to get us tickets to go see Richard—I likes to call him Richard or Dickie—next time he comes to N'awlins."

Dickie? Mon Dieu!

"Mebbe I'll even get picked fer one of his TV shows."

That was a hopeless wish if he ever heard one. He hoped. St. Jude, you wouldn't! Would you?

Charmaine was his half sister and as much a bubblehead as his great aunt. The prospect of his Tante Lulu doing jumping jacks on TV was downright scary. But then, she and Charmaine had entered a belly dancing contest not so long ago. So, not out of the realm of possibilities.

"Mebbe ya could go to his show with us. Mebbe ya could meet a girl there. Then I wouldn't have to fix you up."

Yep, that's my dream date, all right. "Don't you dare try fixing me up."

"And Charmaine's gonna get me the latest video of 'Sweatin' to the Oldies' fer my birthday in September. You want she should get you one, too?"

"No, I don't want an exercise video. Besides, I thought Charmaine was planning a big birthday bash for your gift."

"Cain't a girl get two gifts? Jeesh!" She eyed him craftily. "Actually, I'm hopin' fer three gifts."

At first he didn't understand. Then he raised both hands in protest. "No, no, no! I am not getting leg shackled to some woman just to give you a birthday present. How about I take you to the racetrack again this year for a birthday gift, like I did last year?"

She shook her head. "Nope, this birthday is a biggie. I'm 'spectin biggie gifts." She gave him another of her pointed looks.


"Of course, I might be dead. Then you won't hafta give me anythin', I reckon."

He had to laugh at the sly old bird. She would try anything to get her own way. "I'm only thirty-five years old. I got plenty of time."

"Thirty-five!" she exclaimed. "All yer juices is gonna dry up iffen ya wait too long."

"My juices are just fine, thank you very much." Jeesh! Next, she'll be asking me if I can still get it up.

"You can still do it, cain't you?"

He refused to answer.

"I want to rock one of yer bébés afore I die."

"No. No, no, no!"

"We'll see." Tante Lulu smiled and saluted the St. Jude statue. "Remember, sweetie, when the thunderbolt hits, there ain't no help fer it."

René had been hearing about the thunderbolt ever since he was a little boy hiding out with his brothers Luc and Remy from their alcoholic father. Always, they would hot-tail it to Tante Lulu's welcoming cottage. The thunderbolt pretty much represented love in the old lady's book.

He had news for her. He might own a townhouse in Baton Rouge, but this piece of land was all the love he needed, even if it was just a weekend or vacation place. In truth, it was all the love—meaning trouble—he could handle at the moment. To say his life was in chaos was an understatement.

He'd recently quit his job in Washington D.C. as an environmental lobbyist, burned out after years of hitting his head against the brick wall that is comprised of the oil industry, developers, sport fishermen, and levee builders who are destroying the bayou he was so passionate about. Up to thirty-five miles of the Louisiana wetlands were sinking into the Gulf of Mexico each year. In some places, the coastline had already retreated thirty miles. But environmental protection cost money. Estimates were that billions would be needed over the next fifty years. But the U.S. government had expensive problems of its own—terrorism, poverty, you name it—and Louisiana was a poor state due to fiscal mismanagement, corruption, and loss of oil and gas revenues. For every battle René had won to protect the Louisiana coastal wetlands, he'd lost a war.

In his lifetime, he had been a shrimp fisherman, every type of blue collar worker imaginable, a musician (he played a mean accordion), an environmental advocate and lobbyist. Hell, if he ever finished his doctoral thesis, he could probably be a college professor as well.

But there was no point to any of it. He was a failure in his most important work: the bayou. The fire in his belly had turned to cold ashes. For sure, the joie de vivre was gone from his life.

