Honey Moore has made her pledge: no more stealing cars and no more lusting after Jack Ogden. But when an arsonist torches her house and chases her all over Los Angeles, she’s forced to throw herself on Jack’s mercy. No one will look for a convicted felon in an LAPD detective’s apartment, right?

…and he didn’t want to get burned

Jack doesn’t need a woman like Honey in his life. She might be sexy, but trouble follows her everywhere. But it’s hard to walk away from someone who lives at full throttle—and even harder to keep her safe. Now he’ll have to sacrifice everything to protect Honey from the arsonist determined to kill her.

Information:

Title: Too Hot to Handle
Author: Aleah Barley
Genre: Category – Contemporary
Length: 212 pages
ISBN 978-1-62266-925-7
Release Date: May 2012
Imprint: Indulgence
 

 
 
 

Excerpt:

© 2012 Aleah Barley

Chapter One

Jack Ogden unlocked the heavy-duty dead bolt on his apartment door and pressed his muscular shoulder against swollen wood, which stuck in the summer heat. The door opened with a sharp jerk that radiated down his arm.

It hurt. Everything hurt.

He was getting old. At thirty, he’d lost the ability to bounce back from a beating. Ten years earlier, he’d been a professional boxer, making a living getting punched in the face. Scraped knuckles and bruised skin. Now all it took was one bar fight to knock him flat on his ass.

He needed a cold beer, some hot food, and about two weeks in bed.

As he stepped over the threshold, his gun slipped out of his shoulder holster into his right hand—the motion practiced, reflexive, an automatic response to some signal he couldn’t place or interpret.

“This is the police,” he called out, pushing the door closed behind him. “And I’m not in the mood.”

Pounding music came up through the floor from the dance club below. Classic rock tonight. Friday. Darkness pooled at the doorway, but light shone at the far end of the hall. Someone was in his apartment. Someone who’d heard about his injury. If they thought entering the apartment while he was injured would save them from his wrath, they were about to find out just how wrong they’d been.

Moving fast, he slipped down the length of the hallway. Common sense said he should wait outside and call for backup, but he’d left common sense behind him an hour ago when he’d checked out of the hospital against his doctors’ advice. If he called for backup, he’d spend the next six hours listening to his commanding officer chew his head off for leaving the hospital without permission. Then someone would call his sister.

He’d rather be dead.

Jack kept moving, letting a surge of adrenaline carry his bruised body into the apartment’s combination living room and kitchen, where the intruder had turned on a light. His eyes swept the room, taking in the familiar blue couch, the big picture windows, the battered kitchen table, and the open freezer door.

His gaze stopped on the panties. They were blue cotton embroidered with shiny circles, and they were wrapped around the heart-shaped ass of a woman bending down to look in his side-by-side freezer.

He’d always been a breast man, but there was something about those multicolored polka dots that made him think he’d been neglecting a vital portion of the female anatomy. Her legs were good, too—long and muscular, just the way he liked them.

She had bare feet. The sight made his breath catch in his throat. Bare feet were for the young and innocent. He really hoped she wasn’t planning to kill him.

“Put your hands up.”

The woman stood, but she didn’t turn around. Her white cotton T-shirt dropped down to skim across those polka dots.

Not polka dots. Lollipops. His heart slammed against his rib cage. Whether this was a reaction to the adrenaline still racing through his veins or the lust washing over him in waves, he couldn’t say.

“Where’s your ice cream?” she asked.

The question was simple, direct, and completely disingenuous. He wanted to ask her what the hell she was doing in his apartment, but when he opened his mouth, different words came out. “I don’t have any ice cream.”

“What kind of a man doesn’t have ice cream?” She closed the freezer door and reached up to snag the box of cookies Jack kept on top of his refrigerator. “If I gain a million pounds, it’s your fault.”

That didn’t make any sense. The blood loss was obviously affecting his mind. “Cookies make you gain weight, but ice cream doesn’t?”

“Ice cream is cold. Your body burns calories to heat it up.”

“That’s insane.” Maybe the blood loss was affecting her mind.

Jack stared at the woman’s back. She probably wouldn’t be talking about ice cream if she were planning to kill him. Whoever she was.

He took a few steps forward and set the gun down on the table between them. There was something about her. Standing upright, she was a slightly built thing, much shorter than his solid six foot two. And her hair…a glistening reddish-gold that shone in the flickering light from the street.

Jack knew that hair. It was bright, fiery, but cool to the touch. Always flying everywhere, getting in the way, and then she’d let out a soft sigh before putting it up in a loose ponytail.

“Honey?”

When she didn’t correct him, he let out a long breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. The woman was all kinds of trouble, but she wasn’t a killer. He’d seen her arrest record. Hell, he’d added to it.

“Honey Moore, shouldn’t you be in jail?”

A sharp laugh. “Time off for bad behavior.” She turned around to face him straight on. Wide-set emerald eyes and rosy, bee-stung lips. He remembered those lips, soft and luscious. Permanently pursed, like she was waiting for a kiss. They tasted like cherry cola—or they had the last time he’d kissed her. Cherry cola and fresh-cut fries from the concession stand at the drive-in movie theater.

He’d been sixteen years old, and she’d laughed about it afterward like kissing him was the funniest thing in the world. That night, they’d been two dumb kids who’d snuck in to watch the latest spy thriller. He couldn’t remember what the movie had been, but her hair had smelled like oranges, and her sweater had been soft to the touch.

Honey leaned against the wall, snagging a cookie from the box and devouring it in two neat bites. “Want one?” Her pose against the wall made her back arch and her plump, firm breasts strain against the plain white T-shirt. He wondered if she knew what she was doing.

Probably.

If he were feeling better, he’d take the time to think about that. To wonder what her end game was. At the moment, he just wanted her gone.

Downstairs, the music stopped. The DJ introduced a new song. Jack couldn’t understand what the man was saying, but he recognized the opening chords. Bruce Springsteen. The song took him back to late summer evenings spent listening to music down by the lake, blasting boom box speakers until the neighbors complained. Guns for hire. Dancing in the dark.

Jack swayed. With the adrenaline rush dying down, the pain was coming back. He’d be better off if Honey killed him. Then he wouldn’t have to feel the bruises developing all over his body. The doctor who’d stitched him up had told him he didn’t need a cast, but he definitely shouldn’t be carrying heavy weights with a sprained wrist. Did a gun count as a heavy weight?

He took a deep breath, wincing when the force of air in his lungs made his chest tighten. “Breaking and entering. I could arrest you. Again.”

“Go ahead. Grand theft cookie.” She took another bite. “That’s a career-making bust.”

“Sweetheart, I already have a career. I’m a decorated officer. Any more promotions, and I have to start doing fancy paperwork.” He leaned forward, bracing himself against the kitchen table to keep from toppling over. “Arresting you again would be fun.”

Honey Moore. The youngest in a long line of petty criminals, experts at boosting cars and causing riots in confined spaces. Her cousin made book. Her only uncle who wasn’t in jail or on the run was trying to make a legitimate go of things with a brewery somewhere off Valley Vista.

It had been years since he and Honey had talked, but he couldn’t imagine much had changed in her life. Once a thug, always a thug.

“I’ve got cause,” he added. “I don’t remember giving you a spare key.”

Honey snorted. “Spare keys are for little girls.”

“You want to tell me how you got in here?”

“Not really.”

Bold and brassy—that was Honey. She’d always been too loud, too headstrong, and too damn wild. A rough-and-tumble kid who’d grown up in one of the worst parts of Los Angeles, Honey had transferred to Black Palm Park Academy for high school. She’d been a scholarship student with a chip on her shoulder and too much to prove, and he’d been the reigning teen king of Black Palm Park, an exclusive Malibu enclave built around a country club and a private school.

They’d dated for a week and a half before she’d let him kiss her on the mouth. A real kiss, with tongue and hands tugging hurriedly at her sweater. He must have done something wrong, though, because the next morning at school, she’d told him to go to hell.

After that, things had gone south fast. They’d fought like cats and dogs. He’d called her a name. She’d retaliated with a well-placed quip. A few practical jokes, and someone had ended up with their hair dyed electric blue. It might have been him.

She’d always known what to say to twist the knife in his side, and he could never retaliate. Not when he was supposed to be the good one, the responsible one.

“You’re not looking so good, Jack.” Honey took one step forward, then another. She moved around the table, hips swinging, until she was standing less than a foot away. The only thing separating them was the box of cookies. Four inches of cardboard that could be crushed by one small step forward.

Reaching up, she rested her hand lightly on his cheek. Her fingers were cool from rifling through his freezer. When she spoke, he could feel her breath hot against his skin. “What happened to your face?”

“My face?”

It had been a long time since he’d been so close to a woman. For all the complex emotions she brought bubbling to the surface, Honey was warm, soft, and sexy. Her proximity made him dizzy.

He wasn’t sixteen years old anymore. His boyish charms had been replaced with hard-won experience. Women liked him. If he kissed Honey again, she wouldn’t be laughing. There wouldn’t be enough air left in her to laugh.

“I ran into a door.”

“A door?” Her tone was dry, incredulous.

“Yeah, my sister’s ex-door and all his little door friends.” He didn’t want to think about Carlos or Jessica. He was too busy thinking about the way Honey’s perky breasts were moving unbound under her plain white T-shirt. Too busy trying to figure out how much it would hurt to run his hands over her breasts, to kiss the soft curve of her neck, to have her pressed eagerly against him.

It would probably be worth it.

“Can I have one of those cookies?” Jack didn’t wait for an answer. They were his cookies in his house. He reached down, plucking a cookie from the box between them. Another inch, and they’d be touching. Closer than that, and they’d be kissing.

Kissing Honey Moore. What was he thinking? The woman was definitely up to something. The few times they’d seen each other since high school, their relationship had run hot and cold. Sometimes, she’d been friendly—sweet, even—and sometimes she’d been vicious.

Arresting her at her cousin’s wedding had probably been a mistake, but she shouldn’t have hot-wired his patrol car to make a beer run.

Now, here she was. Acting like they were old friends.

“What do you want from me?”

“You’ve got a mighty high opinion of yourself,” Honey said. “I don’t want anything from you.”

For a moment they stood there, face to face. Held in place by some force he didn’t dare recognize. It was a competition, one he’d fight to the death before acknowledging.

Honey blinked first. Two steps backward, and she knocked into a tall kitchen stool. She sat down hard, the awkward motion serving to acknowledge what he already knew. She’d lost. Her body folded inward on itself until she was smaller than he remembered. Her tongue darted out, moistening her lips. Emitting a short sigh, she glanced away.

He polished off the cookie, then cleared his throat, wincing as the action made his head spin. He wasn’t up for this.

Hell, he wasn’t up for anything.

He should be in a nice comfy bed with a fluffy pillow, satin sheets, and a wooden top. Nail the cover down, stick a giant rock on top, and throw a party. He was done. Finished. A dead man walking.

“What the hell are you doing here?” A rude question—at least, by his mother’s standards—but Jack didn’t care. There was no logical reason for Honey Moore to be in his apartment, drawing him closer with every flutter of long lashes closing over green eyes, every breath expelled between raspberry lips.

A flip of Honey’s hair, a bitter laugh. “Someone burned my house down.” The statement was calm, quiet.

He didn’t believe it for a minute.

After a long pause, she said, “Someone was chasing me. I couldn’t think of any other place to go.” Her eyes were bright, her jaw clenched. Defiant. She was waiting for him to tell her to leave.

Jack’s hands clenched into fists while he considered his options. Tossing her out on her ass was tempting, very tempting. He didn’t want to fight over a story as fake as a three-dollar bill. Not tonight. He didn’t have the energy. “You know, I’ve always liked you—”

“Thank you.”

“‘Liked’ might not be the right word. ‘Tolerated.’” He let out a long breath, blowing air over the top of his lip. “I tolerated your pranks. I tolerated the way you toyed with me. Teased me. I put up with all of you, right up until the minute you went too far and decided that my police car was a toy—”

“Do you have a point?”

“I’d be happy to see you under normal circumstances,” Jack said. “But not tonight.” Not with a split lip, a stitched-up gash in the middle of his chest, and bruised ribs. Bruised everything. “Why did you come here?”

“Why not?” A shrug. “I can go if you want, but I’d like to take a shower first.”

A shower. Jack almost laughed. Nothing in his life was that simple. She was keeping something from him, but that was nothing new.

Part of him wanted to forget the bruises, to push, to interrogate her until she broke down and told him what was really going on.

Mostly, he didn’t care. He was a man. She was a woman. Damaged or whole, he wanted to wrap his arms around her and take her to bed.

But growing up in Black Palm Park, the oldest son of a family that had stood in the political spotlight for generations, Jack had learned how to be a gentleman. His mother had taught him to be loyal, honest, and true. To never take advantage of a woman. Hitting on Honey Moore while she was in his kitchen, confused and vulnerable, wearing only a borrowed shirt and a pair of panties with lollipops on them, would be taking advantage.

“Make yourself at home.” The words were quiet, earnest, and they left him drained, incapable of getting to bed. It took everything he had to keep himself upright until she retreated to the bathroom, her hips swaying back and forth tantalizingly underneath the white T-shirt.

He stumbled forward, collapsing onto the couch.

For a moment, Bruce Springsteen’s voice was overshadowed by the shuddering of old pipes being forced into service. Then the song was back, the dull pounding of its beat slowing down before another lyric started up. Had the conversation only taken a few minutes? It had felt like an eternity.

What a night. What a weekend—and it would only get worse. His sister was going to tear him apart when she found out he’d gotten in a bar fight with her cheating asshole of an ex. He didn’t regret it, though. Carlos was a schmuck.

His boss would probably help Jessica with the beat down. LAPD detectives were not supposed to go around getting in fights. Especially not with rich, powerful men like Carlos who had the governor’s private number on speed dial.

Jack didn’t care about politics. All he wanted was to be a cop. A good cop.

But six months earlier, he’d been part of a team chasing down a child killer in Brentwood. They’d found the man covered in the blood of his victims. By the time the killer arrived at Central Booking, he’d also been covered in bruises.

Jack didn’t know who’d done it, and he didn’t much care. The fact was Internal Affairs had a file on him now. One more incident and the Rat Squad would be up his butt with a microscope. They’d look at every arrest he’d ever made, every shooting he’d ever been in, and while they were at it, they’d probably suspend him.

He couldn’t imagine anything worse.

His sister and the brass were problems that he’d have to deal with in the morning. He had something more important to think about. Honey Moore was in his shower, warm water pounding over her bare skin.

Standing there in his antique bathtub, she’d have to choose between getting out of the shower to retrieve a washcloth from the closet in the hall or using the bar of soap as it was. He hoped she used the bar. He liked the thought of the hard piece of soap making her body slippery, coating her breasts with white residue before she moved it down across her belly. Would she pause for a second, feeling the pressure of the soap and her own hand between her thighs? Maybe even thinking about him for a long moment before moving on?

A bolt of lust made his hands shake. He lifted his legs up onto the overstuffed couch. One ankle banged against the couch arm, and he winced in pain.

The noise of the shower filled his head. The sound was soothing, like one of those white noise machines that helps people sleep. Jack could use some sleep. Anything to keep his mind off Honey. But it was a lot more pleasurable to think about Honey…

His eyes slowly flickered closed, and he fell into unconsciousness.

Chapter Two

Honey Moore woke with pounding in her head and a curse on her lips.

“Damn it all to hell.”

At eighteen, she’d sworn on a stack of bibles she was done lusting after Jack Ogden. It hadn’t been easy getting over him. The man was tall, dark, and handsome, with a soft laugh that could light her blood on fire. He wore combed cotton T-shirts that stretched tight across his broad shoulders, blue jeans that had gone threadbare at the knees, and an occasional sweet smile that melted her insides.

With that brown, curly hair, those bowed lips, he might have been too handsome—almost pretty—if it weren’t for the inevitable scarring around a nose that had been broken one too many times.

Looks weren’t everything. He also had a rough voice like crushed velvet, a catalogue of steamy expressions, and gentlemanly manners he’d learned in the cradle.

But she’d made her decision. Sworn her pledge. No more wanting Jack.

Waking up with his hand nestled between her knees was a setback.

Time for an intervention. “All right, Honey,” she whispered. “Stand up. Get off this couch and leave.”

The rough pad of his thumb scraped over the soft inner skin of her thigh. He was sound asleep. The future political dynamo would never make a move like that while he was awake, no matter how much Honey might like him to.

It was damn annoying. Sometimes she wanted to hit him in the head with a wrench, just to see what his response would be. He’d probably look at her with those soulful blue eyes, shake his head, and let out a soft sigh.

“Deep breaths,” she said. “Easy, girl.”

Jack’s thumb massaged her thigh idly, the circular motion stoking an ancient fire inside her. She sucked air into her mouth, trying to cool down her blood.

It didn’t help.

Going to sleep next to him had been a bad move. Not that she’d slept much the night before—she’d spent most of it tossing restlessly, worried she was going to fall off the side of the narrow couch. Worried that the person who’d burned down her house would come after her.

The only thing she hadn’t thought to worry about was Jack’s intentions.

She turned over on her other side to face him. High cheekbones, tanned skin, and curved lips that were perpetually twisted downward.

At least, that was what she’d always thought.

Asleep, the man was all smiles. There wasn’t a line of anger or tension in his body. Her stomach tightened in surprise. All this time, she’d known he was a good man. Everyone in Black Palm Park knew that. She hadn’t known he was happy.

Honey settled against him, her head falling into the crook of his arm. There was something comfortingly reassuring about the feel of Jack’s body against hers. Hard muscles and warmth. He made her feel safe, even if he did look like something the cat dragged in.

His arm tightened around her waist, capturing her. Pulling her against him. If they got any closer, she’d need birth control.

Heart pounding, she darted forward to brush her lips against his cheek. The pressure on her waist changed. It was still solid, but this time his hand clenched into a fist, bunching her T-shirt up around her waist.

Long fingers brushed over her back.

Her skin tingled everywhere his hand touched her. Heat roared through her body before settling low in her belly.

She rocked forward against him, her eyes flickering shut. There was no history biting at her heels, no past to trip them up. All she was feeling was the inevitable chemical reaction that came from too many hormones and not enough clothes. Man and woman.

His hand dipped down beneath the elastic band of her panties, and Honey came crashing back to earth. Jack Ogden wasn’t just any man. She wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. Not if she could help it.

“Jack.”

He murmured quietly. He was probably dreaming about a supermodel, a famous actress, or Anne Green, the perky lawyer who’d captained the cheerleading squad so many years earlier.

Not her. Never her.

“Jack.” A second time, louder now.

His mouth descended on hers. The kiss was rough, urgent. Her teeth nicked his lip. She melted into him, accepting the coppery taste of his blood in her mouth. One kiss followed another. He kissed her with his eyes wide open, their color a deep blue like the ocean on a clear day.

The most honorable man in a city of millions had his hand splayed across her back, and he knew exactly what he was doing. That knowledge got her blood pumping. He began to kiss his way down her neck, and a soft moan escaped her lips.

“Good morning.” Pearly teeth nipped at her collarbone playfully before he pulled away. “You always talk to yourself like that?”

“Only when I’ve got no one better to talk to.”

“You didn’t have to sleep with me.”

“I didn’t sleep with you—”

Collapsed on the couch the night before, Jack had looked tired, vulnerable. His body had rolled sideways and—without thinking—she’d lunged forward to catch him, pushing him back into the middle of the couch. Then he’d tried rolling over a second time.

Not good at all.

The man had been completely exhausted. If she’d left him by himself, he’d have been sleeping on the floor in a couple of minutes. She hadn’t seen his injuries, but judging by the way he’d been holding himself, they were bad. The last thing he’d needed was another fall and a night spent on a hard surface.

But getting him into bed hadn’t been a possibility. Jack was a big man. Tall, muscular, and heavy. Capable of putting the pressure on her hips that she’d always desired. She liked digging her nails into a solid set of shoulders. Just thinking about it was enough to make her hungry, eager.

Standing there the night before, trying to decide what to do next, she’d ended up climbing onto the couch beside him. It definitely wasn’t how she’d imagined spending the night with him. Still, it had been nice to lay next to Jack.

Especially when he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her in tight. His grip warm and reassuring, telling her that she was still alive.

“I didn’t sleep with you,” Honey repeated. Her cheeks flushed a bright red. “It didn’t happen.”

Face to face, it was hard to remember why she’d turned him away in the first place. He was exactly her type. “You ever wonder what would have happened if we’d stayed together?” she asked. “It never would have worked. Ten bucks says we would have burned out within the month. Chemistry like that’s explosive, and—”

Jack was staring at her, shock in his eyes.

“Maybe not.” Honey chewed her bottom lip. “Maybe we’d have dated for all those years, gotten married, and had two-point-five kids. Maybe everything would be different—maybe the world would have been destroyed by an asteroid years ago.”

She’d made her decision in high school, and now she needed to stick with it.

But her long fingers tangled reflexively in Jack’s rich chocolate brown curls. In the dim light from the far window, his hair was so dark, almost black, and it gave him a dashing look. The busted lip didn’t hurt, either.

All bruised and battered, he didn’t look like the proud owner of a detective’s shield—a man who’d made her life a living hell. He looked like one of the charming thugs from her part of town.

His hair was soft to the touch, tight curls that kinked at the end. Nothing like her frizzy red hair. She could smell his shampoo, something expensive and manly. It smelled like sex, pure and simple.

“Want to tell me what the hell you’re doing in my house?”

Ah, bitter and confrontational. That was more like the Jack Ogden she knew and disliked. He had been grumpy the day they met, and his temper hadn’t improved in the years since. If she’d been anyone else, she might have been offended. As it was, she was relieved. Everything was back to normal.

More or less. There was still the small matter of his hand on her ass.

“I told you. My house burned down last night.”

“I wouldn’t call that a house.”

He’d grown up in a mansion on top of a damn mountain. The house she’d inherited from her grandfather might be a piece of 1950s tract housing with the structural integrity of a cardboard box, but it was still her home. Or it had been, until the night before.

“Home is where the heart’s at,” she announced in a singsong. “Except in my case, home is a burnt-out piece of crud.”

She’d lived in that house her entire life, and now it was gone.

She’d never go home again. Honey started shaking. Her mouth opened, forcing air down into her lungs. It didn’t help.

One moment, the room was quiet, comforting, and the next second, uncontrollable sobs wracked her body. Jack’s embrace was the only thing tethering to her reality, and even that wasn’t enough. All she could think about was the stench of burned plastic. Her lungs tightened in response to the remembered burn.

Friday night had been nothing special. She should have been at home in her pajamas eating tomato soup from a can and yellow cheese sandwiches, watching sitcoms on TV. Only, her cousin Brody had called her in desperation. One favor, that was all he wanted—a ride home from his girlfriend’s house in North Hollywood. When she finally got to him, he was standing naked on the side of Ventura Boulevard, trying—but failing—to protect his dignity with a cell phone and a neon-orange traffic cone.

The fire must have been set just after she left, because it had already died down when she got home. The firefighters were standing on the corner sharing a pack of cigarettes and a thermos of coffee.

She should have been in the house.

If Brody had waited ten more minutes before calling, she’d probably be dead. Burnt to a crisp, along with her stuff. Her cousin was a low-down, dirty dog, but she owed him a big fat “thank you.” If it weren’t for his philandering ways, she’d be a dead woman. Killed by the same fire that had turned her house into rubble.

The sun had risen outside, and she was still in one piece. Standing in front of her ruined house the night before, she’d been gripped by a fear like ice in her veins, a certain knowledge that she wouldn’t last the night.

But now here she was. With Jack.

His palm moved down her back, soothing. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

“You think I’m overreacting?” He hadn’t seen the fire’s bright embers glowing in the evening light.

His headlights hadn’t lit up the car parked at the end of her block, illuminating the man who’d stuck around to make sure she didn’t make it out alive. Driving a boxy sedan with high-intensity lights, the arsonist had gunned the engine, and then he’d chased her old truck to hell and back.

After she’d lost the sedan, she’d ditched her truck at a Walmart parking lot, caught a bus over the Sepulveda Pass, and gone to the one place where she’d thought she’d be safe. The one place where she’d known no one would look for her.

“My house burned down, and I don’t know why.”

“Come on, Honey, you’re a smart girl.” A familiar cynical edge colored Jack’s voice. “You must have plenty of enemies. Did you finally take something worth stealing?”

“I didn’t do anything.” Honey sucked in a deep breath. “I’m not a thief.”

“It’s called ‘grand theft auto.’ Not ‘grand I’m-just-taking-it-for-a-spin-around-the-block auto.’”

