Labyrinth by Tarah Scott

It’s a Mississippi Deputy Sheriff’s duty to bring a serial killer to justice…even when he’s a three hundred year old Scottish lord. It’s an SAS agent’s duty to save her.

I am very enamored of fairy tales. So, after years of wrestling with the story, Labyrinth was born as a modern fairy tale. Labyrinth is, I believe, the most unique of my books. The story was inspired by The Legend of Bluebeard and The Portrait of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. I combine the elements of a charismatic serial killer who preys on unsuspecting women, and an enchanted portrait that controls his fate. Disney’s versions of fairy tales are a far cry from the darker side of the human psyche as portrayed by the original versions, which are filled with love, hate, jealousy, lust for power and, of course, lust itself. Therefore, Labyrinth, being something of a modern fairy tale, doesn’t require a simple kiss to save the heroine, but goes deeper for a more erotic salvation. This book is not for the faint of heart. Love, sex, murder, and magic combine in the tale of a dark love triangle that spans three hundred years


Murderers weren’t born. They were made. At least, that’s what Margot had told herself these last four years. She opened the door to Castle Morrison and stepped inside the small entryway. Her hand tightened on the strap of the duffel she carried. She’d left Mississippi behind fifteen hours ago and was now on the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides, about as far north as a person could get in the Scottish Highlands. The countryside was just as remote as Wilkinson County, and probably just as wild.

Gooseflesh crept across her arms with an unexpected desire to turn and head back home—back to her father, the job she’d left behind and the front porch swing that squeaked too loudly on sultry summer nights. Exhaustion, she told herself. That and the fact she was about to face a murderer.

She took three paces through the arched doorway into the reception area and stopped. Caterine Bowers, the new owner of Castle Morrison, stood alongside a young brunette behind a mahogany reception counter at the far end of the room.
Cat hadn’t changed in the four years since Margot had seen her. The boys back home had gone wild over her perfect thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six body. With lustrous, jet black hair that brushed her waist and the feminine walk she’d perfected, she’d fucked her way through half of Wilkinson County. Margot didn’t blame her for that. Hell, she’d had her share of those southern boys. It was the fact Cat had murdered Donny four years into their marriage—and gotten away with it—that Margot hated.

Cat’s invitation for Margot to visit her in Scotland offered the opportunity that had been lacking when Cat fled to L.A. six months after Donny’s death. Eighteen months later, Cat dropped off the radar. Margot couldn’t let that happen again—couldn’t let Cat murder again. And she would.

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