So he'd hung tail and come back to Southern Louisiana and resumed work on this cabin—or fishing camp as they were known thereabouts—in one of the most remote regions of Bayou Black. He loved this piece of property, which he'd purchased ten years ago. It included a wide section of the slow-moving stream. To the right of the cabin, the stream forked off in two directions, separated by a small island that was home to every imaginable bird in the world, including the graceful stilt-legged egret. The only access to the land was by water plane or a three-day, grueling pirogue ride from Houma. No Wal-Marts. No super highways. No look-alike housing developments. No wonder he'd been able to buy it for a song. No one else had wanted it.

"I think I hear a plane." Tante Lulu interrupted his reverie. "Help me offa this thing. I'm stuck."

He went over and lifted her out of the hammock and onto her feet. The top of her head barely reached his chest.

"It mus' be Remy," she said, peering upward.

His brother Remy was a pilot. He'd brought Tante Lulu here yesterday for an overnight visit, promising to return for her today.

But, no, it wasn't Remy, they soon discovered. It was René's friends, Joe Bob and Maddie Doucet, who could best be described as aged hippies. Both of them had long hair hanging down their backs, black with strands of gray. At fifty and childless, they were devoted to each other and the bayou where generations of both their families had lived and "farmed" for shrimp. They were quintessential tree huggers, and they couldn't seem to accept that René had dropped out of the fight . . . for now.

"Lordy-a-mercy! It's those wacky friends of yers," Tante Lulu said as they watched the couple climb out of the rusty old water plane and anchor it to the shore by tying ropes from its floats to a nearby live oak tree.

Tante Lulu calling someone wacky was like the alligator calling the water snake wet. But they were eccentric. Like, right now, J.B. wore his old Marine camouflage fatigues; the only things missing were an ammunition belt and rifle. Maddie wore an orange jumpsuit that had a former life on either an airplane mechanic or a prisoner. Probably a prisoner. She and J.B. had both served time on occasion when their participation in peaceful protests had become not-so-peaceful. J.B. was a well-decorated soldier who had come home to emerge as a "soldier" in domestic causes.

"Holy crawfish! Where do those two shop? Goodwill or Army Surplus?" Tante Lulu whispered to him.

He had no time to answer or warn his great aunt to be nice. Not that she would ever deliberately hurt anyone . . . unless she perceived them to be a threat to her family. She did have a tendency to be blunt, though.

"Hey, Joe Bob. Hey, Maddie. Whatcha doin' here?" Tante Lulu asked as they approached.

Yep, blunt-is-us. René groaned inwardly but smiled. "J.B., Maddie. Good to see you again so soon." Whatcha doin' here?

They didn't smile back.

Uh-oh! The serious expressions on their faces gave René pause. Something was up.

"What's up?" he asked.

"Now, René, don't be gettin' mad till you've heard us out," Maddie urged.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up on high alert. "Why would I get mad at you?" The last time he'd lost his temper with them was two years ago when they'd used their shrimp boat as a battering ram against a hundred thousand dollar sport-fishing boat out on the Gulf. The sport fishermen's crime: hauling up almost extinct species of native fish as bycatch, which meant they just tossed them back into the water, dead. It had taken all of his brother Luc's legal expertise to extricate J.B. and Maddie from that mess.

"You've got a lot of work done since we were here last week," J.B. remarked, ignoring both his wife's and René's words. The idiot obviously made polite conversation to cover the fact that he was as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

"Forget the casual bullshit. What's going on?" René insisted on knowing.

It was Maddie who answered. "Remember how you said one time that what we need out here in the bayou is some celebrity to get behind our cause? Like Dan Rather or Diane Sawyer. TV reporters or somethin' who would spend a week or two here where they could see firsthand how the bayou is bein' destroyed. Put us on the news, or make a documentary exposing the corruption."

Man oh man, I hate it when people quote back to me stuff I don't recall saying. "Yeah," he said hesitantly. "So, did you bring Dan and Diane out here? Ha! Like that would ever happen!"

"Well, actually . . ." J.B. began.

René went stiff.