Honey flinched. Her reputation was a burden. It was also well-deserved. When she was younger, she’d stolen anything with wheels. But she hadn’t stolen a car in a long time. Not since she’d spent a year and a half with her room and board provided by the Los Angeles County Correctional Facility. Eighteen months that she could have spent taking care of the people who depended on her.

“If that’s what you really think, then maybe I shouldn’t have come here.” Honey jerked away, sitting up. “I thought you’d help me. Even if you’re not my friend, you’re still a cop.”

“Damn it, Honey.” Jack reached out, tugging her back down into his arms. His voice softened. “All right. You’re not a thief. What do you do?”

“I’m a mechanic.” She chose her words carefully, eager to make Jack understand. Things had changed. “These days, I fix cars. I don’t steal them.”

“With your record?”

“Right, my record.” Honey crossed her arms defensively. “After all, I’m just a car thief—a felon with a prison record. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“Nothing you didn’t deserve.”

“Sure.” He was right. She’d stolen his car. She’d also gone to prison and paid her debt to society. “It’s my garage. I don’t get as much work as I’d like, not in my part of town, but I’m my own boss. I’m honest. I don’t overcharge on parts, I don’t gouge on service. I can do things with an engine you wouldn’t believe. It’s all about classic American muscle.”

He gave her a sly smile, almost apologetic. “That’s one place where we agree.”

Honey bit back a grin. With their bodies pressed against each other, she could feel every inch of Jack’s classic American muscle. The night before, she’d figured that a borrowed T-shirt would be more modest than her “I’m Sexy and I Know It” pajamas, but she probably should have left on the plaid flannel short-shorts.

His blue eyes suddenly went dark, wary amusement giving way to desire, and his hands started moving down her back. Honey’s entire world narrowed to a point. Everything would be all right as long as he kept touching her.

Then she was kissing him again. This time, she was the aggressor. Every movement was harsh, rough—an act of desperation.

Sex wasn’t something she took lightly. Her reputation might be less than sterling, but the truth was that she’d never slept with someone until the third date, and she’d run off her last boyfriend two years ago.

For a bad girl, she was usually pretty good. But right now, she wanted to tear Jack’s clothes off and screw him silly. Her hands moved down to fumble with his belt buckle. If she could feel him inside of her, penetrating her to her core, she’d know that everything was going to be okay.

“Honey.” He freed his mouth from hers. “Honey, what are you doing?”

“Okay, that’s not exactly the response I was hoping for.” All she needed was a little cooperation. The hard flesh she could feel nestled against her belly told her he wanted her enough to play along. “Are you really turning me down?” she teased.

Jack stilled her hands. “Yes.”

She felt like she’d been slapped.

Outside, birds were singing, and people were going on with their lives as if nothing had changed. For them, it hadn’t. For her, nothing would ever be the same. Not with the only home she’d ever had burned to the ground and Jack’s kiss still warm on her lips. Not with his rejection ringing in her ears.

“Look, Honey—”

The scraping of metal on metal interrupted him. A key clicked in the lock. The apartment’s door swung open with a bang.

Even injured, Jack’s instincts were good. Strong arms wrapped around her waist, and he rolled sideways hard, pushing himself over her and onto the ground. He landed first, his body hitting the floor with a loud thud. She ended up sprawled awkwardly on top of his torso. “What the hell—”

Jack’s hand clapped over her mouth, preventing her from completing the question.

High-powered attorney Luke Braden knows that perfection only comes once in a lifetime, and for him it came and went in the form of his college girlfriend, Brenna Morgan. Circumstances beyond his control separated them before, but now that she’s back in Boston, Luke won’t let her slip away again.

…or give them a second chance at love?

For Brenna Morgan, returning home is the very last thing she wants, especially when it means facing the man who once became her salvation—and then dumped her at the first sign of trouble. But Luke is determined to make up for his past mistakes, and Brenna finds herself weakening against him. A decade of deceit lies between them, and he’ll have to fight if he wants to keep his second chance at love.

Information:

Title: Second Chances
Author: Rita Oberlies
Genre: Category – Contemporary
Length: 179 pages
ISBN: 978-1-62266-923-3
Release Date: May 2012
Imprint: Indulgence
 

 
 
 

Excerpt:

© 2012 Rita Oberlies

Chapter One

Luke tucked his black Amex into his billfold as he slipped out the side door of the Marquee Grill. A dozen colleagues, including his brothers, were still inside celebrating the acquittal of their firm’s top client, Newhart Industries. After a year of posturing for the media, the Suffolk County District Attorney had presented a grossly anemic case that resulted in a stunning loss and a sharp rebuke from the presiding judge.

By the time Luke retrieved his car and navigated the narrow streets out of the North End it was after eight. He hit traffic along Atlantic Avenue and didn’t reach Ridge Point Athletic Club until almost 8:15.

The sight of John lounging in a worn club chair chugging vitamin water greeted him the moment he stepped through the lobby.

“You’re late.”

“And you’re beautiful when you pout,” Luke said, tossing his backpack on the only vacant chair.

“How’s Angie?”

“Probably pissed off.”

“You didn’t call her?”

“I thought about it.” Luke bent down and grabbed his racket out of the back of his bag. “But I’m not looking to get involved right now.”

“Your testosterone levels must be flailing. Buy some blue pills and get out there.”

Fueling John’s fire would only keep the verbal crap flowing his way all night. “Let’s go, candy ass. I’ve got a pedicure first thing in the morning, and I don’t want to be late.”

“Speaking of late, why aren’t you in Amherst? I thought you guys had a two-night gig.”

Luke slowed his pace until John fell in step beside him. “I’m taking a sabbatical. Balancing work and the band was becoming too much of a grind.”

Silence reigned until they reached court number four. When the door clicked shut, John finally responded.

“Since when has playing the drums been a hardship? It’s the only thing other than playing third wheel with me and Amanda that you do.”

“True. And just how long can I keep that up?” Luke positioned himself in the serving zone and raised his racquet.

As the ball ricocheted off the front wall, John raised his voice. “We need to talk.”

The ball bounced high, forcing Luke to stretch nearly beyond his reach. “I can’t handle any amateur therapy tonight.”

This time the ball bounced off John’s shoulder as his racket dropped to the floor. “Brenna’s coming home. I found out this afternoon.”

Luke’s heart slammed hard against his chest. “What?”

“She put her condo on the market. Amanda said she’s hoping for a quick sale.”

Every molecule in his head began to throb.

“Why now? I thought her life was perfect in Florida. Hell, I heard she was practically engaged to that construction worker.”

A bleak look settled across John’s face. “Things haven’t been easy down there. Supporting her seventy-five-year-old grandmother and her brother hasn’t been a picnic.”

Anger burned a knot in his gut. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve helped.”

“How exactly? By throwing money at her? She wouldn’t let you buy her a damn drink in Sarasota, Luke. Do you really think she’d accept charity from you?”

The walls in the confined court made him feel like a caged animal. “Let’s get out of here. I want to know what else you’ve been holding back.”

John moved toward the door. It wasn’t until they reached the now crowded lounge that the silence was breached.

“Grab a bottle of water and your coat,” John said, as he pulled a gray hooded sweatshirt over his head. “We’ll walk the track across the street.”

Few things in their decade of friendship had ever threatened to destroy their bond. Luke’s relationship with Brenna Morgan, particularly at the end, was a notable exception. A once-tight circle of friends had splintered.

As soon as the automatic doors swung open a blast of frigid air assaulted them. At least they’d have privacy. It was too damn cold for outdoor exercise. Fifty feet of spotlights showered the sidewalk that led them to the street corner.

“How bad has it been?”

John snorted. “It’s not just money. Her grandmother is suffering from dementia, and she can’t be left alone all day. I think it’s starting to take a toll on Brenna.”

“Moving back to Boston won’t help her financial situation. Housing alone will be out of her reach.” Luke increased his stride, hoping to burn off some of his anxiety.

“She’s out of options. Brenna’s great-aunt has offered to help with her grandmother’s care.”

“What about Chase? Can’t he help out?”

John exhaled sharply. “He’s moving in with a couple of buddies off campus. I’m not sure Brenna would ever ask him to drop out of college.”

Luke’s lungs burned as they approached lap eight. He’d been praying something big would happen. He wanted her out of Florida and back home.

“All I’m asking is that you give her time to adjust to being home before you try to dazzle her with your newfound maturity.”

He was right. Luke had been careless once before, and that couldn’t happen again. “Does she have any firm plans? A job? A place to live?”

“She’s moving in with her great-aunt, at least temporarily.”

A faint picture of a fifty-year-old, two-bedroom Cape Cod flashed in his mind. He’d been there once or twice his senior year at Brighton University.

“That’s a rough area. They’ve had a lot of break-ins.”

A knowing smile spread across John’s face. “I warned Amanda that we were going to have our hands full keeping you reigned in.”

Luke rubbed the heel of his hand above his eye. “If you two weren’t the poster pimps for marital bliss, I might have a more normal outlook on relationships.”

“Do you want to hear my ‘there are other women out there’ speech?”

“Shit, no.” Luke’s legs began to burn. “I’ve met more than enough of them.” Hell, Grace Winston was damn near perfect, but still he thought about Brenna. It was her body he wanted next to him when he woke up in the morning.

“What if Brenna believes the right man simply hasn’t crossed her path yet?”

“Then I have to prove her wrong.”

“A lot has changed since college. Some of those changes aren’t likely to work in your favor.”

Luke raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“Some chicks would love to latch on to an attorney with more money than brains. Brenna’s not one of them. I’m guessing she’ll see more obstacles today than before.”

He came from money, old money, the kind that carried weight in Boston. At school it hadn’t mattered. Most of his buddies recognized the Braden name, but fortunately, it fell far below girls and beer on their scale of importance. Only one person had a visceral reaction—a certain brunette who treated him like a venereal disease, like he was the last thing on earth she wanted to catch.

“My lineage and my bank account don’t mean a damn thing to her.” Luke hated this part, hated trying to explain something he didn’t fully understand. “It was never the surface stuff. It’s not like—”

His friend stopped him in mid-thought. “You don’t have to explain it to me. I remember what you two were like when you were together. Just don’t start brainstorming ways to win her over yet.”

As much as he hated to admit it, John was right. Two months ago she couldn’t bring herself to spend more than fifteen minutes with him. One dirty martini, followed by a lame attempt at cordial conversation, was about as good as it got in Sarasota. He had a long road ahead of him if he held any serious hope of changing her mind and getting his second chance.

Chapter Two

“Those are snow clouds, honey. Should I call Frank and make sure he’s left the office?”

Brenna bit down on the corner of her lip. Grandpa Frank was dead. Maxwell Industries went bankrupt five years ago. And snow had been falling for the past sixty miles. She was tired. Her butt was sore. And her odometer had stopped working back in North Carolina.

“Not to worry, Gram. I called Grandpa at the last rest stop. Mr. Grimes sent everyone home early because of the storm warnings.”

“Thank heavens. Maybe he’ll have a pot of beef stew on the stove for us.”

Brenna muttered a quiet affirmation, wondering how she could survive another two hundred miles of nonsensical conversation. Guilt pooled low in her stomach. She should have found a way to pay for a one-way ticket home. Eleven hundred miles in a cramped car was taking its toll on her gram’s already fragile memory. A three-hour flight, under the watchful eye of airline attendants, would have been far less jarring.

No looking back. None of the choices she was now making were easy. Only time would tell if they were the right decisions. At least the sale of her condo had gone smoothly. Even her realtor was surprised to see a full asking price offer within forty-eight hours of the listing going live.

That night Brenna had celebrated. It took three cosmopolitans before she realized the tears falling down her face were not tears of joy but heartbreak. She would miss the new life she had built for herself. Sarasota had been safe and simple. Steady work that allowed her to support her family without relying on her nomadic father for assistance. Her first real home, paid for with her own money. It was here that she experienced the freedom of dating without fear that a guy would recognize her last name because it kept appearing in the local police blotter. That would all disappear.

“I hope we don’t miss Wheel of Fortune. Your poor grandfather spends so much time watching Vanna that he never manages to solve the puzzle.” A light giggle floated across the front seat. “Of course, I’m rather fond of Pat Sajak, so I can’t complain.”

“Maybe I’ll beat you both tonight. My losing streak has to end some time.”

Small, bony fingers gently clasped her right shoulder. “You’re smarter than the rest of us. I wish some of that intelligence would rub off on your father. William is too darn old to be flitting from one job to another.”

As far back as Brenna could remember there had never been a real job. Sure, her father brought in money from time to time, usually after a night at Foxwoods Casino or following an afternoon of hocking flowers out of the back of Jay Mancini’s minivan. During his luckier streaks it was enough to buy ground beef. Most times it barely covered the cost of generic macaroni and cheese.

“Why don’t you close your eyes for a few minutes, Gram? It looks like traffic is slowing down a bit.”

She dropped her hand from Brenna’s shoulder and twisted her body away from the passenger door. “A trip to the mall doesn’t usually leave me this tired. Wake me up before we reach home. I want to freshen my makeup before my Frank sees me.”

“Absolutely. Grandpa might not recognize you without your petal pink lip gloss.”

Those lips lifted into a girlish smile. “I know you think we’re a couple of silly old people, but it’s the little things that keep you going. No one wants to work hard at a relationship, but that’s the only way you make it through the hard times.”

Hard times. Brenna wasn’t sure how many more hard times she could handle. The doctors at University Hospital had warned her about the changes she would see in the months ahead. The effectiveness of the medication that had been aiding in her grandmother’s fight against dementia had leveled off; they were at a new stage in her illness. Bad days would soon outweigh good days. At some point home care was no longer going to be an option.

A soft hitching of breath confirmed Brenna’s suspicion that her passenger had succumbed to exhaustion. Her gaze settled on her grandmother’s peaceful expression. It shouldn’t have brought an ache to her heart, but it did. Hot tears pooled fast and unexpectedly. One day she wouldn’t wake up. Every morning her stomach clenched when she entered her gram’s bedroom. Although she prayed that Gram would go peacefully in her sleep before dementia robbed her of every piece of her humanity, she wasn’t ready for that reality.

The blue glow on the dashboard reminded her that she still had hours to go. It would be a minor miracle if her stomach and the windshield wiper fluid could hang in there that long. She couldn’t stop. The one time she left her grandmother in the car alone had turned into a disaster. Instead of staying buckled in for five minutes, while Brenna dashed into 7-Eleven for a bottle of aspirin, her grandmother decided to take a walk down Tamiami Trail during rush hour. It took twenty minutes and the help of two police officers to track her down. Brenna would starve before she’d take a chance like that again.

By the time she crossed over into Rhode Island both the snow and the traffic had tapered off significantly. They’d arrive in Boston no later than nine that evening. With luck, she’d have the car unpacked, her grandmother fed and settled in bed, and all necessary phone calls made well before midnight.

It was a good plan. If fate, in the form of a broad-shouldered man, hadn’t intervened it would have also been a successful plan. As soon as Brenna reached the corner of Highland Avenue she knew something was amiss. There was no way the dark Cadillac Escalade idling in Aunt Tess’s driveway belonged to any of her relatives. Amanda and John had an ongoing love affair with all things Volvo, so it was unlikely they were staking out her aunt’s home.

Panic would have set in if she weren’t so damn tired. She pulled up behind the oversized SUV, turned off the ignition, and gently nudged the shoulder leaning against her side.

“We’re here, Gram. There’s Aunt Tess on the front porch waiting for us.”

Surprise and excitement quickly wiped away her grandmother’s initial confusion. “Look at her. Good heavens, she doesn’t have the sense of a horsefly. Only my baby sister would prance around the neighborhood in a pink housecoat.”

The passenger door opened and closed so quickly that Brenna had no time to reply. Even from this distance she could feel the joy of a long overdue reunion between siblings. A small layer of doubt disappeared.

The slam of another door brought Brenna’s attention to the vehicle in front of her. It was time to face the unexpected music. She pushed her arms through the sleeves of her long abandoned coat, counted to three, and slipped quietly out of the car.

“John and Amanda will no doubt tear into me tomorrow when they find out I came.”

She tried to ignore the hammering in her chest. The urge to wrap herself around him overwhelmed her. He looked so solid in his worn jeans, brown leather jacket, and scuffed boots.

“Tell me why you’re here and maybe I won’t blow you in. And how the hell did you know when I’d arrive? Kind of stalker like, isn’t it, Braden?”

“I had to see with my own eyes that you arrived home safely tonight. No matter what, you’ll always be a friend I care about. So deal with it.” He hesitated, tucking both hands into the front pockets of his bomber jacket. “I called Tess. She gave me your approximate ETA. So no, I haven’t been stalking the house. If you’d let me, I’d like to unload the car for you. Give you time to help settle your grandmother in.”

She squeezed her eyes closed, forcibly shutting down the tears that threatened to spill. “I should decline your offer, but right now every bone in my body feels like it’s going to crack.”

“Why don’t you give me your keys and head inside?” Warm fingers reached out and brushed against her arm. “No strings. No agenda.”

There would always be strings between them. They might ignore them, or in her case deny them, but that didn’t obliterate them.

“Okay. I’ll leave the back door open, and you can pile everything into the kitchen for now.”

He palmed the keys in his hand and retreated to the back of her car. Instead of escaping to the safety of her aunt’s home, Brenna followed his footsteps.

“Thank you.”

“I know you don’t consider me a friend anymore, but I care for you. That hasn’t changed.”

She swallowed past a lump in her throat. This shouldn’t be so damn hard—either push him away forever or find a way to build a small bridge. But she couldn’t get past the fact that he’d bailed on her all those years ago when things got uncomfortable.

A set of bright lights flashed across the street as a pizza delivery driver pulled up to the curb. Without warning, her stomach grumbled.

“I could give you a hundred reasons why you should turn me down, Bren.”

“And I could give you a hundred other reasons why I should kick your ass off my property and tell you to leave me alone for good. I don’t need any more friends, Braden, especially not the kind that bail when the going gets tough.”

Instead of answering, he popped the trunk open and grabbed two oversized suitcases. After lining up the bags on the walkway, he turned directly toward her. “I seem to have a history of making enormous mistakes with you. I’ve been careless. I’ve been thoughtless. And I’ve been clueless.”

“Is this really about friendship?”

“Yes.”

The man before her was worldly, intelligent, and completely delusional. Friends to lovers then back to friends only worked on cable television or with really well-adjusted people.

“I don’t want to open up old wounds, and I’m not ready to be friends. You really hurt me all those years ago and I’m not sure I can trust you.”

“How much would you really be risking by agreeing to be my friend again?”

She had no idea. All she knew for certain was that the fluttering in her stomach was not a good sign. As puffs of their breath mingled in the cold night air, she cursed her body for tingling in reaction.

“You’re hungry, freezing, and close to comatose right now. Think about it later.”

He leaned back, resting his hip against the bumper of her car. The pose was casual, almost relaxed. His clenched hands told a different story. He was afraid. Afraid that she was going to flash freeze him again. Self-preservation had kicked into high gear in Sarasota. He’d caught her by surprise, leaving her vulnerable at a time when she could least afford it. Between her father’s arrest, Luke’s betrayal, and a rescinded job offer from the university, she had hit rock bottom. It had taken every ounce of will that she possessed, along with every penny that she could save, to start fresh in Florida.

“Let’s just leave it alone for now.”

Luke released a shaky breath. “Absolutely, Morgan. Why don’t you grab the backpack and pillows? I’ll take the suitcases.”

For the first time tonight, his eyes crinkled with amusement. He reached the back steps before she even got up half the walkway. Sneakers were not the ideal choice for footwear in February.

“Need a hand?”

She was already unsteady on her feet. Her entire nervous system would probably short circuit if she was forced to lean on his body for assistance.

“Do you think it’s a bad sign that I’m already regretting my move? I mean, how did my body forget what a New England winter was like?”

His hand cupped her elbow as soon as her feet hit the final step. “In a few months you’ll wonder how you ever lived without four seasons. When the pink dogwoods bloom in May you’ll fall in love with Boston all over again.”

Instead of picturing the arboretum in full bloom, an image of Luke rowing on the Charles River slipped past her guard. The erotic images of what usually happened after the rowing, when they found themselves alone, burned a flush down the full length of her body.

She pushed her hip against the partially opened door and motioned with her head. “Let’s tuck everything into that corner. I’m too tired to sort through stuff now.”

Luke squeezed past her, stacked the matching set of luggage on the scuffed linoleum floor, before moving back to the doorway. “I’ll grab the rest. Why don’t you check on your grandmother? It’s awfully quiet in here.”

His words snapped her back to reality. “Aunt Tess?” She continued to call out as she made her way toward the living room. “Gram?”

A flash of blue light at the end of the hall had her changing direction. The squish of her sneakers along the polished wood floors announced her arrival. Aunt Tess scrambled off the corner of the bed.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “I should be helping you get settled. After she lectured me about the dangers of flashing my neighbors, Helen launched into a monologue about a man that tried to pick her up at McDonald’s this morning. I didn’t want to leave her alone. I put on Animal Planet. She was asleep within minutes.”

There was both humor and sadness in her aunt’s eyes. “This is the same thing my mother went through. They slip away more each day, until one day they mistake you for the Avon lady.”

Brenna pushed away from the door and reached out to embrace the only member of her family who understood her grief. “She’s tired. After a good night’s sleep she’ll rebound a little.”

Sharp eyes studied her. “But not a lot, right? You should have let me help sooner. I can’t imagine how you’ve managed these past few months.”

Brenna lowered her head. “She didn’t want you to know. She didn’t want anyone to know. Back in August she realized she was forgetting more things than she was remembering. That’s when she stopped going out, unless she was with Chase or me.”

She waited while her aunt fussed with the door, leaving it open several inches. “I had her slip on a pair of my flannel pajama bottoms. I imagine she’ll sleep straight through.”

They retreated down the hall, letting the silence settle over them. Brenna breathed in sharply, surprised at the aroma wafting from the kitchen. That surprise morphed into shock at the sight that greeted her. With copper kettle in hand, Luke leaned over a trio of ceramic mugs. “I thought you ladies might like a cup of tea.”

A box of Barry’s Irish Tea peaked out of a grocery bag near the sink. “You brought tea with you?”

“I, um…picked up a carrot cake to go with it.”

“I’m going to grab my slippers. The plates are in the cabinet next to the fridge. Forks to the left of the dishwasher.” Her aunt shuffled out of the room, but not before winking at her male guest. “Behave. At least until I get back.”

Luke chuckled, clearly amused by her aunt’s misinterpretation of the situation. “She looks exactly the same.”

Too tired to stand, Brenna slipped into the closest chair. “Weird, huh? My gram has aged twenty years and my great-aunt looks like she’s barely eligible for Medicare.”

He placed a steaming mug on the table in front of her. She curled her fingers around the handle and waited for the heat to chase away the lingering chill. Two days ago she was perched at the breakfast bar in her condo praying for a safe, uneventful trip. Her eyes settled on Luke, who was now focused on slicing through layers of cream-cheese frosting, and she realized she was enjoying this unplanned ending to her day.  She wouldn’t think about the reasons why Luke should remain strictly off-limits. Her life had been running on crazy for months. How much more complicated could her world get?

Two hours later she struggled under the confines of her twisted comforter. A thin strip of moonlight slipped through the pink gingham curtains that covered the lone window. She tried to ignore a sharp pang of self-pity. Tonight it was more difficult than usual. After six years of hard work she was back living under someone else’s roof. With no job, a meager bank account, and ever-increasing bills it was difficult to see any rainbow on her horizon. If she wasn’t in such a position of utter vulnerability, she would have told him where to go. What business did he have showing up like that unannounced?

She replayed Luke’s visit over and over in her mind. He’d been kind, and sweet—and so like the twenty-year-old boy who had opened up her world and her heart for the first time. After years of blending in with the scenery, he plucked her out of a crowded cafeteria and invited her to lunch. Confused and embarrassed, she turned him down. Luke had rattled off reason after reason why she should change her mind.

Brenna pushed the memory away. She didn’t want to look back. Everything, good and bad brought with it pain. The highest and lowest points of her life had been by his side. They couldn’t go back to being lovers—they might not even make it back to being friends.

Former Army Special Forces Sgt. Marco Vieri has never thought of Alyssa Scott as more than his best friend’s little sister, but her return home changes that…and challenges him to keep his war-borne demons at bay. Marco’s not the same person he was back when he protected Alyssa from her abusive father, and he’s not about to let her see the mess he’s become.

…but now she’s all grown up.

