Quotes:
"Readers will race through this delightful comedy of errors and eagerly anticipate the next installment."
--Publishers Weekly

"With delicious characters and a delectable plot, Bradley delivers another enticing read."
--Romantic Times magazine

Under the covers:
"The Impostor came from one woman's obsession with Dalton Montmorency. My editor had a complete crush on him and demanded that his story come next. I actually dedicated the Impostor to her! When it came time to choose his match, the quiet, wry Widow Simpson from The Pretender kept coming to mind. She wasn't in it for more than a few paragraphs, but she wouldn't go away. Her name was originally Clara, but I had changed it to Harriet because I thought it would be fun to have all my heroines have awful names like Agatha. When I began The Impostor, I couldn't make Harriet real. In the eleventh hour, right before The Pretender went to press, I went back through it and changed Harriet back to Clara, thus saving The Impostor from the weird fate of having a "dead" heroine. Once she became Clara again, she was happy to come to life in the story. If you should ever happen to get your hands on an Advance Reading Copy of The Pretender, you'll find that the Widow Simpson is still Harriet in that version. The poor thing...what was I thinking?"

Excerpt:
"You never told me your name," he said.

"Nor have you."

Dalton smiled. Ever the saucy one. "Monty," he said, his nickname from school long ago.

"It's a nice name," she said softly, "for a thief."

"Only in good cause, little rose."

She tilted her head and looked back at him soberly. "You know, I believe you mean that."

They came to a narrow door that opened onto a set of even narrower stairs that wound down into complete darkness. Dalton spared fleeting moment of pity for the poor souls who had to carry all the flotsam of the household up those tight turns. Were the stairs in his own house so inaccessible?

They traveled down, taking turn after turn. Dalton realized that she was leading him straight to the ground floor.
With one hand held by the girl and one hand trailing along the wall to keep his bearings in the darkness, Dalton had no way to tell that she had stopped short before him until he ran into her.

His arm swung to catch himself, and wrapped right about her waist. She gave a quick intake of breath, which only served to tighten his grasp.

She was taller than he'd thought, for her head fit just under his chin. If he bent down, he could kiss the top of her silly mobcap. Not that he wanted to, of course, though she smelt of flowers and warm woman, and fit so nicely against him.

The thought scampered across his mind that this was the second time in two days that he had been in this position with a woman.

He felt her let her breath free in a slow, controlled exhalation, then she calmly peeled his arm away and moved on, never losing her grip on his other hand.

"I'll thank you not to be thievin' from me, masked man. My safe-box is not for your pilferin' hands."

Dalton grinned in the dark. She was a bold thing, this thorny rose -- ladylike and poised, but saucy.

He decided that he liked saucy.