Tante Lulu whooped. "Hot-diggity-damn!"

It was then that René noticed how J.B. and Maddie kept casting surreptitious glances toward the plane.

"What's this all about? What's in the plane?"

"Jumpin' Jehosephat! They musta brought Dan Rather here," his great aunt said, slapping her knee with glee. "Great idea! I allus wanted to meet Dan Rather. Do ya think he'd give me an autograph?"

"It's not Dan Rather," Maddie said, her face flushing in the oddest way. Odd because nothing embarrassed Maddie. Nothing.

This must be really bad. "Spit it out, guys. If it's not Dan Rather"—he couldn't believe he actually said that—"then who is it?"

"Oh, mon Dieu! It mus' be Diane Sawyer then. I allus wanted her autograph, too. Betcha she could introduce me to Richard Simmons."

"What're you wantin' with that flake Richard Simmons?" J.B. asked.

Tante Lulu smacked his upper arm. "Bite yer tongue, boy. He's a hottie."

"Are you nuts?" Maddie asked.

"No more'n you," Tante Lulu shot back.

"Unbelievable!" René said, putting his face in his hands. After counting to ten, he turned on J.B. "Is there a human being on that plane?"

J.B. nodded.

There is! Sonofabitch! I sense a disaster here. A monumental disaster. And I thought I was escaping here to peace and tranquility. "Why is that human being not getting off the plane?" he asked very slowly, hoping desperately that his suspicions were unfounded.

"Because the human being is tied up." J.B. also spoke very slowly.

Tied up? Holy shit! Holy freakin' shit! I'm getting the mother of all headaches. St. Jude, where are you? I could use some help.

A voice in his head replied, Not when you use bad language. Tsk-tsk-tsk!

It was either St. Jude, or he was losing his mind. He was betting on the latter.

A celebrity who could do a TV documentary, that's what they hinted at. "A network TV anchor?" he finally asked, even though he was fairly certain they weren't that crazy. Best to make sure, though. "Did you kidnap a major network TV anchor?"

"Not quite," Maddie said.

Not the answer I want to hear. He sliced her with an icy glare. "What the hell does 'not quite' mean?"

"Not from a major network. And she's not an anchor, more of a news analyst." She glanced at her husband and said, "I told you René would get mad."

Mad doesn't begin to express how I'm feeling. "What the hell does 'not from a major network' mean?"

"She's on Trial TV. And you don't have to yell."

You haven't heard yelling yet, Maddie girl. "She? You kidnapped a female TV celebrity?" His headache had turned into a sledgehammer, and visions of lawsuits began doing the rumba in his brain.

Trial TV.



He looked at Tante Lulu, and Tante Lulu looked at him. At the same time they swung around to the dingbat duo—who were holding hands, for God's sake—and exclaimed, "Valerie Breaux!"

"Yep," the dingbat duo said.

"You kidnapped Valerie 'Ice' Breaux?" René choked out. "The Trial Television Network regular? My sister-in-law Sylvie's cousin?"

J.B. and Maddie beamed at him, as if he'd just congratulated them, not raised a question in horror.

"Why her?" he asked through gritted teeth. Valerie Breaux was such a straight arrow she would probably turn her mother in for tasting the grapes in the supermarket. Even worse, he and Val went way back, and not in a good way.

J.B. shrugged. "She was available. She's from Louisiana. I heard she had a crush on you at one time."

"You heard wrong. Valerie Breaux can't stand my guts."

"Oops," Maddie said.

"Maybe you could charm her," J.B. advised. "You can be damn charming with the ladies when you wanna be."

"Charm that!" he said, giving J.B. a finger. Luckily Tante Lulu didn't see him.

"She's the answer to our prayers," Maddie asserted.