When Alyssa takes a job at the bar where Marco works, her carefree smiles wreak havoc on his resolve to bury his feelings. How can he protect her when he can’t stop thinking about her in his bed? But Alyssa’s not looking for protection—not anymore. Now that she’s back in his life, she’s determined to heal her forbidden hero, one touch at a time…

Information:

Title: Her Forbidden Hero
Author: Laura Kaye
Genre: Category – Contemporary
Length: 240 pages
ISBN: 978-1-62266-924-0
Release Date: May 2012
Imprint: Indulgence
 

 
 
 

Excerpt:

© 2012 Laura Kaye

Chapter One

With seventy-five dollars and a maxed-out credit card to her name, Alyssa Scott sat in the driver’s seat of her beat-up Corolla and stared at the building where she hoped all her dreams would come true.

Whiskey’s Music Roadhouse might not be the stuff of other girls’ dreams, but it was the biggest event venue in Western Maryland. Between Alyssa’s love of music and her weeks-old degree in restaurant management and event planning, it was exactly the kind of place she wanted to build a career. That Marco Vieri, her brother’s best friend and the man she’d loved for as long as she could remember, also worked there made Alyssa feel like today’s interview was bigger than just a possible job—it felt like the beginning of the rest of her life.

She opened the car door and stepped into the sticky heat of the late May sun. Her car was one of the few in the giant parking lot—not surprising for eleven a.m. on a Thursday morning. According to the website, Whiskey’s wasn’t open for lunch except on Sundays when they held two shows, one in the afternoon and another in the evening.

Huge interlocking neon signs in the shapes of a curving keyboard, electric guitar, and bottle of whiskey stood dark along the length of the roof. She bet that at night, they illuminated the whole parking lot with a rainbow of flashing colors. As she made her way to the front doors, Alyssa’s imagination took off and placed her in the center of a packed show—the frenetic energy of a charismatic band, a pounding bass beat throbbing through her bones, great music setting her soul on fire, and the heat and excitement of the audience all around her.

Alyssa tried the door handles but found them all locked. She walked over to the side, but it appeared a long way to the rear of the building, and she didn’t feel comfortable poking around  by herself.

Back at the double doors, Alyssa leaned in close to peer through the glass, humidity pressing down on her shoulders. Inside, a wide lobby sported black and white posters on the walls of upcoming bands, and a ticket booth with a shuttered window sat to the left. A thrill of excitement shot through her. One day, she’d be responsible for organizing events like those.

She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead and fished through her purse for her cell phone, trying to avoid thinking about not just how much she wanted this job, but how badly she needed it. Her intended roommate had gotten engaged a week before they’d been set to move into their new apartment, forcing Alyssa to forfeit her share of the security deposit until her roommate could pay her back. If she paid her back. That deposit represented most of what she had to her name, and the only people who had answered her last-ditch Craigslist ad were total creepers.

No way was she taking a chance.

Alyssa had debated scrapping her plans to return to Frederick, but it was the only place in the world she had any roots, and she couldn’t afford to accept the unpaid internship offer she’d received from a previous employer in DC. As a teenager, she’d always thought of Whiskey’s as the place where she could pursue all her interests. Once she landed the interview, knowing Marco worked there, it just seemed…right. And definitely too good to pass up.

So she’d thrown all her chips into Frederick, and now she really needed this job. And she intended to get it. The alternative was not an option.

Finally, she found her phone and dialed. The manager’s number rang once, twice, and she glanced into the lobby—

Right into an older man’s face.

She gasped and bobbled her phone, unable to catch it before it clattered to the pavement.

The man fumbled with a key ring for a moment, then unlocked the door and pushed it open a few inches. “Can I help you, miss?”

Taking a deep breath, she stooped to retrieve her cell. Pull it together, Alyssa. “Oh, uh, yes. I have an interview. My name is Alyssa.”

“Ah, yes. Come on in. It’s already blazing out there.” He pushed the door wider and waved her in. “I’m Pete Wilson, the manager of this joint.”

Alyssa stepped into the lobby, the air-conditioning setting off tingles over her skin after those long minutes outside. “Alyssa Scott.” She held out her hand and he smiled as he shook it, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Well, Miss Scott, let’s grab a seat so we can talk. How ’bout it?”

Alyssa followed Pete across the lobby and past the large, dim bar area where her brother had mentioned Marco worked. Her heart gave a weird little skip at the thought of him. “Is Marco Vieri here?” she asked.

Pete slid his hands in the pockets of his slacks and turned to her. “Yes, ma’am. You know Marco?”

“We grew up together. He’s my brother’s best friend.”

“Oh, is that right? Marco’s a good kid.”

“Yeah, he’s the best.” Alyssa chuckled. Never once had she thought of Marco Vieri as a kid. Tall, dark, and nearly five years older than her, “kid” was the least likely description she’d ever use for him. He was the cutest, most loyal guy she’d ever known, and her chest ached with the desire to see him again. It had been so long. Too long. But now that they’d both come home—her from college and him from the army—maybe she could finally have the chance with him she’d always wanted.

They stepped into the venue’s cavernous rectangular space. A row of lights illuminated the entryway and first group of tables. “Have a seat. I’ll go grab my paperwork.”

As soon as Pete disappeared down a hallway off to the right, Alyssa sank into the worn wood chair, dropped her purse to the floor, and looked around. She’d never seen a show there, and in the darkness, she couldn’t make out the far end of the space. The floor was tiered so the room was higher in the back and tables formed a horseshoe around the stage. She imagined that created an exciting intimacy with the performers.

“Here we are,” Pete called.

Alyssa forced herself to focus as he pushed the place setting out of her way. She handed him her résumé and accepted the application he asked her to complete. She was so filled with nervous energy—over the job and at the thought of seeing Marco—she couldn’t keep her foot from shaking. Deep breaths, Aly. She took her own advice—twice—and managed a bit more calm. At least the application was straightforward.

As he reviewed her materials, he asked her to tell him more about her degree and internships. Landing this job would really help everything fall into place, so Alyssa shoved her nerves aside and detailed her coursework and experience for him, her confidence growing as she spoke.

When she finished, Pete nodded. “This is an impressive résumé, Miss Scott. You’re obviously qualified. Maybe too qualified.” He dropped her paperwork on the table. “This is a family-owned business, and the owners believe strongly in employees working their way up from the bottom.”

“I understand, Mr. Wilson. I’m willing to work hard and learn all parts of the business. And I’ve worked as a waitress for four years.” She leaned forward. “I hope it’s not too much to say, but I’m good at it. I’d be an asset to you.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “Pluck. I like it. Never be afraid to sell yourself, kid. No one else will do it. And call me Pete.” He glanced down at her application and a slow grin brightened his round, friendly face. “You’ll work any shift? And you’re available immediately?”

Alyssa smiled at the enthusiasm in Pete’s voice. “Yes, definitely.”

Her spirits lifted even higher when he told her about the hourly wage and great tips many of the waitresses pulled in. Man, if she could make that kind of money, she’d be able to find a little apartment all her own and not worry about another unreliable roommate. And maybe even put something in the bank.

“I need to check these references, but assuming everything works out, I’d like to offer you the job, Miss Scott. I’m shorthanded and the summer is always crazy around here. I need good help, like, yesterday. And if you live up to the potential I see here, there’s no reason you can’t work your way up through the business.”

Yes! “You can count on me, I promise.”

He smiled. “When could you come in for training? Read the manual, spend some time with the menus, take the tour. All that good stuff. It’s paid time, of course.”

“As soon as it’s convenient for you. My schedule is totally free.”

“Now?”

“Yes.” No sense beating around the bush. Not with only enough money for one night’s hotel stay in her wallet.

“In that case, sit tight and I’ll go grab an employee manual.”

Alyssa clasped her hands together and released a deep, relief-filled breath. Holy crap, she’d done it! Take that, universe! After the debacle with the apartment, she’d really needed this to go her way.

Pete returned with a soft-covered binder and several forms. “This is the employee manual. Why don’t you read through it and fill out the tax information while I call your references. Just need to dot my Is and cross my Ts.”

When Pete left, Alyssa settled down with the lists of policies and procedures. The adrenaline rush of the almost-job stirred up the flock of butterflies already doing loop-the-loops over the possibility of seeing—

“Hey, Pete?” a voice called out from the bar’s darkened archway.

Alyssa’s breath caught. She’d know that voice anywhere. She heard it in her dreams.

“Pete?” he shouted again.

Turning in her seat, she could feel her heart racing as Marco stepped into the light. Her gaze drank him in. He carried a cardboard box in his hands, heavy enough to pop out the biceps under his short-sleeve T-shirt. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been on leave between deployments and he’d been wearing camouflage—“drop-dead sexy” was the only way to describe him in uniform. Now, his brown hair was longer and messy on top, as if he’d run his fingers through it, but he still looked every bit the soldier he’d been. He hiked up the box and it pulled at the hem of his shirt, exposing a thin slice of lean abdomen. Her eyes trailed down over a pair of black jeans that hugged him in all the right places.

Her chest swelled with everything she felt for him until it was hard to breathe. Alyssa shoved up out of her chair, his name hanging on the edge of her tongue, but her throat was too dry to speak.

“Sorry, I didn’t see…” He trailed off and his brow furrowed. Walking into the room, he studied her, then his eyes went wide. “Alyssa?” He kicked out a chair with his boot and put down the box. Smiling big enough to show off the dimple on his left cheek, he came right up to her, blue eyes bright with surprise. “I’ll be damned. Look at you.”

Nearly dizzy from his proximity, his dazzling grin, and the clean male scent of his skin, Alyssa struggled to reply. “It’s great to see you, Marco,” she finally managed. God, he was even more gorgeous than she remembered.

He held out his arms. “What, no hug? It’s been two years, right?”

“Almost,” she said, her throat tight as she stepped into his embrace. The instant her chest came in contact with his, she knew she was in trouble. His arms wrapped around her and hugged tightly. He kissed her hair, and Alyssa squeezed right back. And, good God, had he always been this muscular? This tall? This broad? His body totally encompassed hers, and every ounce of attraction and affection she’d ever felt for him came roaring forward until she was sure he must feel her heart thundering against her breastbone.

“How are you, Aly-girl?” he asked, still hugging her.

“I’m good,” she said, both loving the term of endearment and feeling disappointed at the proof they’d simply slipped right back into their old patterns. She shoved the thought away. The important thing was that Marco was here—healed from the injuries that had gotten him discharged from the Army Special Forces and out of harm’s way. “I was so worried about you. I’m glad you’re home.”

Marco pulled back, and Alyssa couldn’t help but notice the scars that twisted over his left arm and hand. She forced herself to look away before her gaze turned into a stare, and she found him watching her. He crossed his arms, his unblemished right covering his left.

Before her eyes, his grin and the happiness she’d seen in his eyes melted into discomfort so thick, it choked the air around them.

Marco’s jaw ticked, telling her he felt it, too. “So…what are you doing here?”

“Oh, um, I applied for a job.” She forced a smile, hoping maybe he’d smile back so she could stare at his dimple again.

He didn’t.

“Here?”

She shifted her feet and her scalp prickled. Crossing her arms, she struggled to catch up with his mood change. She became suddenly aware that her body posture mirrored his, as if discomfort was contagious. “Uh, yeah.”

His gaze narrowed and the angles on his face sharpened, highlighting dark circles under his eyes. “Oh, no, Alyssa, not here.”

Her stomach dropped at his disapproving tone. “Why not?”

“It’s too rowdy here for you. This is not the place for a girl.”

Alyssa huffed, that final word chasing away the last of her happiness and stirring up a hornet’s nest inside her. “I’m not a girl, Marco. I’m a woman.”

Scoffing, he braced his hands on his hips. “Look, there has to be a better place. What would Brady think if he knew you worked here?”

“He knows.” He just doesn’t approve. She hugged herself tighter. “And what does my brother have to do with anything?”

“I just…” He shook his head and seemed to struggle for words. “I get too busy behind the bar to be able to keep an eye on you,” he said, frustration and exasperation turning his tone harsh.

Her mouth dropped open. She was looking for a job, not a security detail! Why was he being like this? And had he ever spoken to her that way before? One of the things that had drawn her to him when they were younger was how kind he always acted toward her, when surely the presence of a friend’s kid sibling must’ve been a drag.

She needed this job. Heck, she wanted it. “You know what? I don’t need you to worry about me. I can take care of myself.” The only good thing about his harsh tone was that it fueled her resolve, which kept those threatening tears at bay.

An emotion she couldn’t name flashed through his eyes. “Alyssa, you’re too damn—”

Pete’s voice sounded from down the hallway. Marco pressed his lips into a line and ran a hand through his hair. Pete stepped into the venue, phone pressed to his ear and a big grin on his face. “Thank ya much,” he said.

Alyssa looked from Marco’s scowl to Pete’s smile, and the contrast on top of the unexpected fight nearly left her dizzy.

Pete pressed a button on his phone and dropped it into his pocket as he joined them. “Well, I’m delighted to report that everyone had only glowing things to say about you.” Pete extended his hand toward her. “You’re hired, starting immediately.”

Chapter Two

Marco watched Pete and Alyssa shake on her new job with a sense of foreboding sinking through his gut. Whiskey’s wasn’t the place for an innocent girl to work—he’d seen how the patrons sometimes treated the waitresses as if they were part of the show. Alyssa was sweet, shy, young—someone who would need taking care of around here.

So what the hell was Brady thinking giving her the okay? He would kick Marco’s ass if something happened to Alyssa.

Marco had first promised to look out for her back when his parents’ house was all that stood between the Scotts’ drunk father and the foster care system. After he and Brady graduated high school, they’d moved into an apartment and brought Alyssa with them, specifically staying in Frederick until she was off to college. Then, as if that ancient history wasn’t enough, Brady had gone and saved his ass in Afghanistan last year. So any way he cut it, Marco was honor bound to his best friend to protect his little sister. Even from her brother’s stupidity.

Problem was, Marco could barely take care of himself. And the last time he’d tried to save another, it had gone to shit.

“Alyssa says you two grew up together,” Pete said, drawing Marco from his thoughts.

Marco dragged his gaze from his manager to Alyssa, and guilt flooded his stomach when she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Yeah, we did. Lot of good times, too,” he added, hoping she’d take the olive branch and look at him again. It worked, but he almost wished it hadn’t. Those deep browns had lost the sparkle that had made them so pretty when she’d greeted him before.

Pretty?

Oh, goddammit.

All at once, he saw her through new eyes. And what he saw very particularly wasn’t a little girl. Not anymore. She might’ve been small in stature, but between the long chocolate waves of her hair, the way her V-neck shirt shaped over her breasts, and how those damn jeans hugged her, there was no safe place to look and not think woman. And it was a short trip from that thought to wondering how she would feel under his hands, in his arms. He was a man, after all. A man who had been without the pleasure of a woman these long months while he fought tooth and nail to get back to a shadow of his old self.

But the beautiful girl, er, woman standing before him wasn’t just any woman. She was his best friend’s little sister. Strictly off-limits. That was guy code 101.

And even if she weren’t, it wouldn’t be fair of him to expect anyone to shoulder the big pile of screwed-up he’d become, especially someone just starting out in the world like Alyssa.

“So,” she said, turning away from him again, “would you like me to finish the employee manual or…”

“Yeah,” Pete said. “Go ahead and do that and let me know when you’re done. I’ll answer any questions you have, then give you the ten-cent tour. Oh, and I need to make a copy of your driver’s license for proof of age.”

“Sure.” She bent and retrieved her purse from the floor.

Marco barely restrained a groan. Those jeans were going to be the death of him. “I, uh…” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m gonna get back to inventorying.” He crossed the room, seeing the box that had brought him in here looking for Pete in the first place. “Oh, and this case wasn’t on the list.”

“Just leave it there,” his manager called. “I’ll look at it after I’m done here.” Pete accepted the license from Alyssa and she returned to the seat where Marco had first seen her.

Marco retreated to the barroom, stepped around the boxes he had scattered on the floor behind the long bar, and retrieved his clipboard. On a sigh, he dropped it with a clatter to the lacquered surface and braced his hands against the edge.

When he’d first walked into the dining room, he’d been so surprised to find someone sitting there, he hadn’t realized who it was. And then she’d looked so much older than the last time he’d seen her two Christmases ago that it took his brain a moment to connect the dots.

Older, but still too innocent, especially for this place.

He stifled a groan and threw himself back into counting and stocking bottles of wine, beer, and liquor. But his mind kept returning to the too-cute-for-her-own-good brunette sitting just around the corner.

Why had she come back to Frederick? It wasn’t like she had family here. Brady was still in the Special Forces, deployed God knew where, and Marco had only run into Joseph Scott once since he’d returned to town. Their father hadn’t changed one iota as far as he could see. He might’ve felt sorry for the guy if he hadn’t seen firsthand how Joe’s heartbreak over his wife’s death had hurt his kids, literally. Brady and Alyssa had shown up at his house with more than one bruise or cut over the years. He sincerely hoped she wasn’t planning to visit the old man.

Marco crouched down and sliced the blade of the utility knife along the seam of the next box.

The Scotts’ experience, wanting to stand up for other people who couldn’t stand up for themselves—that’s what made him want to join the military. Now who did he stand up for?

“Aw, hell.” A headache flared up under his left ear. He sank to his knees and closed his eyes, concentrating on the breathing exercises he’d been taught. In for two. Out for two. Over and over until his head stopped swimming. Opening his eyes, he found himself kneading at his left arm, the one that had been torn apart from bicep to wrist by a booby-trapped explosive he barely remembered. Surgeons had rebuilt his arm as good as could be expected, especially since the nerve damage was so extensive they’d initially doubted he’d have coordinated use of his hand, but the tendon transplant never healed right. His fingers remained weak, and his elbow was stiff as hell.

But the shit with his brain was worse. It blanked out a big spot in his memory and tormented him with haunting nightmares and frustrating apraxia, the occasional inability to say a word and communicate his thoughts. And surgeons didn’t have a fix for those.

All of which gave him a one-way ticket to separation and retirement.

Do not pass go.

Do not collect two hundred dollars.

Marco ripped the box open and removed the bottles, lining them up next to him. Seeing Alyssa again made him feel trapped between two worlds but not fully a part of either. In those few short moments they’d spoken, her very presence had pulled him back in time to when he knew who he was and what he wanted. When he believed he could do or be anything.

And then she’d said how glad she was that he was home, and it was like a sucker punch to the gut—because all he’d wanted for ten long months was to be back out there, doing what he’d trained to do. Which was never going to happen.

Letting go of that man and those dreams… He’d never find his way to being okay with that.

On a curse, Marco tossed the empty box behind him.

This right here was the problem. Twenty minutes of Alyssa’s presence had him all up in his head, thinking about things he really didn’t want to be thinking about. Stack. Count. Beer. Wine. On tap. By the bottle. Red. White. These were the thoughts he could handle. These were the thoughts he wanted to handle.

Not how he could barely stand the sight of his own reflection.

Not how he’d succumbed to the pain and weakness.

Not how every fucking thing had changed.

And sure as hell not how three deaths lay at his feet.

Hands pounded a rhythm on the bar top. “Hey, lunch break?”

Marco spun on his heel and darted up, braced for battle. His knee smacked into the neck of a bottle sticking out of the recycle bin on the floor beside him. Like an avalanche, the bottle and two others careened over the edge. He flinched at the crash and spray of glass. “Shit. Sorry,” he said, looking sideways at Pete on the far side of the bar.

“No worries, kid. I’ll grab the broom.”

Marco started collecting the big pieces, heart racing ridiculously in his chest, and tossed them one by one into the bin. If this was what her presence was going to do to him, he’d rather she—

“Here, I’ll help.” Alyssa crouched in front of him, reaching around a box to retrieve a shard.

“Don’t,” he snapped.

She jerked back.

Marco clenched his fists, hating his jumpiness, his short-fused temper, his loss of control. “Why are you here?”

Alyssa brushed her hands on her thighs as she stood, then retreated from behind the bar.

He rose and faced her. She eyed him like he was an unpredictable animal. Good. “I just meant, what are you doing now? Why are you still in the bar?” He pressed his fingers into his temple. “I know Pete has you doing…” The word paperwork sat clear as day in his speech center but couldn’t find its way to his lips. He swallowed a lump in his throat. “So I didn’t think…” Damn, he couldn’t even manage to talk to her, could he? He raked a hand through his hair and sighed.

Alyssa wrapped her arms around herself. “Pete invited me to have lunch with some of the other employees so I’d be able to recommend things on the menu. Since I’m here and all.”

Pete stepped back into the bar area, a cell phone pressed to his ear and a broom in his free hand. “Why don’t you show Alyssa to the break room?” he whispered to Marco. “I’ll get this.”

Wiping his hands on a bar rag, Marco nodded. “This way.” An awkward silence weighed heavily on him as he led them through a series of halls to the break room located near the kitchen. Guilt and a ten-months-old sense of failure made his gut clench. He could at least try to make small talk, couldn’t he? “Heard from Brady?”

Alyssa looked at him, her brown eyes wide and uncertain. “He called the day I graduated. From somewhere. He sounded okay.”

What Marco wouldn’t give to be out there with him. But that life was done and over, and he had no one to blame but himself. “Good.”

“Yeah.”

Hell. He needed to fix this. Brady might’ve been his best friend, but Alyssa was still one of his oldest friends. He hated this awkwardness between them. “Still playing the guitar?”

She tucked a thick curl behind her ear. “Yeah, actually. And Brady sent me a new one for graduation. Wait till you see it.”

He loved that she was still into something he’d taught her years ago but hated himself a little more for not having sent something himself. Damn. “My little Aly-girl, a college graduate. Hard to believe.”

She rolled her eyes, but her lips held the hint of a smile.

They walked into the break room and found a table of food and three guys already digging in. Everyone looked up from their plates and their collective surprise at his appearance in the break room was nearly a tangible thing. Making friends hadn’t exactly been his main objective. Then the men’s attention shifted and everyone gave Alyssa an appraising glance that made Marco want to put his arm around her. Was the V-neck cut of her shirt a little low or was it just him? He just barely resisted the protective gesture and instead forced himself to make introductions. “Guys, this is Alyssa Scott. Pete just hired her as a new waitress. Alyssa, this is Tommy, Eric, and Van.”

She grasped the back of the chair next to Eric. “Hey.” Eric rose and gestured to the chair. She stepped away and he pulled it out for her, both of their cheeks pinking as she sat.

Marco eyeballed Eric, groaning internally as he saw the awe settling onto the younger man’s face. Fucking perfect.

“Thanks,” she said. “So…what’s good?”

“Everything,” Van said, passing her a mixed plate of appetizers. “But then I’m biased.”

“Why’s that?” she asked as she accepted the plate.

“Because I’m the chef.” He winked at her.

She grinned. “That either means your opinion should receive extra weight or none at all.” She looked at the other guys. “Which is it?”

Her question hung in the air a moment, and then everyone started laughing and ribbing Van in turn.

It was totally amazing to watch, but Alyssa’s willingness to jump right into the fray with this group of men who had known one another for a long time broke the ice, and the food and conversation flowed freely afterward. She asked them about their jobs at Whiskey’s and answered their questions in return—much more comfortably than she’d answered his, he noticed regretfully. Pete finally joined them and her thoughtful questions about how the business worked clearly won him over. She treated Van’s dry humor, which put some people off, like a challenge, until it almost seemed they were in a competition of one-upmanship that had everyone chuckling and eyeing her in a new way—including him.

Who was this confident, quick-witted woman?

The Alyssa he knew was shy, reserved, often timid and uncertain—exactly what she’d had to be to survive in her father’s house. Pride flowed through him that she’d achieved this transformation once she’d escaped the abuse, but his gut also twisted. He’d seen a little of that old Alyssa out by the bar when he snapped at her.

Part of him wanted to pull her out of the room to apologize. Part of him said this was exactly why he was no good for her right now. For anyone.

Just one more piece of evidence he wasn’t any goddamn hero.

He pushed his plate away.

Alyssa wiped her mouth and dropped her napkin to her empty plate. “Well, Chef, I have to give credit where it’s due. Everything was great, and I’m stuffed.”

Van grinned. “Pete has me put out a spread like this most days, so we’ll do it again soon.”

“I’ve never met free food I didn’t like, especially when it’s this good. So, I’ll be here as much as Pete puts me on the schedule. You’ll be sick of me in no time.”

“I doubt that,” Eric said in a quiet voice. He flinched the moment the words left his mouth, like he hadn’t meant to speak out loud. Marco cut his gaze to the other man and found himself again fighting the goddamn frustrating urge to lean to the right and drape his arm over Alyssa’s shoulders.

