Alice Radstone should have known not to return. Her life before the Hotel of Dreams had been one of a perfectly cloistered teacher at the Ballantine Academy. When the death of her mentor forced her out, she was left to reinvent herself in the big city. Since then, things have not gone well. Ten months ago, after her first trip to the hotel, she woke up in the locked ward of a hospital for the criminally insane and was informed that she had murdered her husband on their wedding night. She has no memory of the husband or the wedding, but after she escapes from the asylum, one thing is certain: She is never going back.
Unfortunately, Alice’s second reinvented life is also deteriorating rapidly, which is why she finds herself once more at the Hotel of Dreams—this time hiding in the shadows of her room with a dead body in the shower and two men wearing masks creeping toward the bed to kidnap her. Again.
When the enigmatic and decidedly dangerous Owen March shows up and claims he’s there to rescue her, she has no choice but to accept his offer—and hope that he doesn’t also intend to kidnap her.
With Alice and now Owen in the killer’s sights, time is running out. They must trust each other and the electric passion between them if they are to make it out of this hotel alive.
Jayne Castle, the author of People in Glass Houses, Sweetwater and the Witch, Guild Boss, Illusion Town, Siren's Call, The Hot Zone, Deception Cove, and more, is a pseudonym for Jayne Ann Krentz, the author of more than fifty New York Times bestsellers. She writes contemporary romantic suspense novels under the Krentz name, as well as historical novels under the pseudonym Amanda Quick. Photo credit: Chandra Wicke Photography
ENTER THE NIGHTMARE EXCERPT
The thing you had to remember about the Hotel of Dreams
was that the nightmares were real.
I ought to know, Alice thought. This was the second time she had checked in.
The first occasion had been her wedding night. The following morning, she had
awakened in the locked ward of a hospital for the criminally insane and been
informed that she had murdered her husband.
The amenities and the service had not improved. Tonight she was hiding in the
bathroom of Room 205, a flamer in one hand, a sleeked-out, poised-to-attack
dust bunny crouched at her feet, and a dead man in the shower behind her.
She watched through the crack in the partially open door as a figure in a
medical mask crept toward the bed.
She had only herself to blame. She had not simply reached for the bait that had
been dangled in front of her-she had lunged for it. In doing so, she had
violated Core Principle Number One of the Ballantine Method for Achieving the
Harmonic Life: Do not mistake impulse for true intuition.
She stayed very still in the deep shadows and tried to will away the shivers.
Shivering was not good, because she was clutching a flamer. It was set to stun,
but she had only rezzed it a couple of times and her aim was still problematic
due to lack of practice. Setting the bed on fire by accident would not be
helpful.
She did not like having to resort to the weapon-it went against all her
training-but she had learned the hard way that a woman alone in the world had
to take personal security into her own hands. It was either the flamer or the
dark side of her talent.
There were significant reasons not to go full-rez with her psychic senses for
the purpose of self-defense. The results of using the negative side of her
talent could be unpredictable. She did not want to take the risk of sending a
potential informant into a waking coma. It would make it difficult or even
impossible to get the answers she desperately needed. Besides, she hated having
to brush up against someone else's dreamlight for even the few seconds it took
to unlock the nightmares. She had enough bad dreams of her own.
And then there was the inconvenience of having to spend who knew how many hours
in the demanding mental and physical practices needed to restore her inner
harmonic balance. She did not have the time to spare. She was too busy trying
to survive. Priorities.
The shivering was caused by adrenaline, not panic, she decided, opting for
positive self-talk. She had been doing a lot of positive self-talk in the past
ten months. But what if returning to the opening scene of her own personal
nightmare was causing her to lose control? What if she was hallucinating?
Undergoing a psychic break? Maybe she was imagining the dead man in the shower
and the figure stalking toward the bed.
Sebastian pressed against her lower leg and looked up at her, all four eyes-the
baby blues and the amber pair he used for hunting-wide open. It was as if he
knew she was questioning what they were both seeing in the other room.
She wasn't imagining things. The dust bunny was ready to roll in hot. Now that
he was not fluffed up and looking like a large wad of dryer lint, you could see
all six paws and his sharp little teeth. He had even left his beloved
sunglasses on the floor of the bathroom in preparation for battle. As far as he
was concerned, the danger was real. That was good enough for her. Reassured,
she tightened her grip on the flamer.
The masked figure reached the bed and looked down at the bundled shape beneath
the quilt. In a horrifyingly swift, efficient motion, he yanked back the
covers. He raised his other hand in preparation for plunging a small weapon of
some kind into what he assumed was a sleeping woman.
Moonlight sparked briefly on the syringe. At least it wasn't a knife. Maybe
murder wasn't the goal. Of course, you could kill a person quite easily with
the injection of a lethal drug. Nevertheless, it was starting to look like
someone wanted to abduct her-not kill her-again.
She jerked open the bathroom door, clutched the flamer in
both hands, and tried for a firm, authoritative voice. Attitude was crucial in
situations like this. She could not let the incipient panic show.
"Stop or I'll fire," she said.
Excerpted from Enter the Nightmare by
Jayne Castle Copyright © 2026 by Jayne Castle. Excerpted by permission of
Berkley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or
reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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