"Oh, no! She cain't be the one," Tante Lulu wailed, now that the implications of their conversation sank in. "I won't let that snooty girl be the one. She's so snooty she'd drown in a rainstorm. I remember the time she asked me iffen I ever looked in a mirror, jist cause I tol' her she could use a good girdle. She's not a Cajun, even if she does have a Cajun name. Her fam'ly likes ta fergit that Breaux skeleton in their closet from about six generations back, which makes her only one-tenth or mebbe one-twentieth Cajun. Nope, she's a Creole. Her blue blood's so blue she gives the sky a bad name. She looks down on us low-down Cajuns. All them Breaux in her family do. Take her back. I doan want her to be the one fer René. St. Jude, do somethin' quick."

René's jaw dropped open. He wasn't sure which surprised him more. That his friends considered Valerie Breaux the answer to their prayers, the woman who'd called him a "crude Cajun asshole" more than once in their years of growing up together in Houma. Or that Tante Lulu feared this woman might be his soul mate. As if the Ice Princess would let him touch her with a ten-foot pole, let alone his own lesser sized pole! Not with their history. Not after the infamous, uhm, incident.

They'd been fifteen. There'd been a party. He'd been perpetually horny, like most teenagers. She and her girlfriends had been sucking up sickeningly sweet Slo Gin Fizzes. Suffice it to say, he'd somehow found himself naked with Val in someone's bedroom. Suffice it to say, he became a member of the Hair-Trigger Club that night. Suffice it to say, she still retained her virginity after the fiasco. If all that hadn't been embarrassing enough, she'd jumped off the bed afterward and spewed pink barf all over his instrument of non-pleasure. Teenage hell, for sure!

He blushed just thinking about it, and he hardly ever blushed.

Could life get any worse?


J.B. had waded out to his water plane and was now carrying the "answer to their prayers" over his shoulder. She was squirming wildly but unable to say anything because, of course, the goofballs had duct-taped her mouth shut. That should merit at least one felony count, on top of the others for the restraints that bound her wrists behind her back and her ankles together.

But that wasn't the worst thing of all . . . or best thing of all, depending on one's viewpoint. And René's viewpoint right now was fixed on Valerie Breaux's bare white behind.

She was going to kill them all for that indignity alone, after she'd filed every legal charge in the world against them.

The Trial TV celebrity wore what could probably be called a Sex and the City-type power suit, which meant it had a very short skirt. A very short skirt that had ridden up with all her struggles, exposing her thong panties.

And thus the sun shone bright on Valerie Breaux's buttocks.

Very nice buttocks, by the way.

"Is she moonin' us?" Tante Lulu wanted to know.

"I never could figure out why women want to wear those thong thingees," Maddie mused. "Seems to me they'd be mighty uncomfortable, up in your crack and all."

"I like 'em," J.B. said.

Maddie probably would have hit her husband if he hadn't had his hands full of Valerie. Instead, she suggested, "You wear 'em then, honey." Honey was not said as an endearment.

René felt like pulling his hair out, one root at a time, over the irrelevance of this chitchat. Meanwhile, Valerie's tempting tush was waving in the wind.

J.B. turned slightly and René got a good look at Valerie's face. Her shoulder-length, wavy black hair hung loose all over the place, but still he was able to see her dark Creole eyes, which flashed angrily. Against the duct tape, she screamed something that sounded pretty much like, "Flngukkk yuuuaauu!" It probably wasn't Howdy.

Grabbing a knife out of his toolbox, he walked over and lifted her off J.B.'s shoulder. She was unsteady on her high-heeled feet, but he managed to stand her against a tree and cut away the restraints. He saved the duct tape for last.

Once the tape was off, the first thing she did was shimmy down her skirt. Then the fireworks began. "René LeDeux! I should've known you'd be behind these shenanigans."

"Hey, I had nothing to do with this."

"Save it for the judge, bozo."

René glanced over at the St. Jude statue and murmured, "Now would be the time to perform a miracle 'cause I sure am feeling hopeless."

He could swear he heard a voice in his head answer back, You're on your own, big boy.