Pete stood. “Little lady, you can have as many shifts as you want. Like I said, I’m short-handed.”

Everyone else rose from the table, and Alyssa pitched right in cleaning up, asking to be shown where the dirty dishes went.

“Come on, we’ll make this the first stop on that ten-cent tour I promised. It’s all very glamorous.”

Chuckling, Alyssa grabbed a stack of plates and utensils. “Great to meet you, guys. See you later.” She threw a small smile at Marco.

A chorus of good-byes sounded out as she left. Pete’s voice chattered down the hall as he bent Alyssa’s ear about the business.

Van rounded to Eric’s side of the table with a big shit-eating grin on his face, and smacked him on the shoulder. “Down, boy.”

Eric threw Van’s arm off and scowled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Van laughed. “Play it that way if you want, but maybe next time you should keep your tongue in your face.”

The two of them scuffled and fake-punched their way out the door, laughing and taunting as they went. Marco sat heavily against the edge of the table as that damn ache planted itself behind his ear once again.

After an all-out assault by a vicious terrorist bent on destroying her entire family, a former government agent must break the strict rules she has always lived by when she emerges from hiding to reluctantly accept the help of her all-too-sexy ex-lover. Running a deadly race against time, they rush to rescue her kidnapped sister, find her missing father, and bring the notorious villain to justice. But nothing ever goes as planned. Bullets fly, danger abounds, and their passion reignites even faster than the lies are flowing. But their stubbornly held secrets just might spell the end of their rekindled love and hopes for the future…as well as their very lives.

Information:

Title: Deadly Secrets, Loving Lies
Author: Cynthia Cooke
Genre: Category – Romantic Suspense
Length: 300 pages
Release Date: May 2012
Imprint: Dead Sexy
 
 

 
 
 
 

Excerpt:

© 2012 Cynthia Cooke

Chapter One

Genie Marsters perched in the bulletproof glass-encased crow’s nest at the top of her desert home and watched the UPS truck barrel toward her down the long dirt road. A plume of dust kicked up behind it. This wasn’t good. Only one person knew where she lived, and he wouldn’t send her a delivery without warning her first.

The driver pulled to a stop amidst a cloud of sand and hopped out of the truck. He stared up at her circular retreat built high on stilts. No one could get in without her knowing it. Other than the trap door above her, the steep flight of stairs leading to her front door was the only way in or out of her sanctuary—her tree house without the tree.

She descended the ladder out of the crow’s nest and stepped into the loft that doubled for her bedroom, then continued down the stairs to the main floor. She rested one hand lightly on the front door, glanced through the peephole and waited for him to approach. She cleared her mind, opening herself to any impressions she could read from him once she opened the door. She’d spent most of her life trying to ignore the empathic abilities she’d been born with, to fit in with normal people. To be normal. Now, she knew better. The three Marsters girls would never be normal. Some advantages you just had to embrace.

The UPS guy—male, approximately thirty-years-old, six-foot, blue eyes, blond hair, lean and mean with massive, muscular thighs—climbed the stairs to her front door. Could be he liked to take care of himself. Could be he wasn’t a UPS driver.

Genie pulled her Glock out of a sconce on the wall next to the door and checked the magazine. She slipped it into the waistband of her favorite black pants at the small of her back, fluffed her hair then opened the door. She faked a wide, flirtatious smile. “Good morning,” she greeted, a touch too loud, a touch too cheery, while her gaze dropped to the small box clutched in his grasp.

Small. Printed address. Too much of his hand covered the type for her to be able to read who’d sent it.

The man smiled back, showing a mouthful of perfectly straight, obviously whitened teeth. “Morning ma’am. You have quite a place out here.” He shifted, trying to peek around her.

Genuine curiosity or something more? She reached with her thoughts, trying to read him, but couldn’t. His mind was shut tight. He gestured down the steep staircase that led to his truck below. “Don’t believe I’ve ever seen a house on stilts in the desert before.” He took a step forward into her personal space while once again trying to peer into the octagonal room behind her. Only this time he wasn’t so subtle about it.

She didn’t move an inch, letting him hover close enough that she could smell his cologne. Something cheap. “Cool, isn’t it?” she said, raising her voice an octave and tipping her head flirtatiously to the side. She flipped her hair over her shoulder. With her blond bombshell looks, she’d learned early on that if she threw in a touch of ditz, men tended to be easily distracted and to seriously underestimate her.

Most men that is. But not Kyle.

The UPS driver grinned, 100-watts of dazzling brightness, and suddenly he was more interested in her than in her house, which was exactly what she’d wanted.

“You all alone out here?” he asked, his light blue eyes twinkling. Eyes that almost looked like Kyle’s, but they weren’t quite as vibrant or as dark.

“Why? You offering to keep me company?” she asked, shaking off the image of deep blue that instantly filled her mind and soured her heart.

His eyelids lowered to half-mast, eyes darkening as his gaze dragged slowly down her body. Heat and desire rolled off him—she felt it like a ten-ton truck barreling down on her, moving through her and making her tingle. Everywhere.

For an insane moment she was sorely tempted. It had been a long time since she’d had large, strong hands on her skin. Not since before the explosion.

Not since Kyle.

She shook off the impression and closed her mind. She no longer wanted to absorb his feelings, or accept a psychic reading of his emotions. “Do you have something for me?” she asked coolly.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, hitching up his pants.

She looked pointedly at the box he held in his hands and raised her brows.

He followed her gaze. “Yeah. Right.” He handed her the small package and the electronic ‘DIAD’ clipboard.

She spied her father’s name and address printed on the shipping form. More than anyone else, her father would never send anyone to her house without warning her first. She frowned, scrawled her name across the DIAD device and handed it back to him, then quickly shut and locked the door.

She peered out the peephole, waiting impatiently until she heard his retreat down the stairs, then with two fingers pushed aside the blinds and peered out the front window. He eased his muscular self into his truck and drove down the road. She replaced the Glock in its sconce.

She picked up her satellite phone and hit the speed dial number for her father’s island estate in the Puget Sound, knowing it was a risk to call his home, but taking the chance anyway. If someone was monitoring his phone lines, they could pinpoint her location within minutes. She was crazy to be taking this chance after everything she’d done to ‘disappear.’ But something was not right.

The phone continued to ring on the other end. Three times. Four. Five. After the sixth ring, she stared down at the number in the display, making sure she’d dialed correctly. Her father had a staff. Someone was always there to answer the phone. His housekeeper, Mary, or even the gardener. Dread tightened Genie’s grip on the receiver. She disconnected the line.

Something was wrong at the estate.

She stared at the box.

Something was wrong with her dad. Carefully, she placed the package on the table, and then hurried to the closet and took down a black plastic carrying case. She flipped the latches, opened the case, hooked up the portable RTR-4 x-ray device it held, and scanned the package. No power source. No bomb.

She went to the nearest drawer, pulled out her Ka-bar and gingerly sliced through the packaging tape and opened the box carefully with the tip of her blade. A large diamond-shaped crystal necklace sat nestled within burlap. Her eyes widened as she stared at the crystal. The last time she’d seen it, she’d been twelve. When she and her sisters, Cat and Becca, had been told their mother had been in a car accident. That she was dead, and she wasn’t coming home.

As they’d held one another and wept, their father had held up the necklace by its delicate gold chain and assured them that, like the crystal in their mother’s necklace, he would always be there to watch after and guide them. They could be certain of that, and certain of him and each other.

She’d believed him. So had Becca and Cat. And yet, somehow they’d all gotten lost.

Genie now held the crystal up to the light. Prisms of color bounced off the walls. For a second she let her finger graze the cold hard surface of the stone. An image of Becca immediately popped into her mind, laughing, her long blond hair flying in the breeze. Pressure pushed on the back of Genie’s eyes and she pinched the bridge of her nose to stop it. This was no time for sentimental reminiscing. She stuffed the necklace into her pocket and dug through the box. Nothing else was in it. No note or explanation for why her father would suddenly send her the necklace.

Except the obvious. He was no longer around to watch out for her. She was on her own.

She paced back and forth. What should she do? She knew what she wanted to do, but it was dangerous. Foolish. But since he hadn’t answered the phone, it was the only way she could be sure her father wasn’t in trouble. She couldn’t hide out here in the desert if he needed her.

She climbed the stairs into the loft and pulled a backpack off the top shelf of her closet and threw a couple changes of clothes into it. She had to go to her father’s estate and see for herself. It would take her at least twelve hours to get to the island. If she could even get on a flight.

“Damn,” she muttered. She couldn’t wait that long.

She sat on the bed and picked up the phone again. Her dad had assured her it was untraceable, but suddenly she wasn’t so sure. If Dad was in trouble, what else might be wrong?

She called the direct line of Josh Cameron, her old team leader and an associate of her father’s in the National Counter-Terrorism Agency—known to everyone as the CTA—her teeth gnawing away her patience as she waited for him to answer.

“Cameron, here.” His tone was tight, which meant he had a stranglehold on his nerves. Something was going down.

“Cameron, what do you know about my father?” she demanded, not bothering to identify herself or waste time on pleasantries.

He paused. Another thing he’d always done whenever he needed a moment to choose his words carefully. Damn.

She stood, pacing back and forth, quickly covering the length of the small room. “Tell me,” she said through gritted teeth.

“I’m not sure yet, Genie. We haven’t been able to get hold of him.”

Her stomach flip-flopped like a flapjack on a hot griddle. She was used to being alone, she liked being alone, because she knew her dad was always there—her back-up, her protector, her confidant. Nothing could happen to him. It just couldn’t.

But it had.

She took a deep breath to squelch the panic rising within her. She couldn’t lose him, too. Not after her mother, and Kyle, and—

“Trust me,” Cameron said. “We’re looking into it.”

Trust me. She almost laughed out loud.

She was the daughter of the ex-director of the most secretive agency in the U.S. Government. Lies and deception were the name of the game. She’d learned a long time ago that trust was not a word to bat around easily. Trust was something to be earned, to be valued.

To be lost.

Embrace who you are, but never reveal. Never trust. Her father’s words whispered through her mind, reminding her that by calling Cameron she’d made a rash decision based on emotion, and rash decisions could get her killed.

She didn’t trust Cameron. She didn’t trust anyone. Not after what had happened to her sister, Becca.

Kyle’s face flashed through her mind along with her sister’s, squeezing her insides painfully.

“You need to come in, Genie. Let us protect you,” Cameron said. “At least until we can get a handle on what’s happening.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I can protect myself.”

“That’s what your father thought, and where has that gotten him?”

But how could her father have just disappeared? “What aren’t you saying, Cameron?”

“Genie, don’t be stubborn.”

“I’ve heard that one before. And it doesn’t sound like an answer.”

Silence filled the line.

She wasn’t going to get anywhere with him. She never had. “Just let me know if you hear something, okay?”

“Genie.” His voice hardened.

Out of the corner of her eye, out her bedroom window, she saw another dust cloud rising in the distance. She stopped dead in her tracks, spun to the window, and grabbed the high-powered binoculars off the wall. “Cameron, someone’s coming,” she said softly. “And this time it’s not the UPS man.”

“What do you see?” he snapped.

“A convoy. Three black SUVs. Yours?”

“No. Hang tight. I’ll get you out of there.”

She stilled, her grip tightening on the binoculars. “How do you know where I am?”

“Kiddo, I’ve always known. We’re coming to get you. Kyle is already on his way. But, trust me, he’s not in a black SUV.”

There was that word again. Should she trust him?

“Something bad has happened to my dad,” she said as the vehicles sped closer and closer to her home. The home no one but her father was supposed to know about. The place she thought she was secure. Hidden. Safe. She’d been wrong. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

“We don’t know anything yet. Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“How else could they have found me?”

She hung up the phone, grabbed the Glock she kept in her nightstand, her ankle holster, an extra magazine and the Ka-bar Bowie hidden in the railing of the staircase. She climbed the ladder up into the crow’s nest two rungs at a time.

Pulling out her .50 caliber long-range rifle, she stuck the barrel through the slot in the bulletproof bubble that doubled for a roof and pointed it at the ground.

Time to welcome company.

…

“Kyle, what’s your ETA to Genie’s?” Josh Cameron’s voice blared through Kyle’s headset.

Kyle Montgomery glanced down at his flight instrument panel, then out the copter’s large window at the barren Nevada desert. “Ten minutes.”

“Make it quicker, she’s got company. Three black SUVs.”

Kyle swore under his breath as he scanned the horizon, searching for any sign of the vehicles. “We should have given her a heads up as soon as we found out about Marsters’ disappearance.”

“And try to explain it to her over the phone? She would have bolted before we got anywhere near her, running headlong into this mess and causing even more trouble.”

“Maybe. But at least she’d already be gone.”

“And in a lot more trouble because she’d do it solo, refusing help from anyone. You know that. The foolish woman thinks she doesn’t need us anymore. That she’s better off alone.”

“Believe me, I know how much trouble Genie can be.” The words tasted bitter in Kyle’s throat. There was a time when he’d thought he knew Genie better than anyone, that he’d known about her deepest secrets, and understood her hidden fears. A large, ill-timed explosion had taught him how wrong he’d been. And he still had the scars to prove it.

“I suppose you do.” Cameron sighed.

“Any idea how long she’ll be able to keep them at bay?” Kyle asked, determined to move the conversation out of the past and into right-the-hell now.

“Wish I knew. She disconnected the line and isn’t answering.”

“No surprise there.” Any way to make his job more difficult and that headstrong hellcat would find it.

“If anyone can hold her own and get herself out of this, it’s Genie,” Cameron insisted.

Kyle couldn’t help wondering if Cameron was saying the words more to appease himself or Kyle. All he knew for sure was that ridding herself of messy complications was Genie’s specialty. The fact that Kyle had ended up being one of those complications didn’t sit well with him. Not then. Not now. The familiar anger and frustration clenched his gut, and his fist tightened on the controls.

“Just extract her and bring her into headquarters STAT,” Cameron ordered. “Whatever Marsters is up to now, chances are it has something to do with whatever went down at the warehouse eight months ago, and Genie is the only one who can help us.”

“If Marsters is in on whatever is going on,” Kyle said. “Because if he’s not—”

“Then we’re dealing with Sean Emerich.”

“And if that’s the case, she won’t want to come in,” Kyle said as he raced across the sky.

“You think I don’t know that?” Cameron returned. “I’m still waiting to talk to her about the explosion. Just get her in here. I don’t care what it takes. The quicker I have her in my office and debriefed, the quicker we can get a handle on what’s happened before the shit hits the fan.”

“You got it.” Genie wouldn’t like it, but that wasn’t Kyle’s problem. He was following orders. Pick up and deliver the package, no questions asked. As far as he was concerned, the less time he spent with Genie Marsters, the better.

He had no desire to put himself through that particular wringer again. She’d said all she needed to say when she’d disappeared without a word, never checking in, leaving him broken and alone in the hospital after the explosion. For all he knew, she was the reason that warehouse blew up. The reason he’d almost blown up with it.

Hell, yeah. The quicker he finished this assignment the better.

…

Crouched in the crow’s nest, Genie bolted the metal door beneath her and took position. She’d designed this fortress herself. She could handle this incursion. Her phone rang again. She ignored it. She didn’t need Cameron. She didn’t need rescuing, and she sure as hell didn’t need to see Kyle again.

The three SUVs pulled to a stop outside her house, forming a tight circle on the desert sand. Men dressed in black filed out the doors and into the center of the circle, using the vehicles as cover.

She nibbled on her bottom lip. Smart. Even from up here, the angle was such that she couldn’t get to them. These guys were pros. And they’d done their homework.

Kiddo, I’ve always known.

Was it Cameron? Had he sent this team to take her out, or to be assured she’d leave with Kyle?

Kyle. Oh, God.

Dark brown hair. Deep blue eyes. Wide generous smile. Strong, warm embrace. Wanted to love her forever. She pushed thoughts of him from her mind and focused on the men hiding within the circle of vehicles. She counted nine. Nine big men to come after little ol’ her?

She smiled.

One of the men inched forward. She waited, counting under her breath as he moved steadily into the center of the crosshairs on her scope. She pulled the trigger aiming below his vest. He collapsed to the ground, blood spreading across his thigh.

“One down,” she whispered. “Eight more to go.”

His cohorts quickly pulled him back behind the wheel of the closest vehicle.

Almost like a military operation.

She crinkled her brow.

They quickly reformed, and then a man crouched wielding a large mirror in his hand. Before she could react, a sharp blinding light hit her. Pain stung her eyes. She squeezed them shut. Then she heard it, the pounding of footsteps on her staircase.

Shit! She opened her eyes, but for a few seconds saw only white pinpricks before her vision refocused.

Wood splintered and her house shook beneath her as someone kicked and pummeled her steel-reinforced front door.

“Damn!”

Her cell rang again. This time, she answered.

“Genie, where are you?”

Kyle. She hated the little flutter that hit her chest when she heard his warm, gravely self-assured voice. Flutters like stupid, happy little butterflies. “I’m in the crow’s nest. They’ve breached my perimeter.”

“Don’t worry, I’m almost there.”

“Who said I was worried?” she added, faking nonchalance.

“And why would you be worried? I’m sure you can handle this. Should I just go back to Vegas, belly up to the bar and grab myself a cold one?” Irritation pricked his voice.

She hated that it had to be him coming to her rescue. Of all the people on their team, and it had to be him. “You do whatever you have to do.”

“That seems to have become a specialty of mine.” The line clicked and he was gone.

She sighed. She always pushed him away. Even when they’d been together, she’d kept him at an arm’s distance. A long arm. He’d loved her, but it hadn’t been enough. Could never be enough. Because he could never know the truth of who, of what, she really was.

Becca’s voice mocked her. “God forbid Genie should let herself find happiness and love. It would mean she had something to lose, a weak spot, an area of vulnerability.”

But for the three Marsters girls, what choice did they have? What choice did she have?

Even so, Becca’s words still burned, but this time they were tinged with sadness. Her sister had been right all along. Only now Becca was dead, and Genie knew what loving and losing really meant.

With her dad missing, she was quickly learning what it also felt like to be vulnerable, scared and completely alone. And she didn’t like it.

Something crashed. The house shook beneath her, rattling her teeth. The men, whoever they were, had gained access. She searched the horizon, looking for a cloud of dust on the road, for any sign that Kyle was coming. That no matter what she said or did, he wouldn’t abandon her.

He wouldn’t. Not Kyle.

Not this time.

Or would he? After all, hadn’t she abandoned him first?

She cringed as she felt and heard her house being torn apart below her. Who were these men? What did they want? Suddenly, they were pounding on the door beneath her, shaking her little perch until she wasn’t certain how long it would withstand the abuse.

“Who are you? What do you want?” she yelled.

The pounding continued. She heard a shot fired into the metal. They’d reach her soon. There wasn’t much that could withstand the degree of force they were dishing out. She pulled the necklace her father had sent her out of her pocket and placed it around her neck, tipping the crystal inside her shirt. Then she closed her eyes and tried to get a reading through the metal door of the men below. Were they Cameron’s men or Emerich’s? She reached out with her mind, but got only vague impressions that were absolutely no use. She couldn’t determine why these men were after her, or who had sent them.

She searched the horizon for Kyle once more but he was nowhere to be seen. She stashed the Ka-bar into the sheath at her waist and her Glock back into the holster at her ankle, and set down the rifle. She quickly scanned the yard. No one remained at the vehicles.

They were all inside. All coming for her.

Time to move. She unlatched the bulletproof bubble and pushed the top open. She had a motorcycle stashed out back. Once she got down to the ground, she’d flatten their tires and take off for Vegas. It was the best chance she had.

The acrid scent of burning metal warned her time was running short. They were torching the latch off her trap door. They’d reach her within seconds. She climbed onto the small landing on top of the roof. She was very high up. Too high to survive a fall to the desert floor. She picked up the end of a repelling cable hooked at the ready onto the roof and attached it to her belt.

It was a long drop to the ground, but nothing she hadn’t done before. She just hoped there wouldn’t be anyone down below waiting for her.

Information:

Title: Bare-Naked Lola (A Lola Cruz Mystery, #3)
Author: Melissa Bourbon Ramirez
Genre: Romantic Mystery
Length: 352 pages
Release Date: May 2012
ePub ISBN: 978-1-62061-005-3
Print ISBN: 978-1-62061-004-6
 

 
 
 

Excerpt:

© 2012 Melissa Bourbon Ramirez
 

Chapter One

Abundantly flowing locks, perfectly tanned bodies, and perky breasts with enticingly rounded cleavage—these were not the things I’d expected to see walking into the Camacho & Associates private investigation office on a Wednesday morning. Pero, Dios mío, that’s exactly what I did see. Two women lounging at the conference table, each exhibiting their own take on “aloof,” stopped me dead with their blinding beauty. I was afraid I’d be scarred for life.

I could hate them on the spot, except, super-detective that I am, I knew they had to be clients. And clients meant that I remained employed as a detective. Hating them for their otherworldly beauty? Not allowed.

Manny Camacho, owner of the small investigative firm in Sacramento, ex-cop, and super-P.I., stood in the doorway of his office quietly talking with yet another attractive woman. It might as well have been the Miss America pageant—there was no escaping them. This one was older than the others by a good fifteen years or so, but she had the body of a twenty-year-old. She had a long neck, nary a wrinkle in sight, and a tall, gazellelike body. Her hair shone like black velvet and was pulled back into a severe bun. Her angular face and chiseled cheekbones intensified her exotic appearance.

Dancer. Had to be.

Reilly Fuller, part-time clerk for the agency, scowled from her desk.

“¿Qué pasó?” I asked, stopping to get the 4-1-1.

Her Spanish was limited—and often amounted to adding a strategic O to the end of a word—but she understood me and liked to use what she knew.

“No se,” she said, sounding very disgruntled that she didn’t know anything.

Reilly made a strangled noise that left me wondering if all the colorful dye she used on her hair had finally done some deeper damage, perhaps affecting her vocal cords. Reilly lived for gossip, though at the moment she was oddly silent.

I heard the zip-zip of the surveillance camera bracketed to the wall in the top corner of the room. Ah, so that was the source of Reilly’s grief. Neil, a caveman detective who could scarcely string words together in a sentence, but who was a master of technology—and Reilly’s bed buddy—was in his lair watching the Barbie show.

“Remember our motto,” I said, patting my thigh and speaking softly so only she could hear. “More to love.”

She blinked heavily and patted down her green color-washed hair. “Right. More to love, and Neil does love this,” she said, doing a subtle chair shimmy. I swallowed my laugh. Reilly was a JLO wannabe—only not Latina, pero more full-figured, and monolingual.

But otherwise, hey, they were like twins.

I noticed Sadie, fellow detective and my own personal nemesis, fidgeting uncomfortably at the table, client intake form clasped in a brown folder in front of her. Her spiky, red-tipped blond hair seemed to inch up every time one of the two women at the table moved the slightest muscle.

I’d recently surmised that Sadie and Manny had an on-again/off-again thing that defied explanation. Sadie wasn’t the lovable type. Neither was Manny, for that matter. He was tall and dark; she was petite and fair. He was bitter coffee and clipped sentences; she was Spicy Hot V8 with attitude and too much lime. He was un poquito intense and brooding, and she was, well, a shrew. What kept bringing them back together was a mystery to me, but some things were just better left unsolved.

From my vantage point at Reilly’s desk, I took a closer gander at the two women at the table. They seemed familiar somehow. I searched the recesses of my brain for answers. Were they in a breast-enhancement ad? Poster girls for plastic surgery? As much as I wanted to pull the information out of my mind, I couldn’t quite manage it.

Manny walked to the table, his barely perceptible limp altering his gait just enough to make a girl curious about what had caused it. I was plenty curious, but I had no idea. War wound from his time on the police force was my guess. His gaze caught mine. “Dolores.”

He flicked his cleft chin toward the table and I threw up my hand in an all-encompassing greeting. “Hello.”

It was my afternoon to man the agency so the other detectives—Manny, Sadie, and Neil—could be in the field. We rotated, though with my junior detective status, the ink on my California private investigator’s license barely dry, I usually pulled bonus shifts for more pay. My docket wasn’t as full as any of the three senior associates, though after my recent successes in solving several local crimes I was hoping that would change. I’d worked my behind off. Time to reap the benefits.

The exotic gazelle girl whispered into Manny’s ear. His arms were crossed over his chest and his biceps bulged under his black T-shirt. There was something peculiar about the way he was acting. He was almost, er, pleasantly attentive. Very unlike him. He subscribed to the same school of communication Neil Lashby did: cut to the chase. Punto.

“Dolores,” he barked.

I jumped. Busted for staring. Damn, not a good P.I. move. “Yes?”

He crooked a finger. “Ven aquí.”

Apparently his pleasant attentiveness didn’t extend to me. His words hadn’t sounded like a friendly “come here.” I ran through all the things Manny could have a beef with me about. My outfit topped the list. October usually had decent weather, but Sacramento was in the midst of an Indian summer and the air was heavy with uncommon humidity. I’d caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass as I’d entered the agency: my salmon-colored blouse clung to me like plastic wrap. In the right situation—say in the privacy of Jack Callaghan’s bedroom—this could be a good thing. At work? Not so much.

But I held my chin high and walked over to Manny and the gazelle. “Yes?”

“Turn around.”

“¿Cómo?” My astonishment at the order pinballed through my mind and I slipped out of my dominant English and into my native Spanish.

“Por favor,” he added as an afterthought. Speaking Spanish and being detectives were probably the only two things Manny and I had in common. He was my mentor and damn good at his job. I worked hard to impress him and still stay true to myself—not always easy, since I was Dolores Cruz to him (and to mi familia), but Lola Cruz to my friends. In my mind, I was a combination, but I didn’t think anyone really knew both sides of me.

Except maybe Jack Callaghan. He’d gotten a few glimpses of both Dolores and Lola. And he seemed to like them both.

“It’s about our new case,” he said. “Turn around.”

I heard the faint zip of the surveillance camera and I knew my Neanderthal coworker wasn’t missing a single beat from the lair, his personal high-tech office, just waiting to see what I’d do. A solid but basic roundhouse kick, perhaps? Or maybe I’d go airborne kicking both legs, one at a time, with a double whammy. Not a bad idea. I weighed my options, in case it came to that. Which it just might.

In the end, I did neither. If it was for a case, I could only assume Manny had a reason for wanting to check out my backside. I just wasn’t convinced it was a good reason. My black capris were probably just as clingy as my blouse, but I couldn’t help that and I was not going to let sticky skin stop me from doing my job. Sucking in a bolstering breath and straightening my spine, I turned around in a slow circle, hands on hips. I turned to Manny and the gazelle again and waited. She was so familiar, but where did I know her from?

Her back was as straight as a two-by-four. She had one arm across her chest, the other bent at the elbow, her fingers tapping her puckered lips. “Good bones. Nice shape. Could be taller, but I guess she’ll do,” she finally said, dropping both arms to her sides.

What was I, a horse?

“Don’t you want to check my teeth?” I asked as Sadie snickered and the Stepford women at the table shifted positions and eyeballed me.

The gazelle didn’t crack a smile, and neither did Manny. Instead, he gestured with his hand. “Dolores Cruz, meet our new client, Victoria Wolfe.”

I grudgingly held out my hand. Victoria shook it with a firm but bony grip. “Pleasure,” she said just as a man materialized from inside Manny’s office.

“She’ll more than do,” he said.

Sadie’s snicker turned into a disbelieving gasp.

“Con permiso,” I said under my breath. “What, exactly, are you talking about?” But then realization hit me and I gasped. Him, I recognized. Lance Wolfe, owner of the Courtside Dancers, Sacramento’s answer to the Laker Girls. Now I knew where I recognized Victoria from! She and Lance, along with the Courtside Dancers, cheerleaders for the Sacramento Royals basketball team, had done a reality TV show: Living the Royal Life. Their high-profile effort to combat the drug, sex, and steroid scandals that had plagued the basketball team for a few years. They were local celebrities, probably recognized everywhere they went. I hadn’t been a fan, but my cousin Chely had never missed an episode.

Victoria’s face had hardened when the man stepped out of the shadows. Now she gave me another once-over. “Yes, she’ll more than do. You were right,” she said to Manny. “She’s curvy but athletic. Fit.”

That’s how Manny had described me? Oh no. The heat of embarrassment crept up my neck.

“She definitely has presence,” Victoria continued. “How about energy?”

“I can answer that,” Lance said. He sounded calm, and to look at him, you’d think he was Mr. Businessman, all buttoned-up in his periwinkle blue shirt with thin white stripes, his brown hair brushed to the right and neatly gelled into place. But I knew from local sports lore that he was a hothead on the court. He walked around me like he had his detective radar out and was gauging my effectiveness. “She’s got it in spades. If anyone can get to the bottom of this stupid mess, it’s this girl.”

Manny’s eyes bored into me. “I agree. She’s got it.”

¡Híjole! That was as close to a compliment as Manny ever came. I had it, whatever it was. But really, it didn’t matter as long as I had active cases to investigate.

I waved a hand in front of them. Despite the praise, they still had huevos, talking about me as if I were the lone artificial plant in Camacho’s lobby entrance. “Excuse me,” I said again. “What am I perfect for?” I asked, although knowing that Lance Wolfe was involved could only mean one thing.

“Do you dance?” Victoria was clearly used to being in charge, asking her own questions rather than answering someone else’s.

“If she doesn’t,” Lance said, “she can learn.”

“She can’t learn to dance in a day,” Victoria snapped. “No, she has to be able to dance or it won’t work.”

Her husband threw up his hands. “Fine,” he said, then turned to me. “Well?”

What he didn’t say was that I better not disappoint him.

I twined two of my fingers together. “Me and salsa dancing, we’re like this.” Throw some Juanes on the iPod and I’d dance circles around Victoria, the twig. “And I can do a mean merengue.”

Victoria clapped three times, muy rapido. “Jennifer. Selma.”

They rose in unison like perfect specimen robots.

Victoria directed, telling the women where to stand. “Do the beginning of the new routine,” she ordered. Jennifer, a tall, languid beauty, glided, while Selma, who was a bit shorter and seemed more eager to please, hurried into position. Once Jennifer was ready, Victoria clapped and counted. “And one, and two, and three, and four…”

The two women launched into a professional cheerleading routine, stepping wide with their legs, dipping their torsos, moving their arms in exact rhythm. ¡Ay, caramba! They were like sex puppets tied together with invisible string.

After a series of risque moves, they stopped abruptly, both ending with their right feet extended, toes arched and knees bent in a hip jazz dance stance.

Victoria rolled her hand at me. “Okay, your turn.”

¿Está loca? Where was the salsa music? Where were Ricky Martin and Menudo? ¡Ay, ay, ay!

Sadie inhaled sharply, then broke into a coughing spasm. Pobracita. She’d swallowed her laughter and now had thrown herself into a tizzy.

I knew exactly what she was feeling, but I glared at her for a beat before turning my stare to Victoria. “You want me to do that?”

Manny took a step forward. “Dolores,” he said, pronouncing my name with a perfect Spanish accent. Do-LOR-es. It echoed in my mind. I was smart. Educated. A licensed P.I. Did he understand what he was asking me to do?

From his steady gaze, it was clear that he did. I shook my insecurities away—after all, I’d solved two murder cases in the recent past; surely I could pull off a few dance moves—and mimicked the jazz pose Jennifer and Selma Stepford had ended with. So what if I had to pretend to be a dancing sexpot? It was for a good cause. I hoped.

Victoria was a client, and this was a case I was potentially going to be working. If—and it seemed like a pretty big if to me—I could pull this off.

I got in line with the two cheerleaders, watched carefully, and copied their every move, exaggerating my steps like they did, spinning around, and feeling utterly ridiculous and on display. Dance lessons had not been part of my childhood, and as a teenager, I’d taken up kung fu. While other girls my age had been spinning in pirouettes or planning for prom, I’d been stalking Jack Callaghan and learning the Eighteen Arms of Wushu, determined to master each and every one of the main weapons in Chinese martial arts.

I was still working through them.

The mini routine ended in the same extended-toe, bent-knee position, and I tried to recapture my breath while I held the pose. Damn. Wielding a chain whip and a battle-ax was easier.

Lance lowered his chin in approval and Victoria clapped her hands three times, good hard claps that seemed incapable of coming from her petite body. “Bravo. You did fine,” she said, but her lips pursed together. Except for her furtive glances at Manny, I got the impression she didn’t really want to be here.

“Thanks. Now, can you please tell me what this is about?” I filled a paper cup with water from the cooler, downed it, refilled it, and waited.

This time Lance spoke up. His voice boomed, taking on the tenor of a game show announcer. “How would you like to be a Courtside Dancer for the Sacramento Royals?”

I choked on the water I’d just sipped, coughing my way back to life as I peered at the women standing next to me, then at the camera in the corner. A thought ricocheted throughout my brain. Was it Neil watching from the lair? Was I secretly being taped for a reprise of Living the Royal Life? Or maybe I was being hazed. Maybe this wasn’t about a case at all.

Except Manny wasn’t fraternity material and practical jokes weren’t his style. No, this had to be real.

Despite being “perfect” and getting a “bravo” from Victoria on my routine, I suddenly felt frumpy and ten pounds overweight. The size eight—occasionally size ten—hips that were so fantastic this morning when I pulled on my pants now felt way too curvy.

I poked a finger in my ear, wiggling it around, glancing at Reilly. Was she as shocked by this dog and pony show as I was?

She was riveted, like she was watching a telenova in living color. I bet she’d loved Living the Royal Life. Sadie, on the other hand, studied her fingernails, although I could practically see the steam billowing from her ears. She was not so entranced by the celebrity in the room.

I sputtered. “I’m sorry, did you say a Courtside Dancer? So this is an undercover assignment?”

“That’s right,” Victoria said. “My husband has just hired this agency”—she paused and laid a delicate hand on Manny’s arm—“and you going undercover was your boss’s idea, actually. Which means you’ll have to train as one of our dancers. It’s every girl’s dream,” she added, as if that was supposed to mean it should be my dream, too, and I should suddenly feel like Cinderella.

I bit back telling her that my dream had always been to be a private investigator, brought home by the undercover surveillance I’d done of one Jack Callaghan and Greta Pritchard doing the mamba in his car when we’d been teenagers. I’d always wanted Jack to do that with me. It hadn’t happened yet, but when it did…ooh-la-la.

Cheerleading? Not even close to one of my dreams.

When I want something, I get it. When I need something, I get it. I’m a doer, not a cheerer of other doers.

“I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?” Since we hadn’t actually been introduced. The two women glided back to their chairs and I fought the vertigo that settled over me. I’d become Alice in Wonderland and this was the rabbit hole.

“Victoria Wolfe,” she purred. “Director of the Courtside Dancers.”

The man stepped forward, right hand extended. “And I’m Lance Wolfe. Victoria’s husband and”—he paused, then continued with emphasis—“co-owner of the Royals.”

The smile that had been lacing Manny’s lips vanished. Because he hadn’t known the woman he was flirting with was married—and that Lance was her husband? Certainly not. Manny was too smart not to have known that. Because Victoria had removed her hand from his arm? Or because Lance held on to mine, clasping it so that he had me in a hand lock?

Hard to say, but the fact was that Victoria and Lance were married and she’d been making a subtle move on Macho Camacho. ¡Ay, dios!, She was brazen, a puta, as my mother would say. Judging from his grip on my hands, Lance was a player, too.

They seemed perfect for each other. Manny needed to steer clear.

“This is Jennifer, and that’s Selma. They’re two of our dancers,” Lance continued, waving toward the women grinning engagingly at Manny.

I pulled my hand free as the women acknowledged me. Did they speak? Or formulate thoughts of their own?

I sank down onto a chair. The intake form in front of Sadie had her scratchy writing all over it but I couldn’t read it upside down. Sadie’s nostrils flared and her fingers curved into claws. She was about a second away from blowing a gasket.

“So why do you need someone undercover?” I asked.

Victoria sat at the head of the conference table—in Manny’s usual spot. The whir of the surveillance camera told me Neil had noticed that intrusion. Reilly’s quiet gasp told me she’d noticed, too. Sadie started and raised her lip like a tiger on the prowl, nostrils flaring, ready to pounce to protect her territory. Which, in this case, was Manny. I waited for her typical caustic remark, but it didn’t come. Another shock.

Manny stood back, arms crossed over his muscled chest, rocking back on his alligator skin cowboy boots, the lines of his jaw hard and set. He watched Victoria and Lance with sudden intensity, like he was trying to figure them out, but he let her remain in his chair. Híjole. This day was going to be off the Richter scale.

“One of our dancers suddenly left us. Just quit the squad without a word. No notice, no nothing,” Victoria began. “The ladies here”—she gestured toward the dancers—“have all received mysterious, somewhat threatening letters.” She pushed a small stack of envelopes toward me. “The girls think Rochelle leaving and the letters are related. They came to me—”

Lance cleared his throat again.

“—to us,” Victoria added. “We’ve tried to find out who’s behind them, but—”

“No luck,” Lance interrupted. “So I said we needed to hire someone to stop whoever’s messing with our girls. Their work is starting to suffer.”

“Okay,” I said, as if I understood what he meant, but all I could come up with was that the dancers’ feet were tangling during a grapevine or they were dropping their pompoms mid-cheer.

Victoria grimaced.

I was an expert at reading facial expressions. Twenty-nine years living with Magdalena Falcón Cruz had its perks. “You’d rather handle it yourself?” I asked her.

“Of course. The girls are a tight group. These letters have rattled them, understandably, but my job is to keep them focused on their job. An outsider poking around is going to mean disruption—”

“But we can’t afford to lose another girl,” Lance said.

So I knew why they hadn’t called the police. I had a bit of experience with the local police department in my previous cases. An image of Detective Seavers—not my biggest fan—and his comb-over popped into my head. Him lumbering around a bunch of nubile cheerleaders at a basketball game would be muy disruptive.

“The letters are anonymous,” Victoria continued. She brushed a hand over her taut hair before continuing. “Jennifer and Selma have each received one. No one seems to know who’s writing them or what they’re about.”

She shifted in her chair, stretching her long neck to gaze up at Manny. He met her eyes, tilting his head slightly. I watched in utter amazement as his expression seemed to soften almost imperceptibly. Victoria was striking, in a scary dancer kind of way, and I’d bet a year’s worth of lunches at Szechwan House, my all-time favorite restaurant (sacrilege if my family ever found that out, considering they owned Abuelita’s), that Manny was wishing she wasn’t married.

But as far as I knew, right now he was dating Tomb Raider Girl, aka Isabel. Surely he wouldn’t dump his model girlfriend for a married woman? Or maybe her marriage didn’t matter. I didn’t actually know what direction Manny’s moral compass pointed to on adultery.

I’d always thought he’d keep business and pleasure separate, but then again, I knew something had gone on between him and Sadie. I just didn’t know what.

I slouched in my chair, feeling like I was slipping farther down the rabbit hole, but then the attack from Sadie finally came, setting everything right again. “I’m the undercover expert,” she said, nearly spitting her words across the table. “If Dolores isn’t up for the assignment, I can certainly take it.”

The surveillance camera zipped, as if in laughter, and I knew Neil had caught the double entendre. He knew something had gone on between the boss and Sadie, too. He probably knew what, for that matter.

Victoria frowned. “The Courtside Dancers have a certain, er, image. No.” The force of her shaking head threatened to undo her bun. “You’re not right for the team.”

Sadie balked, but then she started to get up. “I can do the routine.”

“No.” My voice was firm. I might not want to be ogled by sports fans or dance in an arena, but there was no way Sadie was taking an assignment from me. “It’s my case.”

I doubted anyone else noticed, but she shot daggers at me, which I boldly dodged with imaginary shields. She could thank me later when she realized how I’d saved her from her own desperate humiliation.

Victoria’s lips curved up like the cat that swallowed the canary, only it felt like I was the canary. She motioned toward me but spoke to Manny. “She needs coaching.”

I cringed, indignant. Sure, I may waffle between size 8 and 10, but I was in prime physical shape. A black belt in kung fu. A yogi wannabe. A salsa fanatic.

“She’ll do whatever it takes,” Sadie said, her voice dripping with disdain.

So apparently she didn’t like my boundary lines. Which was ridiculous, since I didn’t even know what my boundaries were and I hadn’t done anything during my career, so far, that I regretted.

“What do the letters say?” I asked, getting back to the case. I reached inside my purse for my handy latex gloves, but Manny had his on before I’d even found mine. Super detective. He was my role model.

He snapped the latex at the wrists before picking up the first envelope. He carefully pulled out the paper inside, flipped it open, and examined it. It was thin and I could see it only contained two typed lines.

“They’re all the same?” Manny asked as he slid the letter over to me.

“Not identical, but all similar,” Victoria said.

With my gloves on, I picked up the letter and silently read: “I know what you’re doing. Stop while you still can.”

“Stop what?” I asked.

Silencio.

Sadie turned to the dancers. “None of you knows what it’s about? Not even an inkling of an idea?”

The women shook their heads in unison.

“No idea,” Jennifer finally said.

Ha! So one of them could speak!

If I were going undercover, I might as well take the lead in the investigation right now. Show Sadie what I was made of. I’d spent the last couple of years proving myself worthy of being a lead detective. Now I felt like puffing out my chest, preening. I was beginning to really walk the walk.

“When did the letters start?” I asked Jennifer and Selma.

Selma threw back her slim shoulders, but her voice was soft and tentative. “I got the first one about two weeks ago, but Jennifer got one before that—”

“They started about three weeks ago,” Victoria interrupted. “Rochelle was the first.” She darted a glance at her dancers. “She was seeing one of the players.”

Muy interesante. “And you think it’s related?”

Selma pulled at the neckline of her tank top, shifting in her chair. “The letters keep coming, so it can’t be about Rochelle and Michael.”

Lance shook his head, disgusted. “Everyone knows about them?” he said to Victoria with a hiss.

Más silencio.

Jennifer and Selma shot a quick glance at each other before dropping their gazes.

Victoria leveled her steely eyes at her husband. “Yes, Lance, everyone knows. Even Michael’s wife. There are no secrets with the team.”

I reached across the table, laid a flattened hand on the file folder Sadie had been guarding, and drew it toward me. “You’re Jennifer—?”

“Wallace,” the tall blonde said. “I’m the team captain.”

I wrote this down on a blank sheet of paper inside the folder.

Victoria cleared her throat, taking over. “The letters have been arriving at every home game, like I said. Jen’s received three. Selma one. Carrie, another dancer, received two letters. Some of the rest of the girls have gotten one.”

I jotted this down, shifting my attention from Victoria to Lance to Jennifer to Selma. “So you want us to find out who’s writing the notes—”

“That’s why we’re here,” Lance said, coming to stand behind Victoria.

“—and what happened to Rochelle?” I finished.

“Rochelle is gone. I don’t want her back.” Victoria shook her head, and I could almost picture her stomping her foot with finality. “You don’t shirk your responsibilities. You don’t quit a team that depends on you. You don’t break the rules. No, Rochelle is out.”

“It’s not like she’s the only one,” Selma muttered under her breath. I made a mental note to ask her about that at some point.

“Just find out who’s sending the letters and why,” Lance said. “And stop them. That’s it.”

I knew my mission, but my nerves were on high alert in the pit of my stomach. Every eye was on me. This was my first undercover case. I couldn’t blow it. I quickly opened the other plain white envelopes and found Victoria had been correct. They were all basically the same. Typed and printed on ordinary printer paper. There was no blackmail attempt in any of them.

So if blackmail wasn’t the letter writer’s motive, what was? The most obvious conclusion I could draw was that it was some unbalanced person who wasn’t targeting anyone in particular. Unless Rochelle and her affair had been the main target and the rest of the letters were just a distraction. But then why hadn’t they stopped since Rochelle was gone?

“Have the letters been read by all of you?” Manny asked Jennifer and Selma, snapping off his gloves.

“Passed around,” Jennifer said. “They’ve had us pretty freaked.”

His lips drew into a thin line. A thousand fingerprints had already contaminated the evidence. There’d be no discovery there, even if we did alert the police. Which, considering no crime had been committed—that we knew of—seemed premature, and against our client’s wishes.

“Next time one of you gets a letter,” Manny said, “try not to touch it. Getting decent prints could help.”

They nodded in perfect Stepford unison. No more muttering under their breath. No more thinking the letters didn’t mean anything. Maybe they didn’t, but until we proved that, it was better to assume that they did.

“When do I start?” I asked, getting back to business. Going undercover was expected as a detective. And I was down with it. So far I hadn’t come across anything I wasn’t willing to do, even being a Courtside Dancer. Beautiful people didn’t scare me and I had a job to do. So what if, at five-foot-six and three-quarters, I was a couple of inches shorter than the women here before me? So what if, as a dark-haired Latina (with a nice shock of highlighted hair framing her face), I stuck out like a thorny cactus in a field of wildflowers?

So what?

Híjole. Nerves rattled my gut. I sure hoped I’d be able to pull it off.

A thread of silent communication passed between Victoria and Lance. After however many years of marriage, I guess you could read your partner’s mind. Jack and I had been seeing each other for a few months now—give or take twelve years or so. But the time in high school—and all the years he’d spent in San Luis Obispo with Sarah, his ex—meant we didn’t have that kind of connection. I envied them.

Victoria broke her gaze away from Lance and sighed, deep and put-upon. “You’ll come to practice this afternoon.” She glanced at her watch. “One-thirty. We have a game Friday night. I’ll work with you until you’re ready, if it takes a twenty-four-seven schedule.”

I pressed my hands flat on the table and clamped my teeth down on the inside of my cheek. “This Friday?” I choked out. ¡Ay, caramba! There was no way I could be ready to perform in front of a huge crowd in a few days’ time. Which meant that my public humiliation on Friday would be seen far and wide. Damn. Maybe I should have considered letting Sadie take the case, after all. Sexy and curvy were overrated. I mean, I had to work double hard to be taken seriously in a male-heavy profession. After Friday, would Manny or Neil be able to look at me the same, or would they always see a cheerleader?

I wasn’t sure I actually wanted to know the answer to that.

Victoria seemed to zero in on my doubt. She threw up her hands and turned back to Lance. “See? She can’t do it.”

Manny stiffened. “Yes, she can,” he said as I forced a smile and replied, “I’ll be there.”

I could do this. I’d imagine I was salsa dancing. Only without Jack Callaghan as my partner, and without salsa music. And on the sidelines of a basketball court with zillions of people watching. But otherwise, it would be practically the same thing.

“I’ll make sure you’re ready. I’m never wrong about people.”

“Mrs. Wolfe.” I stood to face her as she rose. “There is one problem. If I’m going undercover, none of the other dancers can know who I am or why I’m there. How are you going to explain a new person on the team? I didn’t go through tryouts. The season’s well under way.” Not to mention the fact that I’d grown up in Sacramento, often worked at my family’s muy popular Mexican restaurant, and had been on the news recently thanks to a stolen-identity case where I was the victim. I wasn’t a local celebrity, but I was familiar to some people.

She waved her hand. “Not to worry. Rochelle’s gone, remember? You’ll take her spot.”

Victoria made it sound so simple, but somehow I doubted the dancers would buy it. I sidled up to Jennifer and Selma as they gathered their purses and bags, making my first attempt at camaraderie. No dice. They didn’t flash a single pearly white.

Victoria turned to Manny. “You’ll be in touch, I assume?”

“Por supuesto,” he muttered, his lips curving up.

Sadie and I both stared at him. I checked my watch to be sure it was still ticking, then I pinched myself. And grimaced from the pain. Nope, this was not a dream.

I was pretty sure Victoria didn’t know he’d said of course, but she’d gotten something from his tone. She batted her eyes, just once, then glided away after her husband and the dancers.

Manny walked them to the door, the surveillance camera zipping along as it recorded their departure. A moment later, Manny sauntered into his office, the almost nonexistent grin still lingering. He closed the door behind him without another glance at me or Sadie.

“Son locos,” I muttered as Sadie shoved back her chair and marched out. I waved at the boxy camera in the corner. “Did you get all that? Enjoy the entertainment?”

As if in response, the camera zipped up and down. Yep, in his lair, Neil was laughing his ass off.
 
 

 
 

Navigating unlikely alliances with her new coworker, two very different boys, and possibly even her parents, Amy struggles to decide if it’s worth being a best friend when it makes you a public enemy. Bringing readers along on an often hilarious and heartwarming journey, Amy finds that maybe getting a life only happens once you think your life is over.
 

Information:

Title: Pretty Amy
Author: Lisa Burstein
Genre: Young Adult – Contemporary
Length: 352 pages
Release Date: May 2012
ePub ISBN: 978-1-62061-120-3
Print ISBN: 978-1-62061-119-7
 


 
 

Excerpt:

© 2012 Lisa Burstein
 

One

Unfortunately, I am only myself. I am only Amy Fleishman.