Chapter 2

Once a rogue, always a rogue . . .

When Valerie Breaux had lost her job last week as trial news analyst at TTN, she'd thought her life couldn't get any worse. But being dropped, practically butt naked, practically in the lap of René LeDeux, her worst nightmare, well, that had to rank right up there with life's defining moments of misery. She and René were the same age and had gone to the same Houma, Louisiana, schools for twelve years, every minute of which the rogue had chosen to torment her with his teasing ways. Then there had been that one humiliating incident, even more humiliating than this.

Someone was going to pay.

"You are going to pay, big-time, mister," she told René, who stood there looking hunky and way too roguish, as usual, in his skimpy attire. And a toolbelt! Holy moley, he looked like some model for a beefcake calendar. He had really broad shoulders and a really small waist and hips. Hell, her behind was probably bigger than his cute little butt. God above! I've landed in hell and I am looking at the devil's butt. His black hair was overlong, and his dark Cajun eyes danced with wickedness. She was in big trouble, and it had nothing to do with being kidnapped.

"I did not have anything to do with this, Val," he said, smiling at her.

"First of all, do not call me Val. Second, do not freakin' smile. Third, whose property is this?" She gave a sweeping glance to the raised cottage-in-progress and the remote bayou property.

"Mine," he admitted.

"Aha!" she said. "Two miscreants kidnap me off the Houma airport parking lot and deliver me to your property. Won't even let me get my briefcase out of my car or use the ladies' room first. I'm thinking they are the accessories and you are the perp. Take a guess how that would look in a court of law."

"Not so good, but I swear I had nothing to do with this." His sincere-sounding words were belied by his grin. He was probably picturing her bare behind.

"Good grief! I think the thunderbolt is hitting," Tante Lulu pronounced dolefully. The old lady's name was Louise Rivard, but everyone called her Tante Lulu. "The air's practically sizzlin' with electricity between you two. I shoulda never come here with the hope chest. I shoulda left St. Jude at home. I shoulda waited till next year to help you get a nice Cajun girl. St. Jude, iffen you forget that uppity snob ever came here, I'll say five novenas . . . mebbe even ten." Tante Lulu was sitting on an old stump, moaning her misgivings about thunder and saints or something. Dopey, as usual!

"What is she blabbing about?" Valerie asked René. His great aunt—well-known throughout Southern Louisiana for her outrageousness—was true to form today, her tiny body encased like a teenybopper's in an exercise outfit, despite her being older than dirt.

"She thinks the thunderbolt of love has hit me and that you're the one."

"The one what?"

He waggled his eyebrows at her.

"You're kidding."


  • "I'm surprised Ms. Hill was able to get this book to her publisher without the pages burning up. Rene. Oh, Rene! Lots of deep sighs and there really are no good words for this Cajun hunk...their spicy sex life makes for great reading...the romance aside, there's a great grandmother type character in this book...Tante Lulu...who will make you laugh out loud. A must read! Its' just too fun and steamy to miss."—Fresh Fiction on The Red-Hot Cajun

On Sale
Jan 29, 2019
Page Count
336 pages

Sandra Hill

About the Author

Humor (and sizzle) are the trademarks of Sandra Hill novels, all fifty or so of them, whether they be about Cajuns, Vikings, Navy SEALs, treasure hunters, or a combination of these. Readers especially love her notorious Tante Lulu, the bayou matchmaker/folk healer, and often write to say they have a family member just like hero — or wish they did. Growing up in a small town in Pennsylvania, Sandra says she was quiet and shy, no funny bone at all, but she was forced to develop a sense of humor as a survival skill later in her all-male household: a husband, four sons, and a male German shepherd the size of a horse. Add to that mix now a male black lab, two grandsons — a rock musician and an extreme athlete — and a stunning granddaughter, who is both gifted and a gift, and you can see why Sandra wishes all her fans smiles in their reading.

Learn more about this author