I am one of the legions of middle-class white girls who search malls for jeans that make them look thinner, who search drugstores for makeup to wear as a second skin, who are as sexy and exotic as blueberry muffins.

I am a walking, talking True Life episode. Your high-school guidance counselor’s wet dream, and one of the only girls I know to get arrested on prom night.

When my mother dropped me off at Lila’s, rather than running like hell the way I usually did, I sat next to her in our minivan and waited for a speech. The speech mothers give to their only daughters on nights when those daughters are all dressed up and the mothers look all wistful and teary.

I assumed she was building up to it, was working through exactly what she was going to say so it would be perfect. I knew from TV that she must have practiced in the mirror, but maybe, faced with having to say all those things to me, she’d frozen up. I could understand that.

When I saw Lila peek out to see who was sitting in her driveway, and then felt my phone vibrate with a text that I knew must say, WTF R U DOIN?, I figured I had waited long enough.

“So this is it…,” I said. My mother stared at Lila’s small, birdshit-gray house and bit at what was left of her nails. After I’d started hanging out with Lila and Cassie, my mother gnawed at her nails the way a baby sucked her thumb. “…my senior prom,” I continued.

Maybe she was overwhelmed. Her little girl was all grown up. Her ugly duckling had finally become a swan.

“I don’t want to ruin this for you, so I’m choosing to hold my tongue.”

My mother loved using old-time folksy sayings. Hold your horses. The early bird catches the worm. The penis with two holes puts out the fire faster.

All right, fine, I made up that last one.

She had been holding her tongue for a while now. When yelling at me about my “degenerate” friends hadn’t helped, she went for the semisilent treatment.

Stupid me for trying to get her to talk.

“There’s something very wrong with this, Amy,” she said.

She meant that Lila’s boyfriend, Brian, had arranged a date for me. My mother had never met this boy. I had never met this boy. It may have seemed wrong to her, but I was used to Lila bringing the boys. And, it was still my senior prom. It was still my night, and she couldn’t even have a special, sappy moment with me.

“I want to tell you to have a good time, to enjoy every moment, to be safe, but I know you won’t listen anyway. I know you’ll do what you want to do.”

She was talking to herself again.

My mother’s favorite hobbies were talking to herself and bitching. Though I suppose those were hobbies for most mothers, my mother honed them like skills. If bitching were karate, my mother would be a black belt.

I looked down at my dress. It was strapless and light blue to bring out my eyes, which weren’t blue, but raccoon gray, and picked up whatever color I put next to them. The bodice was tight and shiny, like what a superhero might wear, and the skirt flared out and fell just below my knees. When my mother had seen it hanging on the bathroom door earlier tonight, she’d said it looked trampy, which made me even happier that she hadn’t been there when I picked it out.

She also hadn’t been there when I got my shoes and clutch purse dyed to match. Sure, she had given me money, but she hadn’t been there. Not like I would have asked her to be there, but she hadn’t offered, either.

“Thanks for the memories,” I said, opening the door.

Her only job tonight was to tell me I was beautiful, that I was her beautiful baby girl all grown up, but she couldn’t even do that.

“I can’t help the way I feel,” she said, like some self-help-book junkie. Well, not like one—she was one. For Chanukah last year she had gotten me an itchy sweater and Chicken Soup for the Daughter’s Soul. The inscription had read, FYI.

Seriously.

…

I found Lila sitting at her vanity, playing with her hair. She was wearing a lilac dress and smelled of lilac perfume, like some flower-variety Strawberry Shortcake doll. Her vanity was really just an extra chair from the kitchen and a small desk with a mirror propped up on it, but nonetheless the effect was the same.

Lila saw me walk in but stayed seated. This was what she did; she liked to force you to watch her for a moment, to drink her in. And since I knew this, I hung in the doorway and waited while she put on mascara.

As lame is it sounds, Lila was the kind of person who danced through life on her tiptoes, a ballerina with woodland animals holding up the train of her dress. And, as much as I hated to admit it, I was one of those woodland animals.

“What were you doing out there?” she asked without turning around. This was another game she liked to play—she was busy and you were interrupting her.

“The usual. Ruining my life and ruining my mother’s in the process.”

She swept a blush brush over her cheeks. She hadn’t dipped it in anything, so I wasn’t sure if this was also part of her act or if it was some beauty secret I was unaware of.

“What do you think?” she asked, standing with her hands on the skirt of her dress, then twirling around slowly so I could see her from every possible angle.

“You look great.”

Lila asked how she looked, in one way or another, at least every twenty minutes. Sometimes I was supposed to say You look great. Sometimes I was supposed to say You don’t look fat, or I love your jeans, your hair, your shirt, you smell soooo good.

It was okay. I knew it was my payment for hanging out with her.

Besides, I can’t really say anything about needing constant reassurance. Just because I don’t get it from Lila doesn’t mean I don’t need it. I’d taught my parrot, AJ, to say Pretty Amy, among other things. And when I’d asked him how I looked that night, he’d obliged as usual.

“You really mean it?” Lila asked.

“I love your dress,” I said, just like I was supposed to. I guess when it came to Lila I was just like AJ, repeating meaningless phrases.

“You need more eye shadow.” She pushed me down into her seat. Once she got going it was hard to stop her, and before I knew it, she had redone my whole face.

Rather than the soft, natural effect I’d had when I arrived, after Lila was done I looked like I was ready to go up onstage. Not the way people onstage look when they’re actually onstage, but the way they look when you see them close up before or afterward.

“Much better,” she said, stepping back to appraise her work. I knew how I wanted to respond, but instead, I responded how I usually did when it came to something I didn’t agree with. I said nothing.

I wondered if she had done this on purpose, like some bride/bridesmaid thing. Lila did act like a bride at a wedding that never ended. She always had to be the most beautiful, the most interesting, and in this case, the least likely to be mistaken for a blind prostitute.

Cassie threw open the bedroom door and entered the room looking like the photo on a slutty Halloween Devil costume, all fire-engine red and skin and cleavage.

“Wow,” we both said. Well, really I said it, but I could see Lila’s mouth open to make a word and stop in a perfect O. I’d never seen Cassie in anything other than an oversize flannel shirt and cargo pants. She usually dressed like a lumberjack—it might have been part of the reason Lila put up with her.

That night, it was obvious that Cassie was far too attractive to be as crabby as she was. Maybe that was why she always tried so hard to hide it.

She lit a cigarette. “I know, I know,” she said, exhaling, “I look like the lead singer of a Vegas lounge act. My brother already told me.”

“Not at all,” Lila said, looking to me like a combination of shocked and jealous.

I nodded in agreement. I was shocked and jealous. At Brian’s house later, two boys would have two girls to choose from. The way Cassie looked that night, she would be chosen first. I would be the one who was left, as usual, but that is the arithmetic that equals love in high school.

“Turn around,” Lila said, walking toward her and reaching for her dress.

“Fuck off,” Cassie said, pushing her away. “You can see my ass on the way out.”

Cassie pointed at me with the tip of her cigarette. “What the hell did you do to her face?”

“How do you know I did it?” Lila asked.

“Because Amy thinks light blue is daring.”

I hated to hear it, even though she was right.

“Don’t listen to her,” Lila said, holding my face between her hands and squeezing like a proud grandmother. “She wouldn’t know beauty if it crawled up her butt and pitched a tent.”

“Well, I know what it looks like when something crawls out,” Cassie said.

“Maybe it’s a little too much,” I said, looking over at Lila with eyes that begged for tissues, water, turpentine.

“It is too much,” Cassie said.

Lila stood there with her hands on her hips, her nails painted shiny silver, waiting for me to disagree. With Cassie on my side, there was no way.

“Fine,” Lila said, throwing me a box of those blessed tissues.

“At least now when we show up at Brian’s, he won’t try to be her pimp,” Cassie said, putting out her cigarette and walking downstairs.

…

Cassie started her rusted gold Civic, took off her red heels, and threw them over her shoulder. One of them barely missed my face.

“Hey, be careful.” I was sitting in the back, as usual. I picked up the shoes from where they had landed and placed them next to each other on the seat, so it looked like there had been someone standing there who had suddenly vanished.

“What do you want from me? I can’t drive in those things,” she said, lighting another cigarette.

Cassie, Lila, and I smoked a lot. We were proficient at leaning against things—walls and cars and fences—and we liked to lean against them and smoke. Like we’d seen James Dean doing in posters for movies we didn’t know the names of. When we couldn’t lean against things and smoke, we just smoked.

Lila lit her own cigarette and threw one to me in the back. “You can’t drive, period,” she said to Cassie, pulling the rearview mirror toward her so she could put on more lipstick.

Cassie glared at her and moved the mirror back.

“I’ll tell you if there’s anything coming up behind you,” Lila said.

“If I believed you could actually take your eyes off yourself for two seconds, I’d feel a little safer.”

“Then Amy can do it,” Lila said.

I just smiled. There was no way I was going to ride turned around with my knees on the seat, clutching the back window like some panting dog. Well, at least not while I was wearing a dress.

“Isn’t this great?” Lila said, watching her reflection in the window. “The three of us together for the most memorable night of our lives.” It was as if she wanted to see herself saying it, and then compare it with the way other girls had said it on nights like this.

I knew exactly what she meant, though. There was some kind of magic that resulted from being dressed up and young and headed for a night you were supposed to remember forever. I was about to try to put that incredible feeling into words when Cassie said, “This song sucks. Shut the fuck up and put in a new CD.”

Not quite what I would have said, but this was Cassie we were talking about.

“There’s no way I’m getting my hands dirty searching around the floor for your CD case. Why don’t you have an iPod like the rest of the world?” Lila asked.

“Why don’t you have a car?” Cassie retorted.

“Amy,” Lila demanded. And, since I knew I wouldn’t be able to get away with saying no twice, I rooted around on the floor, using only the very tips of my finger and thumb to pick up what I found. I didn’t find a CD case. I found a lot of sticky change, a glass pipe, and about twenty empty packs of cigarettes.

Cassie turned around. “It’s not there. My fucking brother.” That was the way Cassie referred to the members of her family. They were all her fucking something. Actually, that’s the way Cassie referred to everybody.

“Who cares?” Lila said, rolling down her window. She was not about to let Cassie ruin any part of this night for her.

The car screeched as we turned off Lila’s street, Macadamia Drive, a name that made it seem exotic somehow, but really it was just one of the streets named after nuts on the other side of Main.

Lila pulled her cigarette out of her mouth and checked to make sure there was a ring of lipstick around the filter. Things like that made her happy.

“Don’t worry,” Cassie said, “they can see your lips from space.”

…

We sat in Brian’s driveway arguing. Well, Lila and Cassie were arguing about whether we should walk to the door together or Lila should go on her own.

“I’m not sitting in the car like someone’s mother,” Cassie said, turning to me and gesturing for her shoes.

“But they don’t know you yet,” Lila said. “It’s probably better if I go alone and bring them out.”

“I don’t care either way,” I said, but the truth was, I kind of liked the idea of waiting in the car. There was no point in giving my date the opportunity to back out by letting him have a look at me first.

“Good, then let’s go.” Cassie slammed the door behind her and clomped up the walk.

She rang the doorbell and we waited. Waited for Brian to swing open the door and smile at us like a game-show host, telling us we looked stunning and introducing Cassie and me to our bachelors for the evening.

But the door stayed closed.

“I’ll do it,” Lila said, pushing her way through, her reasoning for Brian’s absence apparently the fact that Cassie didn’t know how to ring a doorbell. “They’re probably in the basement doing bong hits.” She rang the bell over and over so it made the impatient sound of a car alarm.

“Where are they?” Cassie asked.

“They have to be here,” Lila said, as much to herself as to us.

“Maybe we’re on Punk’d or something,” I said.

“That show is only for famous people, stupid,” Cassie said.

“Well, maybe we’re on a new show that we don’t know about yet,” I tried.

Cassie smirked. “Did you tell them the right night?”

Brian did attend a rival high school. It was possible he had been misinformed of the date of our prom. Even though I knew it was a crock, I attempted to hold onto this like a drowning person grabbing for an outstretched hand, because I was drowning.

I was.

Lila ignored Cassie and stuck her face to the sidelight window. She banged on the door like she was locked on the inside of it.

“There’s obviously no one home,” Cassie said, in a tone that suggested she was talking as much about Lila’s behavior as she was about Brian’s empty house.

I couldn’t breathe. I felt like I had been punched in the throat. This was supposed to be the night where my date would realize that he couldn’t live without me, that he would love me forever. But that date didn’t exist.

“I’m going to look around back,” Lila said, walking away in what appeared to be an attempt to shut Cassie up; this rarely worked.

“She’s so fucking clueless,” Cassie said, plopping down on the grass. She pulled out a handful of blades and burned them with her lighter. “Maybe he’ll come home if I burn his house down.”

I nodded. Not that I wanted her to burn his house down, but a small grass fire might attract some attention.

“This is so typical,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “I didn’t even want to go. Fucking Lila.”

“We don’t know they’re not coming,” I said. I wasn’t ready to let myself believe that this was going to be my memory of prom night for the rest of my life.

“Well, maybe we don’t,” she said, taking a long drag, “but I do.”

I stared at my nails. I had painted them in the same light blue as my dress. I thought about how the nail polish was still sitting on my nightstand, how when I got home I would scrub my nails raw and throw it away.

We looked up, startled by a crash that came from the back of the house.

Cassie shook her head. “You should never climb a trellis in heels.”

“You think Lila’s breaking in?”

She grabbed another handful of grass and lit it up. “You know what would be classic?” she asked, smiling like she was trying to keep a bird from flying out from behind her teeth. “She finds him in there with some other girl.” She watched me for a moment, gauging my reaction. “Don’t tell me that wouldn’t make you happy.”

It would have, so I didn’t.

Lila came around the side of the house. “No one’s there,” she said, as if that were news. “I did find this, though.” She threw a gallon Ziploc bag of pot on the ground in front of us.

“Holy shit,” Cassie said. “This is better than a stupid dance any day.” She held it up.

I knew Brian was a dealer, but I guess I didn’t know what that really meant. This was what that really meant.

“I’ve been stood up for my prom, in case you haven’t noticed,” Lila said.

“You’re the one who took it,” Cassie said, opening the bag and smelling it.

“Not for us; to piss off Brian. How can this be happening to me?”

“It’s happening to all of us.” I wasn’t about to let Lila take all the pain for herself, even though this was probably the first time she had ever experienced what I had felt so many times before—the pinprick pop and subsequent deflation of rejection.

“But he was my boyfriend,” Lila said.

I had to give her that. At least I hadn’t had sex with the boy who was dumping me. Though it did concern me that my date was rejecting me even with the knowledge that I might have.

“What are we supposed to do now?” Lila asked in a voice that seemed like someone yelling to the heavens after hitting her last straw.

“I have an idea,” Cassie said, shaking the bag.

I didn’t care what we did as long as it didn’t involve going home to my mother.

“How pathetic. My best prospects for dates are you two,” Lila said, a tear running down the side of her face, shiny and fat like a worm. “I can’t believe Brian would do this to me.” Lila looked like a wilted flower in the center of the lawn.

“Shut the fuck up about Brian; it’s over,” Cassie said. “Let’s go party.”

“I’m too upset,” Lila said, not moving.

I shrugged. Cassie could try, but I doubted we were going anywhere without Lila.

Cassie harrumphed and walked over to the front stoop. She pulled her dress up and her underpants down.

“What the hell are you doing?” Lila asked.

“Leaving him a present,” Cassie said as she peed all over the evening edition of the Collinsville News. “Now we can go have some fun.”

Until her cousin slaughtered the supernal family, Anazakia’s father ruled the Heavens, governing noble Host and Fallen peasants alike. Now Anazakia is the last grand duchess of the House of Arkhangel’sk, and all she wants is to stay alive.

Hunted by Seraph assassins, Anazakia flees Heaven with two Fallen thieves—fire demon Vasily and air demon Belphagor, each with their own nefarious agenda—who hide her in the world of Man. The line between vice and virtue soon blurs, and when Belphagor is imprisoned, the unexpected passion of Vasily warms her through the Russian winter.

Heaven seems a distant dream, but when Anazakia learns the truth behind the celestial coup, she will have to return to fight for the throne—even if it means saving the man who murdered everyone she loved.

Information:

Title: The Fallen Queen (The House of Arkhangel’sk, #1)
Author: Jane Kindred
Genre: Fantasy with Romantic Elements
Length: 400 pages
Launch Date: May 2012
ePub ISBN: 978-1-937044-93-0
Print ISBN: 978-1-937044-90-9
 

 
 
 
 
Books 2 and 3 coming early 2012!
 

Praise for The Fallen Queen:

“Kindred’s tale is a romantic, mature, and lyrical collage of heaven, hell, and a magical royal legend. The combination is divinely–and demonically–inspired.”
~ Alethea Kontis, New York Times bestselling author of ENCHANTED

“Angels, demons, sex. Heaven, hell, war. Blood and royalty, history and magic, fire and ice. And a story you cannot put down. This is fantasy at its best.”
~ Stephen Graham Jones, author of IT CAME FROM DEL RIO

“Jane Kindred’s The House of Arkhangel’sk dazzles with its surreal blending of worlds. Lost angel Anazakia, last survivor of her murdered family, finds herself in the hands of demons with suspect motives, betrayed by her own kind, stranded in the world of Man—21st century St. Petersburg, Russia, to be exact. Weaving startling visuals with compelling characters, Kindred reveals parallels in the two worlds that are ‘neither haphazard chance nor calculated design.’ It’s a dizzying, vibrant read.”
~ Lynn Flewelling, author of The Bone Doll’s Twin and the ‘Nightrunner’ series

Excerpt:

© 2011 Jane Kindred

Pervoe: A Discordant Note in the Music of the Spheres
from the memoirs of the Grand Duchess Anazakia Helisonovna of the House of Arkhangel’sk

As any demon will tell you over a bottle of vodka or a game of preferans, Heaven is not the paradise you have been told. Depending upon the demon who holds your ear, he may also tell you Heaven’s last ruler was a tyrant who cared nothing for the lives of the common angel. Never believe it. He was the kindest soul ever born to the supernal House of Arkhangel’sk; Heaven would be blessed to have him now. But put no faith in me, for I am his daughter. I was born within Elysium’s pearly gates and have been cast out.

I do not like to think my impetuosity brought down the throne of Heaven, but on the darkest days, it is what I believe. When Elysium fell to a quiet coup, I was at a wingcasting table in Raqia instead of by my family’s side.

It is a favorite game in Raqia’s dens of iniquity. A fast-moving combination of cards and dice, wingcasting requires single-minded concentration and a certain narcissistic audacity. Challengers who hope to unseat the reigning prince of the game progress from one table to the next until they are opposite the champion.

I only reached this coveted spot on one occasion.

Raqia’s reigning prince that night was a dark-haired demon with eyes as sharp as the waxed points of his hair. He played his hand as cool as you please and barely seemed to notice me, but he put nearly every card I discarded into play with his own and soon had me hemorrhaging both cards and crystal.

Smoke burned my eyes while the demon nursed his cigar in a deliberate distraction. When he took it between his fingers, I could not help following with my eyes. Beneath the tattered lace of his cuffs, black crosses and diamonds, interlaced with characters of an unfamiliar alphabet, braced his fingers between the knuckles like rings made of ink.

He followed my gaze. “Prison,” he said around his cigar, the first word he’d spoken not directly related to the game.

He was trying to unnerve me; there were no prisons in Heaven. There was no need for any among the Host.

Raqia, for the most part policed itself, preferring to game the crystal from wayward angelic youth rather than take it by force and risk the flaming hand of seraphic justice. If he had really been in prison, he was one of the true Fallen who had spent time in the world of Man—though all demons were Fallen, by the Host’s reckoning. Their indiscriminate breeding muddied the cardinal elements by mixing the pure water dominant in the blood of the Fourth Choir with the earth of the Third, the fire of the Second, and the air of the First. Such blending resulted in their sullied complexions and varied hue of hair and eye.

A glance around the poorly lit den revealed half a dozen natural shades of brown and a dozen more who colored their hair and eyes with deliberately wild hues in defiance of celestial purity.

Most who fell to the world of Man bore signs of aging not present in the Host; something in the air of the terrestrial plane made Men’s lives short. A fine layer of stubble that could only have been carefully cultivated and trimmed hid any weathering of my opponent’s skin, but studying his face, I saw the telltale signs: little lines around his deep-set ebony eyes that said he’d fallen more than once.

I tightened the drawstring on the purse of crystal at my wrist, careful to keep the luminous celestine of my supernal ring turned toward my palm and cupped between my fingers while I played my hand.

The demon raised a dark eyebrow, pierced with a thin bar of metal that accentuated his coarse nature. I had put down a card in my distraction without waiting for him to call the die. I blushed and snatched it up again, furious with myself for making such a stupid blunder. His immodest grin said he thought his ploy had worked, but it took more than a small-time terrestrial thief to unnerve me. No novice to the dens or to demon magic, I never came to Raqia without a protective charm tucked into my bodice.

In truth, I had been distracted since climbing down the trellis to sneak out in the middle of a tedious banquet. My younger brother Azel was sick in bed, and my cousin Kae was acting strangely toward his wife, my sister Omeliea—and both circumstances were in some measure my fault.

§

Though I did not know it yet, the die had been cast against the House of Arkhangel’sk by my unbridled impulse on the day I turned seventeen. On a hunting holiday in the mountains of Aravoth, my father had presented me with a blue roan mare. I was eager to take her out, but the first snowfall had ushered in the season and my sisters were keen to head inside the lodge and curl up by the fire.

I sulked while the groom took my horse to the stable. Not even a gift of a gorgeous red velvet riding cap lined with silver fox could coax me out of my bad humor.

When my sister Omeliea admonished me for being moody, I tossed the cap back at her and announced I was taking my horse out by myself. Mama would never have tolerated such willful behavior, but she had stayed behind with Azel, and Papa was so softhearted, it pained him to discipline his daughters.

When I led the mare out of the stable, Cousin Kae was waiting for me.

“Tell her to stop being such a child!” my sister called, wrapped in a fleece on the steps of the lodge. “It’s freezing out here!”

Kae caught the reins and drew the mare to him. “Stop being such a child.” He winked, stroking the horse’s muzzle. “You can’t go alone.”

I pulled the tether from his hands and swung into the saddle. “Then I suppose someone will have to mount up.”

I trotted the blue roan out to the road and into the wooded heights, on a path muted with preternatural quiet. It seemed nothing but my horse and I existed. Here in the North, we were without the oppressive, constant presence of the Seraphim Guard, which Papa could not abide outside the city. In Heaven’s hinterlands, he said, there was no need for their protection.

After a minute or two, I heard the light clip of Kae’s horse behind me.

“Is Ola angry with me?”

Kae drew up beside me. “Not as angry as she is with me for letting you go.” He shrugged beneath his cloak. “It will pass. Sometimes I think it’s her job as a wife to be angry. She’s very efficient at it.”

I laughed at his feigned look of persecution. “Such trials you must endure for the crown.”

“Yes,” said Kae with a mock sigh. “I shall endure anything to attain the crown. Even bed that shrew of a grand duchess of mine.”

I nearly slipped from my saddle for laughing. Kae adored Omeliea and she, him. They were newly wed, and though betrothed at the cradle, he had courted her since childhood as though it were not prearranged. I could not imagine two people more perfectly matched.

Kae stopped his mount in its tracks. “Did you see that?” His grey eyes fixed on a distant point where the trees met over the road. A peculiar fragrance hung on the air, like the freshly peeled bark of an Aravothan cedar, but I saw nothing. I shook my head, and Kae started forward once more.

The bright snow began to dull, shadowed beneath the silver canopy of gathering clouds. Perhaps my sisters had been right. The cold was already making my hands ache within my gloves. I considered turning back, but the thought of Ola’s smugness made me stay my course. I knew my way blindfolded along the snow-covered path; I’d ridden it a hundred times. Of course, my horse had not.

As a dusting of new snow began to fall, Kae leaned over his mount and pointed. “There! Do you not see it?” He spurred his horse forward without waiting for an answer.

I followed, urging my mare to keep pace with him, but we were falling behind on the softening road. Heavy flakes melted in my hair, and my cheeks burned with cold. I began to regret throwing the cap at Ola.

The road went higher here, and the clouds were lowering, and soon I had to slow my horse to a walk, surrounded on all sides by grey, hanging damp. I called out for Kae, but I might have been shouting into a wet blanket for all my voice seemed to carry.

After a few more yards, the trees grew close, and I was no longer certain we were on the path. Everything looked different coated in new snow, like some fairy world I’d stumbled into. Maybe I’d veered off in the mist? I bit my lip and glanced over my shoulder, but the fog was so thick I couldn’t be sure of the distance.

I opened my mouth to call again, when the sound of approaching hooves broke through the veil of clouds. A moment later, Kae’s horse appeared without its rider. I leapt from my mare and ran in the direction the horse had come, heedless of the precipices that might be hidden from view.

“Cousin!” I stumbled over a protruding root and fell headlong in the snow. For a moment, the world was silent except for the dripping branches over my head. Then the clouds thinned and Kae stood before me in an open glade, stiller than the mountain around us. His eyes were unfocused.

“The most beautiful steed,” he whispered. “I nearly caught her.”

“A runaway?” I got to my feet with no help from him, brushing snow and pine needles from my riding skirt. “All the way up here?”

His eyes cleared. “Not a runaway. She’s wild.” He seemed angry with me, as though I’d intruded. Brushing past me to rein in his mount, he swung himself up into the saddle with a swift and brutal motion. The horse, too, was intruding it seemed, unworthy next to the imaginary steed.

Kae rode off toward our hunting house without another word.

§

I sighed and tossed the die against the wingcasting table. It seemed a trivial thing, that moment in the heights, that trick of the light that must have made my cousin imagine the wild steed, but his temperament began to change when we returned from the north.

My distracted state cost me another round, and the demon grinned and scooped up his winnings. “Had enough?” He knocked the smoldering ash from his cigar against the side of the table and pocketed my crystal.

“Not by half.”

At the table beside us, the violet glow of eyes dyed with amethyst oil glinted through the smoke from the player next in line to play the winner. I glared back through the ruby red with which I’d dyed my own. I had a right to play so long as I had crystal to bet, and if I had to play all night to beat this demon at a single round, I would.

If only I had known what it would cost me.

When I think back to that night and the single-mindedness with which I persisted at a game I could not possibly win, I want to shout at my former self, Forget this foolishness! Go home! Go home before it is too late! The irony is that it was guilt that kept me there, while I have been burdened with so much more by staying.

§

Ola suspected Kae of unfaithfulness. Upon our return to the city of Elysium, they moved into the Camaeline Palace, built for her wedding present, and we did not see Ola again until she came to us a few weeks later with her suspicions.

“He is not himself.” She stood staring at the fire in the drawing room. “I have hardly seen him since the holiday.” Ola gave me a strange look. “He hasn’t been himself since the two of you came back from that ride.” She seemed ashamed of what she was thinking and burst into tears.

“Ola, dearest.” I went to her where she sank onto the divan before the fire. Tatia came to her side while Maia hurried to the other, and I knelt before her, resting my head in her lap. We enveloped her in sisterly commiseration, four sets of honey curls draped together while Ola wept. There were no closer sisters than we four were then.

“I’m sorry, Nazkia,” Ola whispered after a moment. Tatia held her and Maia stroked her arm. “I must be losing my mind. I know you would never… ”

“Hush, Ola,” I said gently.

“Kae would never betray you,” Maia assured her.

“He’s mad for you.” Tatia dabbed at Ola’s eyes with her kerchief. “Another matter is preoccupying him. You’ll see.”

Ola shook her head, on the verge of tears once more. “He rides out every morning before I wake and stays out past dark. I heard him speaking of ‘her.’” She pushed Tatia’s kerchief away and swallowed. “He has a mistress. I know it.”

Little Azel bounded up the grand staircase then and leapt upon us, and Ola recovered herself and caught him in her arms.

Our mother followed from the landing, her stride quick and anxious, and peeled out of her damp furs. “Azelly! I’ve told you not to run!”

Mama was forever worrying over Azel. At almost twelve years of age, he appeared little older than nine. We also thought of him as much younger than his years because of his delicate health, and I suppose he acted the part we’d given him. He had been better lately, though.

Despite Mama’s fear, it warmed my heart to see him running.

I swept my brother onto my shoulders and bounced to my feet. At the sound of Azel’s laughter, Mama pressed her gloved fingers to her lips, holding in her customary scolding. Maia rose, hooked her arm in Mama’s, and led her away, distracting her from Ola’s tears and my reckless behavior with plans for the Equinox Gala.

The Gala occupied our time in the weeks that followed. Maia and Tatia reveled in the excitement. On display in our supernal box at the Elysium Theatre, we endured a prelude of ballets, operas, and symphonies—opportunities to meet potential suitors before my formal presentation to society.

I could not have been less interested.

The trick I had used to sneak out tonight had gotten me out of many a dull occasion. Magic was prohibited in Heaven’s capital, but one could find anything in the Demon Market, and I had found a bottle of “twinning spirits” that allowed me to leave a version of myself at home in the form of a corporeal shade.

The twinning spirits consisted of two vials. One contained the separating elixir. The other held the aethereal essence of the shade while its corporeal projection moved about—breathing and speaking and acting with the perfect likeness of the true form until the vial was opened and the essence returned to its source.

My shade-self spent the long nights of winter in rich brocades and velvets, bundled in furs in bright red, horse-drawn sleighs to counter the dreariness of heavy skies and starless nights as we sped over the snow to our engagements.

The rest of me spent them in the smoke-shrouded dens of Raqia. Remembering it all when my shade returned to me was tedium enough.

On the night of the Gala, however, I attended in both body and spirit. Every chandelier in the Winter Palace was ablaze, casting so many reflected glints on the River Neba it looked like a sky full of stars. Carriages arrived by the dozens, depositing celestial dignitaries and wealthy merchants in the grand foyer of our palace.

Ola arrived on Kae’s arm wearing a gown of citrine satin and lace, happier than I had ever seen her. Whatever had preoccupied Kae had obviously been resolved. He hovered beside her with the earnestness of a courting suitor, bringing a pretty pink to her cheeks when he leaned in with a whisper to present her with cordials and candies from the reception hall’s brimming tables.

The appearance of a dazzling pair of Seraphim between the arches of the enfilade announced the entrance of the principality and his queen. With the hush and rustle of silk, hundreds of skirts dipped as one.

The orders of the Second Choir were beings of pure elemental fire, and while their element could be seen in the glowing countenances of the Cherubim and Ophanim, the Seraphim alone seemed to truly burn with it.

Emerging from between their brilliance beneath a baptism of petals and gold leaf that tumbled like glittering butterflies from the gilded papier-mâché eggs overhead, Papa led Mama into the sea of silk.

In the flash of jewels and sequins and the gleam of polished medals reflected from the mirrored walls in the seraphic light, the whole affair seemed but a fairy dream.

Yet in all its splendor, the event of the season did not dazzle me half so much as the first time I saw the Demon Market.

Just across the River Asheron that divided the noble houses of the city of Elysium from the low houses of Raqia, the lights of the market glittered on the water like a wicked invitation. It was a world away from the dull and ordered life of a supernal grand duchess—a world sparkling with bright paper lanterns and trinkets of blown glass, full of buskers and hustlers, and men who ate fire. In its cobbled alleys, I feasted on prickly fruits that stained my lips and fingers purple and watched rough-looking demon boys play games of dice on the crumbling stone.

The market’s inexorable magic had enticed me at the age of thirteen, and its iniquity had kept me coming back.

When I escaped into the garden later, I found Ola and Tatia whispering in excitement among the fragrant roses. Ola drew me in between them huddled on the marble bench, saying she had reason to believe Kae was not, after all, engaged in an affair.

“I am carrying an heir,” she confided. “If I had any cause for worry it is gone now. He is so pleased.”

I embraced her. “Oh, Ola. That’s wonderful!”

“What’s wonderful?” Azel stood in the doorway in his formal costume, a miniature of my father’s military regalia, with a book tucked under one arm.

Ola blushed from shame, it seemed, and not happiness or embarrassment. I was puzzled for a moment, until Azel approached and I saw the look on his face.

“Will it be a boy?” he asked. “I hope he will be healthy.” He did not add not like me, but it was there in his expression.

Ola held out her hand and drew him between us. “I hope it’s healthy, too, Azelly, but I don’t care what sex it is. The House of Arkhangel’sk has its heir. I just want a family.”

Maia found us then, and Ola repeated her news. The orchestra began the waltz, and the four of us danced around Ola—Tatia with Maia, and I with Azel—until we fell about the garden, laughing.

A sumptuous meal was served at midnight, and Maia took up her favorite game, saying the first gentleman we saw whose name began with “S” would be my latest match. I nearly choked on my trifle when she pointed out Sar Sarael, a prince of Aravoth from the angelic Order of Virtues. Sarael was certainly divine in his aethereal beauty. His silvery hair hung down his back like a fall of crystalline water and his eyes glittered with the sheen of snow beneath a bright winter sun. But Virtues were not known for their amorousness and rarely mingled with the lower orders.

Beside Sarael was another Virtue whose name I had not learned. If possible, she outshone him in her rime-like purity. Watching Maia and I giggle over my would-be husband, she smiled at us from across the room. Then her attention fell on someone behind us, and her expression made me turn. By the entrance to the gallery, Kae stood watching her, frozen by her gaze.

Attentive as a new lover on the night of the Gala, my cousin returned to his peculiar distraction in the days that followed. Ola said nothing, but as she grew full and lovely with her pregnancy, it was clear he was once more spending his days away from home.

Kae had been my dearest friend since I was small and had spent more time at our home than his own after the death of my aunt in childbirth when he was just a boy, but now he had shut me out as well.

Ola busied herself with her layette, with Tatia and Maia bustling around her to see that her baby entered the world well-accoutered. Less inclined toward things maternal, I spent time helping Azel with his studies, but it seemed intolerable that he should be kept inside during such lovely days.

While the family took our spring holiday on the southern shore of the Gulf of the Firmament, I spirited him from the white granite Celestial Palace one afternoon to take his mind from his infirmity.

We gave his nurse Helga the slip after tea. I carried Azel on my back and ran to the stables to fetch my mare. Though he was more at home on horseback than on his own limbs, Mama was afraid to let Azel ride, so he had no horse of his own. We set out for the woodlands of our private park, singing and laughing beneath a canopy of gold-dappled leaves, until Azel spotted a hummingbird and made me stop. He had never seen one except through a spyglass from his window. We held our breath while it hovered, indigo and sparkling, gathering nectar in its dagger-sharp beak.

It was gone just as quickly, and in the absence of its whirring, we heard voices. Though too distant for the words to be clear, the birdlike titter of a lady carried down the path. I thought I had never heard anything so lovely. Awestruck, neither of us moved or made a sound.

Then, clear as the sky, I heard Cousin Kae. “You mock me, my lady. But my devotion is sincere.”

My blood froze. It was plainly Kae, though he did not sound himself. To what lady was he pledging devotion? That laugh had certainly not belonged to Ola.

“We should go,” Azel whispered in my ear.

The rippling laughter came again, punctuated with the sound of pounding hooves. A riderless white horse thundered down the path toward us, its mane a comet in the sun. It passed us in a flash of brilliance, leaving only whorls of dirt in its wake.

“My lady!” Kae followed, his horse at a gallop. He passed within inches of us, but took no notice, his face wild. “I am yours!”

Azel developed a cough the following day. Helga scolded us in her “special language”—a peasant dialect she used when particularly angry—but she said nothing to Mama. When we returned to Elysium, Azel was bedridden again. In my guilt over his ill health and over the odd encounter with Kae that we had kept from Ola, I took to sneaking from the palace even more frequently on my own.

At the wingcasting table, it was easy to forget I was a grand duchess of the Firmament of Shehaqim who would one day marry a grand duke or a prince of a distant princedom and leave the happy home in which I had grown up.

But while I played, the celestial house of cards that was the House of Arkhangel’sk began to fall.

§

The first to fold was my father’s brother, Lebes, Grand Duke of Iriy. Shortly after our return to the city, the duchy of Iriy hosted the annual Feast of Virtues. My uncle became ill and collapsed during the commencement address.

At first, it appeared to be merely a bout of the influence, but with the steady worsening of his condition, we began to suspect he had been poisoned. He lapsed into a sleep from which his attendants couldn’t wake him, and Kae and Ola hurried to his side.

The only suspect was a Fallen man with ties to a subversive anti-monarchist group who worked for my uncle’s chef. The Virtues them-selves investigated such crimes, but when they found no evidence to tie him to the poisoning, they released the demon and returned to Aravoth.

Kae grew increasingly distraught the more my uncle slipped away. On the morning the grand duke breathed his last breath, my cousin flew into a rage and ran the suspected demon through with his sword. Ola was beside herself with grief for the father-in-law she had adored and worry for the husband she could not reach.

The incident sparked outrage among the Fallen. Scores of them protested outside the Ereline Palace, stirring fears of a revolt.

It was not the first time such a specter had reared its head in Heaven. Tragedy had preceded my father’s reign. After the untimely death of my grandfather in a riding accident, my great-grandfather had fallen to an anarchist’s blade, leaving Papa to take the throne at the tender age of twenty.

Ola and Kae were whisked from the palace by the Seraphim Guard and brought to the safety of Elysium. Ola was horribly shaken, but Kae seemed to forget his distress almost immediately, returning to his prior preoccupation and rejecting her comfort.

His behavior became impossible to ignore. Ola, now round with his child, he treated coldly, as if he could not bear to be near her. She confided in no one but Tatia now. They were closest in age, and I believe Ola was too ashamed to confide in anyone else. They wept together behind closed doors while Maia and I tried to make ourselves useful by helping to plan Mama’s social engagements. Papa, perhaps in response to the feminine undercurrents within the palace he could not comprehend, immersed himself in affairs of state, giving increasing audience to his advisors in cloistered meetings.

Meanwhile, my guilt grew stronger as Azel and I kept secret the strange afternoon in the woods to spare Ola’s feelings. Azel’s pallor and labored breathing when I read to him from his favorite books of ornithology and angelic history caused me even more guilt. Helga, by his side night and day, did not speak of blame.

§

The heaviness in Ola’s eyes at last got the better of me, and I resolved to confront Cousin Kae. Though she was nearing her confinement, they made an appearance at the annual Elysium Day pageant, the last grand affair in the capital before the solstice heralded our return to the Summer Palace in the north.

At the dance following the first banquet, I managed to position myself as Kae’s partner. He went through the motions with his mind elsewhere, gloved hand raising mine at the appropriate time, the other behind his back, taking the steps with dull accuracy.

When I stepped in close to him, I met his gaze and held it with a fierce look. He focused on me at last while he spun me about, our right arms meeting overhead when we came together.

“You seem preoccupied.”

The bitterness of my voice appeared to shake him. “Preoccupied?” He glanced about in search of an excuse. “Uncle Helison and I have been engaged in some tense negotiations over the sovereignty of the duchies.”

“I’m not talking about politics, Cousin.” I stepped back into a genuflection and then forward, looking up into his face. “I am talking about my sister. Your wife. She is having your child.”

He looked puzzled, bless his craven heart. “I don’t—?”

“Ola,” I whispered harshly. “For the love of Heaven!”

“For pity’s sake, Anazakia!” He spun me about, and I whirled to face him once more. “I know who I’m married to.”

“Do you?” We were about to switch partners and there was no time to belabor the point. “And whom are you meeting when you go out riding? Do you take my sister for a fool?”

He released me, and I turned and curtsied to my new partner. I watched my cousin over my partner’s shoulder while we moved farther apart, and saw, at last, some humility in his eyes.

When the dance ended, Kae made polite conversation before making his way to the alcove seat where I’d retired. He sat beside me.

“Nenny.” He had not called me Nenny, the name Azel had invented after deeming my customary nickname too hard to pronounce, since I was a bare-legged tree climber. “You’re right. But you’re wrong.”

I waited.

“I haven’t been meeting anyone. But I have been going out to see… you wouldn’t… the most beautiful… ”

“The steed,” I said, and Kae’s eyes snapped to mine. “I saw her.”

“Yes?” His eyes shone.

“But I heard her, also, Kae. I heard a woman’s voice, the owner of the steed.”

He frowned as if considering something contradictory, but said nothing.

“You are killing Ola,” I told him. “She could not love you more deeply if you had been a love match. You are not just a convenient arrangement to her.”

Kae stood, giving me a look of rebuke, but at least it was a look I recognized. “Ola is not an arrangement to me. You cannot imagine how much I love her.”

“I don’t doubt it, Kae. But I’m not the one you need to convince.”

He turned on his heel. I had angered him, but I hoped I had knocked him from whatever fantasy he was pursuing with the owner of that white mare.

With relief, I watched him find Ola settled upon a cushioned bench across the hall watching the orchestra play. Kae kissed her hand and held her gloved knuckles to his cheek for a long moment before kneeling on one knee to lay his head against her belly. Ola sifted his pale curls through her fingers. For the moment, all was well.

Tatia and Maia were making the rounds with Mama, doing their social duty, while my father played host to the noble houses of the Heavens, asserting his autocracy. With Azel still bedridden, I ought to have checked in on him and read to him to cheer him up, but my shade could do it for me.

Instead, full of restless energy, I had come to the place where I did not have to be charming, or gracious, or even interesting. I had only to put up my crystal and play my hand well. And in a single night at the wingcasting table, I lost everything.
 

 
 

When we moved to West Virginia right before my senior year, I’d pretty much resigned myself to thick accents, dodgy internet access, and a whole lot of boring…. until I spotted my hot neighbor, with his looming height and eerie green eyes. Things were looking up.

And then he opened his mouth.

Daemon is infuriating. Arrogant. Stab-worthy. We do not get along. At all. But when a stranger attacks me and Daemon literally freezes time with a wave of his hand, well, something…unexpected happens.

The hot alien living next door marks me.

You heard me. Alien. Turns out Daemon and his sister have a galaxy of enemies wanting to steal their abilities, and Daemon’s touch has me lit up like the Vegas Strip. The only way I’m getting out of this alive is by sticking close to Daemon until my alien mojo fades.

If I don’t kill him first, that is.

Information:

Title: Obsidian (A Lux Novel, Book One)
Author: Jennifer L. Armentrout
Genre: Young Adult
Length: 400 pages
Release Date: May 2012
ePub ISBN: 978-1-62061-006-0
Print ISBN: 978-1-62061-007-7
 


 
 

Praise for Obsidian

★★★★½ stars, RT Top Pick. “The beginning of Armentrout’s new Lux series is a thrilling ride from start to finish. A cross between Roswell and Dawson’s Creek, this series is guaranteed to hold your attention and have you begging for more.”
- Sabrina Cooper, RT Book Reviews

“Daemon and Katy are combustible…Obsidian is an action packed ride that will leave you breathless and begging for more.”
- Jus Accardo, author of TOUCH

Excerpt:

Chapter 1

I stared at the pile of boxes in my new bedroom, wishing the Internet had been hooked up. Not being able to do anything with my review blog since moving was like missing an arm or a leg. According to my mom, “Katy’s Krazy Obsession” was my whole life. Not entirely, but it was important to me. She didn’t get books the way I did.

I sighed. We’d been here two days, and there was still so much left to unpack. I hated the idea of boxes sitting around. Even more than I hated being here.

At least I’d finally stopped jumping at every little creaking sound since moving to West “By God” Virginia and this house that looked like something straight out of a horror movie. It even had a turret—a freaking turret. What was I supposed to do with that?

Ketterman was unincorporated, meaning it wasn’t a real town. The closest place was Petersburg—a two or three stoplight town near a few other towns that probably didn’t have a Starbucks. We wouldn’t get mail at our house. We would have to drive into Petersburg to get our mail.

Barbaric.

Like a kick in the face, it hit me. Florida was gone—eaten by the miles we’d traveled in Mom’s mad dash to start over. It wasn’t that I missed Gainesville, the weather, my old school, or even our apartment. Leaning against the wall, I rubbed the palm of my hand over my forehead.

I missed Dad.

And Florida was Dad. It was where he’d been born, where he met my mom, and where everything had been perfect… until it all fell apart. My eyes burned, but I refused to cry. Crying didn’t change the past, and Dad would’ve hated to know I was still crying three years later.

But I missed Mom, too. The Mom before Dad had died, the one who used to curl up on the couch beside me and read one of her trashy romance novels. It seemed like a lifetime ago. It certainly was half a country ago.

Ever since Dad died, Mom had started working more and more. She used to want to be home. Then it seemed like she wanted to be as far away as possible. She’d finally given up on that option and decided we needed to drive far away. At least since we’d gotten here, even though she was still working like a demon, she was determined to be more in my life.

I had decided to ignore my inner compulsive streak and let the boxes be damned today, when the smell of something familiar tickled my nose. Mom was cooking. This was so not good.

I raced downstairs.

She stood at the stove, dressed in her polka-dotted scrubs. Only she could wear head-to-toe polka dots and still manage to look good. Mom had this glorious blonde hair that was stick straight and sparkling hazel eyes. Even in scrubs she made me look dull with my gray eyes and plain brown hair.

And somehow I ended up more… round than her. Curvy hips, puffy lips, and huge eyes that Mom loved but made me look like a demented kewpie doll.

She turned and waved a wooden spatula at me, half-cooked eggs splattering onto the stove. “Good morning, honey.”

I stared at the mess and wondered how best to take over this fiasco in the making without hurting her feelings. She was trying to do mom-stuff. This was huge. Progress. “You’re home early.”

“I worked almost a double shift between last night and today. I’m set to work Wednesday through Saturday, eleven till nine a.m. That leaves me with three days off. I’m thinking of either working part time at one of the clinics around here or possibly in Winchester.” She scraped out the eggs onto two plates and set the half-burned offering in front of me.

Yum. Guess it was too late for an intervention, so I rifled through a box resting on the far counter marked ‘Silverware & Stuff.’

“You know how I don’t like having nothing to do, so I’m going to check into them soon.”

Yeah, I knew.

And most parents would probably saw off their left arm before thinking of leaving a teenaged girl at home alone all the time, but not mine. She trusted me because I never gave her reason not to. It wasn’t for of lack of trying. Well, okay, maybe it was.

I was kind of boring.

In my old group of friends in Florida, I wasn’t the quiet one, but I never skipped class, maintained a 4.0, and was pretty much a good girl. Not because I was afraid to do anything reckless or wild; I didn’t want to add to Mom’s troubles. Not then…

Grabbing two glasses, I filled them with orange juice Mom must have picked up on her way home. “Do you want me to get groceries today? We have nothing.”

She nodded and spoke around a mouthful of eggs. “You think of everything. A grocery trip would be perfect.” She grabbed her purse off the table, pulling out cash. “This should be enough.”

I pocketed the money into my jeans without looking at the amount; she always gave me too much in the first place. “Thanks,” I mumbled.

She leaned forward, a twinkle in her eyes.  “So… this morning I saw something interesting.”

God only knows with her. I smiled. “What?”

“Have you noticed that there are two kids about your age next door?”

My inner golden retriever kicked in and my ears perked up. “Really?”

“You haven’t been outside, have you?” She smiled. “I’d thought for sure you’d be all over that disgusting flower bed by now.”

“I plan on it, but the boxes aren’t unpacking themselves.” I gave her a pointed look. I loved the woman, but leave it to her to somehow forget that part. “Anyway, back to the kids.”

“Well, one is a girl who looks about your age, and there’s a boy.” She grinned as she stood. “He’s a hottie.”

A tiny piece of egg caught in my throat. It was seriously gross to hear Mom talking about boys my age. “Hottie? Mom, that’s just weird.”

Mom pushed off from the counter, picked up her plate from the table, and headed to the sink. “Honey, I might be old, but my eyes are still working fine. And they were really working earlier.”

I cringed. Double gross. “Are you turning into a cougar? Is this some sort of midlife crisis I need to be concerned about?”

Rinsing off her plate, she glanced over her shoulder. “Katy, I hope you’ll make an effort to go over and meet them. I think it would be nice for you to make friends before school starts.” Pausing, she yawned. “They could show you around, yes?”

I refused to think about the first day of school, new kid and all. I dumped my uneaten eggs in the garbage. “Yeah, it would be nice. But I don’t want to go banging on their door, begging them to be my friend.”

“It wouldn’t be begging. If you put on one of those pretty sundresses you wore in Florida instead of this.” She tugged on the hem of my shirt. “It would be flirting.”

I glanced down. It said MY BLOG IS BETTER THAN YOUR VLOG. There wasn’t a thing wrong with it. “How about I show up in my undies?”

She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “That would definitely make an impression.”

“Mom!” I laughed. “You’re supposed to yell at me and tell me that’s not a good idea!”

“Baby, I don’t worry about you doing anything stupid. But seriously, make an effort.”

I wasn’t sure how to ‘make an effort.’

She yawned again. “Well, honey, I’m going to catch up on sleep.”

“All right, I’ll get some good stuff at the store.” And maybe mulch and plants. The flower bed outside was hideous.

“Katy?” Mom had stopped in the doorway, frowning.

“Yeah?”

A shadow flickered over her face, darkening her eyes. “I know this move is hard for you, especially before your senior year, but it was the best thing for us to do. Staying there, in that apartment, without him… It’s time we started living again. Your dad would have wanted that.”

The lump in my throat I thought I’d left in Florida was back. “I know, Mom. I’m fine.”

“Are you?” Her fingers curled into a fist. The sunlight coming through the window reflected off the gold band around her ring finger.

I nodded quickly, needing to reassure her. “I’m okay. And I’ll go next door. Maybe they can tell me where the store is. You know, make an effort.”

“Excellent! I’m going to crash now, but if you need anything, call me. Okay?” Mom’s eyes watered on another long yawn. “I love you, honey.”

I started to tell her that I loved her, too, but she was on the way up the stairs before the words were out of my mouth.

At least she was trying to change, and I was determined to at least try and fit in here. Not hide in my room on my laptop all day like Mom was afraid I’d do. But mingling with kids I’d never met wasn’t my thing.  I’d rather read a book and stalk my blog comments.

I bit my lip. I could hear my dad’s voice, his favorite phrase encouraging me, “Come on, Kittycat, don’t be a bystander.” I squared my shoulders. Dad had never let life pass him by…

And asking about the nearest store was an innocent-enough reason to introduce myself. If Mom was right and they were my age, maybe this wouldn’t turn out to be such an epic fail of a move. This was stupid, but I was doing it. I hurried across the lawn and across the driveway before I chickened out.

Hopping onto the wide porch, I opened the screen door and knocked, then stepped back and smoothed the wrinkles out of my tank top. I’m cool. I got this. There is nothing weird about asking for directions.

Heavy footsteps came from the other side, and then the door was swinging open and I was staring at a very broad, tan, well-muscled chest. A naked chest. My gaze dropped and my breath sort of… stalled. Jeans hung low on his hips, revealing a thin line of dark hair that formed below his navel and disappeared under the band of the jeans.

His stomach was ripped. Perfect. Totally touchable. Not the kind of stomach I expected on a seventeen-year-old boy, which is how old I suspected he was, but yeah, I wasn’t complaining. I also wasn’t talking. And I was staring.

My gaze finally traveling north again, I noted thick, sooty lashes fanning the tips of his high cheeks and hiding the color of his eyes as he looked down at me. I needed to know what color his eyes were.

“Can I help you?” Full, kissable lips turned down in annoyance.

His voice was deep and firm. The kind of voice accustomed to people listening and obeying without question. His lashes lifted, revealing eyes so green and brilliant they couldn’t be real. They were an intense emerald color that stood out in vibrant contrast against his tan skin.

“Hello?” he said again, placing one hand on the doorframe as he leaned forward. “Are you capable of speaking?”

I sucked in a sharp breath and took a step back. A wave of embarrassment heated my face.

The boy lifted an arm, brushing back a wavy lock of hair on his forehead. He glanced over my shoulder, then back to me. “Going once…”

By the time I found my voice, I wanted to die. “I… I was wondering if you knew where the closest grocery store is. My name is Katy. I moved next door.” I gestured at my house, rambling like an idiot. “Like two days ago—”

“I know.”

Ooooo-kay. “Well, I was hoping someone would know the quickest way to the grocery store and maybe a place that sold plants.”

“Plants?”

For some reason, it didn’t sound as though he was asking me a question, but I rushed to answer anyway. “Yeah, see, there’s this flower bed in front—”

He said nothing, just cocked a brow with disdain. “Okay.”

The embarrassment was fading, replaced by a growing surge of anger. “Well, see, I need to go buy plants—”

“For the flower bed. I got that.” He leaned his hip against the doorframe and crossed his arms. Something glittered in his green eyes. Not anger, but something else.

I took a deep breath. If this dude cut me off one more time… My voice took on the tone my mother used when I was younger and was playing with sharp objects. “I’d like to find a store where I can buy groceries and plants.”

“You are aware this town has only one stoplight, right?” Both eyebrows were raised to his hairline now as if he were questioning how I could be so dumb, and that’s when I realized what I saw sparkling in his eyes. He was laughing at me with a healthy dose of condescension.

For a moment, all I could do was stare at him. He was probably the hottest guy I’d ever seen in real life, and he was a total douche. Go figure. “You know, all I wanted was directions. This is obviously a bad time.”

One side of his lips curled up. “Anytime is a bad time for you to come knocking on my door, kid.”

“Kid?” I repeated, eyes widening.

A dark, mocking eyebrow arched again. I was starting to hate that brow.

“I’m not a kid. I’m seventeen.”

“Is that so?” He blinked. “You look like you’re twelve. No. Maybe thirteen, but my sister has this doll that kind reminds me of you. All big-eyed and vacant.”

I reminded him of a doll? A vacant doll? Warmth burned in my chest, spreading up my throat. “Yeah, wow. Sorry to bother you. I won’t be knocking on your door again. Trust me.” I started to turn, leaving before I caved to the rampant desire to slam my fists into his face. Or cry.

“Hey,” he called out.

I stopped on the bottom step but refused to turn around and let him see how upset I was. “What?”

“You get on Route 2 and turn onto U.S. 220 North, not South. Takes you into Petersburg.” He let out an irritated breath, as if he were doing me a huge favor. “The Foodland is right in town. You can’t miss it. Well, maybe you could. There’s a hardware store next door, I think. They should have things that go in the ground.”

“Thanks,” I muttered and added under my breath, “Douchebag.”

He laughed, deep and throaty. “Now that’s not very lady like, Kittycat.”

I whipped around. “Don’t ever call me that,” I snapped.

“It’s better than calling someone a douchebag, isn’t it?” He pushed out the door. “This has been a stimulating visit. I’ll cherish it for a long time to come.”

Okay. That was it. “You know, you’re right. How wrong of me to call you a douchebag. Because a douchebag is too nice of a word for you,” I said, smiling sweetly. “You’re a dickhead.”

“A dickhead?” he repeated. “How charming.”

I flipped him off.

He laughed again and bent his head. A mess of waves fell forward, nearly obscuring his intense green eyes. “Very civilized, Kitten. I’m sure you have a wild array of interesting names and gestures for me, but not interested.”

I did have a lot more I could say and do, but I gathered my dignity, pivoted, and stomped back over to my house, not giving him the pleasure of seeing how truly pissed I was. I’d always avoided confrontation in the past, but this guy was flipping my bitch switch like nothing else. When I reached my car, I yanked open the door.

“See you later, Kitten!” he called out, laughing as he slammed the front door.

Tears of anger and embarrassment burnt my eyes. I shoved the keys into the ignition and threw the car into reverse. ‘Make an effort,’ Mom had said. That’s what happens when you make an effort.
 

Other books in the series:

Two and a half centuries ago, Calisto Terana lost everything when a zealous priest murdered the woman he loved. Now, desperate for another chance to love her, he wants redemption for the mistake that cost her life.

She’s haunted by dreams of her own death…

After catching her fiance with another woman, Kate Bradley returns to San Diego to clear her head. The last thing she needs is romance, but after meeting Calisto she’s drawn to him in ways she doesn’t understand.

They’ve waited in the shadows for centuries…

Calisto has no doubt Kate is the reincarnation of his lost love, but the Fraternidad Del Fuego Santo has a new watcher with dark ambitions of his own. As old enemies re-emerge and a new threat arises, the betrayal that enslaved Calisto to the night might destroy the only woman he’s ever loved again.

Information:

Title: Night Walker
Author: Lisa Kessler
Genre: Paranormal Romance
Length: 352 pages
Release Date: August 2011
ePub ISBN: 978-1-62061-228-6
Print ISBN: 978-1-62061-231-6
 

 
 

 
 

Books 2, 2 1/2, and 3 coming in 2012!
 
 

Praise for Night Walker:

★★★ stars. “In the first of her Night series, Kessler tackles a love that has waited 200 years. While the tale is tender and poignant, readers will sigh both in dreamy acceptance of a love that never dies as well as exasperation for the secrets the characters keep from each other.”
- Sabrina Cooper, RT Book Reviews

“Hot romance and cool characters make Night Walker an all-night read.”
~ Kelley Armstrong, #1 NYT Best-Selling Author

“A stellar first novel with heart-stopping suspense and a hero to die for.”
~ Angie Fox, NYT Bestselling author of THE LAST OF THE DEMON SLAYERS

“Lisa Kessler pens the kind of lyrical romance we all want to experience!”
~ Linda Wisdom, national bestselling author of A DEMON DOES IT BETTER

“Night Walker is a wonderful tale about the power and magic of a love that transcends time.”
~ Linda Thomas-Sundstrom, author of the Vampire Moons series

“A soulful, timeless love story and an engrossing new take on immortal
mythology—if you’re looking for a touching paranormal romance, Kessler’s got
one for you!”
~ Christine Cody, author of the Bloodlands series

Excerpt:

© Lisa Kessler

Prologue

Kate couldn’t remember the drive home or walking from her car to her front door. Her mind kept replaying Tom’s surprised face, the way he jerked his hands free of the woman’s tight sweater, and the flushed cheeks of his grad student. Her knuckles ached from clenching her fists, struggling to control her emotions. Blood smeared across the palm of her hand where her fingernail broke the skin.

She could still hear his footsteps echoing behind her in the desolate parking lot and the pleading in his voice. “Please, can’t we talk about this?” His desperation made her nauseous.

What could he possibly explain?

After three tries, she finally managed to calm her trembling hands and unlock her apartment door. Forcing a deep breath into her lungs, she steeled herself for what awaited. The eight-by-ten engagement photo smiled at her from the side table. Her knees threatened to buckle under the weight of betrayal.

Leaning against the door, she struggled to understand. Their wedding was less than a month away. All their plans, their dreams, tossed away for a pair of most-likely-fake double Ds.

How could she have been so blind? She almost married him.

For the third time since she’d sped away from the university, her cell phone buzzed. She powered it off and tossed it aside.  The bastard could call all night, send flowers, beg on his knees, but nothing would change the fact that she’d never walk down the aisle in the designer gown that he insisted she buy. She’d never move into the new condo they’d had their eye on. And she would never trust him again.

It was over.

She wiped her nose and glared at the photo on the table. Shouldn’t she be jealous? Did she even care if he’d slept with this woman? Was she devastated because she would miss Tom, or because her life wasn’t turning out the way she thought it should?

Puzzled, she pushed away from the door and turned the frame facedown on the table.  Her gaze locked onto her parents’ photo. Nearly two years had slipped by since the accident. She’d worked so hard to distance herself from the pain of their loss that she’d avoided dealing with the remainder of their estate. She still hadn’t sold their house.

Instead, she’d pushed her relationship with Tom forward, avoiding her emotions by planning a wedding to a man she wasn’t certain she loved.

Gripping the frame, she tilted the photo to cut the glare from the overhead light. Her mother’s warm smile brought a swell of heartache—real heartache, not this shock of betrayal and sudden change that Tom had delivered.

“I wish you were here, Mom.” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “You probably would’ve seen right through his sexy, crooked smile.”

She waited, half-expecting to hear her mother’s voice telling her she deserved better.

Because she did.

“I think it’s time for me to go back home. I’m through hiding, Mom.”

Once she returned the photo to the table, the tightness in her chest loosened its grip. This wasn’t the end of the world. In fact, it was a chance at a new beginning.

She’d call her school in the morning and let them know she needed a leave of absence. Then she’d get in touch with the caterers and the perky wedding planner.

She could be on the road by the afternoon. She lifted her chin a notch and dropped her engagement photo in the trashcan. Tomorrow, she would take control of her life and her future, and this time she wouldn’t rush into anything.

Chapter One

When they parked at the Mission de Alcala, Kate stared up at the bells. Although she grew up in San Diego, she’d never played tourist and visited this famous landmark, which she admitted now was a shame. The white arched bell tower of the first Spanish mission in the New World stretched toward the heavens, oblivious to the changing landscape around it. For a moment, she felt like she’d been transported back in time.

Edie hefted her camera bag over her shoulder. “Hurry up! We don’t want to end up standing for the service.”

“I’m coming.” Kate ran up the uneven tile steps after her friends.

When they entered the white adobe sanctuary, her breath caught in her throat. The natural pine ceiling arched high above them, voices echoed in the cavernous space, and soft chords from the pipe organ at the rear of the hall floated down. The music washed over the congregation, filling the church with its somber peace.

Her mother would have loved this place.

Lori grabbed Kate’s hand and pulled her across the sanctuary to a pew by the opposite door. Candlelight filled the chamber with a warm glow, and soon the only sounds were the soft chants from the priests. Images of Christ’s crucifixion lined the walls, and the quiet hymns from the choir added to the poignancy of the Mass. Bittersweet sorrow swelled in her heart. This would be her second holiday season without her parents, and her first without Tom. The Mass felt like a solemn reminder she was alone in the world.

The room blurred behind a wave of tears.

“I need some air. I’ll be right outside,” Kate whispered to Edie.

Edie gave her an are you all right look, and Kate managed to smile and nod before slipping out the door. As the heavy wooden door clicked shut behind her, she stepped into a lush courtyard with centuries-old adobe crosses rising through thick ferns that threatened to swallow them. More candles flickered around the garden. Shadows moved across the surrounding walls, mingling with the darkness that gathered in the corners and alcoves.

The cool night air filled her lungs, calming the storm brewing inside her. Seeing the families and couples in the sanctuary stirred up heartache. She had erected protective walls around the spaces her parents and her ex-fiancé used to fill, but now they crumbled. Kate took another deep breath and stared at the pale moon. She could almost hear her mother’s voice telling her to stay strong. Keep moving forward.

Just as she’d promised herself she’d do.

Clearing her throat, Kate focused on her surroundings and followed a worn tile path to a weathered sign. The courtyard, and the crosses within it, honored the Native American neophytes who worked at the mission in its early years. Kate scanned the garden again, finding even more of the half-hidden handmade crosses peering at her from a thicket of ferns. Most of them now leaned to the side, weathered from years of exposure to the sun and rain.

The once-strong angles of the markers now drooped as though they wept.

She followed the path deeper into the garden and found another cross nearly engulfed by the foliage and flowers that grew around it. Though the path here was unkempt and the aging monument covered in moss, a simple floral wreath adorned the neck of the cross.

How many Native Americans died at the mission in its early years? She wondered if anyone really knew. She learned about the missions in elementary school, but her teachers never discussed the relationship between the missionaries and the local tribes. Was neophyte a fancy word for slave?  She didn’t know, but whatever their role might have been, it was encouraging to see the indigenous people who had lived at the mission had not been forgotten.

When the service concluded, the murmur of soft conversation broke through her solitude. Mass was over already? Kate frowned. How long had she been outside?

Car engines started and brakes squeaked, the headlights drowning out the candlelit shadows. Beyond the black wrought iron gates, small groups of people departed together until finally the floodlights over the parking lot blinked off. She would have worried about Lori and Edie’s absence, but she knew they had plans with their digital cameras after the mass.

According to her friends, Dia de los Muertos was the perfect night for ghost hunting. Lori and Edie always enjoyed ghost stories when they were kids, and their fondness grew until they considered themselves amateur paranormal investigators. What better place to find them than in the oldest building in San Diego on the one night a year reserved for the dead?

Kate didn’t share their zeal for spirits, but she had no problem waiting for them to have their fun. She was happy to have a few minutes to herself anyway.

The candlelight glimmered around her, the flickering flames left to burn out sometime before morning. The warm glow made for eerie light, casting long shadows of the weeping crosses over the garden. It was exquisite and melancholy in the same moment.

She caught a sudden chill. The longer she lingered, the more her sadness mutated into unease.

The back of her neck prickled. Kate crossed her arms and walked toward the sanctuary doors. She suddenly felt exposed and alone. Before she reached the doors, Lori and Edie came up the path at the other end of the courtyard, snapping pictures as they walked, until Lori disappeared from view.

When Edie saw Kate approach, she grinned. “Oh, you should see some of the great shots we got tonight. We had lots of orbs in a couple of pictures of the bell tower. There might be even more when we can look at them on a larger screen.”

“You’ll have to show me once you get them on the computer.” Kate glanced around the courtyard. “Where’d Lori go?”

Edie turned around. “She was right behind… ”

“Edie… Kate.” Lori’s voice, a loud and insistent whisper, emanated from the shadows.

Kate flinched when she heard her name. She had no idea why she was so jumpy tonight. They tracked down Lori and found her kneeling by one of the crosses. She beckoned them closer.

Edie rushed over with an eager grin, camera at the ready. “Wow. Look at this.” She squatted beside Lori.

The cross was smaller than most of the others, weather-beaten and canted. There was a single letter in the center, a T, and a single candle burned beside a bundle of large white blossoms.

“Who do you think left those?” Lori whispered.

Kate shrugged. None of the other crosses had fresh offerings. “Probably the priests, right?”

“I don’t know.” Lori glanced at the other crosses. “Maybe this person’s relatives still visit every year.”

“Can you imagine?” Edie whispered. “Being remembered like that?  I hope someone’s still bringing me flowers after I’ve been dead a couple hundred years.”

Kate thought about correcting them, telling them these crosses were memorials to the Native Americans. But she didn’t. Something about the cross held her rapt. The conversation around her faded away as Kate moved in closer to the fragrant blossoms.

She’d never seen flowers like these with huge, beautiful blooms of white, silky petals and a center like pure sunshine. And the scent.  It was the primrose-like perfume that made her reach out to touch them, entranced by their spell.

Had she seen these flowers before?

“Kate? Are you okay?”

Kate looked up at Lori, her brow furrowed and mouth pinched in concern. “I’m fine,” she said, yanking her hand away from the flowers. “Just a little tired, I guess.”

“We’re almost done. We need a couple more pictures around the front by the steps,” Edie said.

“All right.” Kate straightened, still unable to pull her attention away from the cross and its bouquet. “I’ll wait for you here, okay?”

Lori continued to frown, but Edie said, “No problem. We’ll be right back.”

Kate watched them wander off before kneeling closer to the cross. Unable to stop herself, she traced her finger along the T in the center.

Behind her, someone cleared his throat. Kate jerked her hand away and shot to her feet. When she turned around she found a tall, dark-haired man staring at her.

Her cheeks flushed with heat. She hoped he hadn’t witnessed her touching the relic. She waited for some kind of admonishment, but he didn’t say anything.

Not with words.

Something in his dark eyes captured her. His gaze wandered over her face like a tender caress, and strangely, instead of screaming for Lori and Edie, she caught herself imagining his touch on her skin.

“I hope I did not frighten you,” he said.

His deep voice resonated through the empty courtyard, and the intimate tone weakened her knees. The hint of a Spanish accent didn’t hurt, either. Nervous laughter escaped her before she could contain it.

Her face warmed all over again. “Just a little startled. I didn’t see anyone else out here.”

He stepped closer without encroaching on her personal space, his eyes locked with hers from beneath thick lashes. “Forgive me.”

She swallowed hard and prayed she wasn’t blushing. “No problem.” She looked away before she embarrassed herself even further, focusing on the cross. “It’s beautiful isn’t it?”

“Si.” He nodded slowly. “Yes, it is.” His barely there smile made her think he wasn’t referring to the flowers or the cross. “I am Calisto. Calisto Terana.”

Expectation hung as heavy as the scent of eucalyptus, as if he waited to hear something more than just her name.

“I’m Kate.” Instead of offering to shake his hand, she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“The honor is mine, Kate… ” His accent colored the vowel in her name. It had never sounded more beautiful. She reminded herself to breathe.

When he hesitated for a moment waiting for her to speak, she realized she hadn’t shared her last name as he had. She flipped through a rapid pro and con mental checklist, and decided it couldn’t hurt. Maybe they would meet again.

“Bradley,” she said.

A sexy smile curved at the corners of his lips. “I hope this will not be our last meeting.”

She glanced around the shadowed courtyard, feeling vulnerable, and almost gave in to her first instinct—to run. But she remembered her promise to herself. Be strong. Take action. She lifted her chin and said, “I guess you never know.”

With a smile that said he had every intention of seeing her again, he tipped his head.  “Buenos noches, Kate Bradley.”

Her heart raced and her palms sweated when she realized he meant to leave. No man made her palms sweat. Ever.

His gaze held hers for a moment, full of unspoken promises she didn’t understand. Without another word, he walked away.

Kate willed him to turn toward her one last time. It would be easy to get addicted to the way his gaze caressed her, entrancing her with his full attention. She wet her lips and shook her head slowly, struggling to break the spell.

A strange man had flirted with her in a dark courtyard. Hello! Huge danger signal for a woman alone.

But she never felt threatened. As if she’d met him before.

“Who was that?” Lori tucked her camera inside her bag.

“He said his name was Calisto Terana.”

“He looked sexy from where I stood. Yum!” Edie grinned.

Lori nudged her with her elbow. “Looks can be deceiving. Why was he loitering after Mass and hitting on Kate?”

There went Lori, being overprotective, like Kate was her younger sister instead of a peer. Kate rolled her eyes. “He wasn’t hitting on me. He was a complete gentleman.” She paused, glancing in the direction he’d gone. “Old fashioned.”

Lori hooked her camera bag over her shoulder. “You didn’t give him your number, did you? Old fashioned or not, you don’t know anything about this guy.”

“Yes, Mom! I’ve been a single adult just as long as you have, remember?”

Lori hooked her arm through Kate’s. “I still worry about you. You’ve been through a lot lately. I don’t want anyone to take advantage of you.”

Kate relaxed, though she still chafed at being treated like a child. “Believe me, I don’t want that either.”

Part of her was shocked she even considered looking at another man. A couple of weeks ago she wanted to wipe all the bastards off the face of the earth, and then tonight a gorgeous guy with an accent and a healthy dose of manners suddenly had her heart racing. Go figure.

They started toward the car. Kate peeked over her shoulder, wondering where Calisto had gone. No doubt it was for the best that he walked away when he did.

But secretly she wished he had asked for her number.

Edie unlocked the car. “What kind of name is Calisto anyway?  It doesn’t sound Mexican.”

“Maybe Spanish?” Lori said.

Kate replayed the way he said her name. “He did have an accent. Not quite Mexican though. Maybe he is from Spain.”

“Oh, I love accents.” Edie pretended to shiver. “Why don’t I ever meet handsome foreign men in dark courtyards?”

“Get in the car already.” Lori smiled.

Their banter continued as Lori pulled out of the mission’s parking lot toward Old Town, but Kate wasn’t listening anymore. At the other end of the lot she saw him standing in the moonlight.

Calisto.

He stared right into her eyes. Even at this distance, the heat of his gaze flushed her skin, and her breath caught in her throat.

What if she never saw him again?  A knot of panic tightened in her stomach.

He watched them roll down the driveway, bowing his head before turning to walk back into the shadows. Kate sighed and finally faced forward, chastising herself for acting like a love-struck teenager. The last thing she needed right now was a relationship. She’d just been burned so badly that she took a leave of absence from her teaching job and left the state of Nevada.

How could she stomach even looking at another man?

She stared out the window and smiled in spite of herself. Calisto didn’t seem like any other man she’d ever met. Against her better judgment, she caught herself hoping they would meet again.

§

1775

She was dead.

Part of him still could not, or would not, believe it. Even now as he covered her body with dirt, he imagined this was a foul dream. Still clothed in his missionary robes, Father Gregorio Salvador prayed he would awaken to the sound of her laughter, or see her dark eyes sparkle with shared humor again. Tala had the most beautiful dark brown eyes with a tiny hazel crescent at the bottom of her right iris.

She used to smile at him every time he told her she had the moon in her eyes.

His jaw clenched. He would have his vengeance.

As he laid the bundle of large, white Romneya flowers over her grave, his tears fell onto the freshly turned soil covering her body, like raindrops darkening the sandy dirt. The sight brought him to his knees.

He knelt at her grave, silently begging the God he once served for answers. Was it wrong to love her? Was God so unforgiving of their sin that He sought to take her life and damn his soul? They had hurt no one. He had broken his covenant with God, yet she was forced to pay his penance with her life? Why punish her?

But he already knew. What greater punishment could he suffer than to go on living without her? He was certain no deeper pain existed.

Surely God knew he had been no more than a naive boy when he took his vows in Spain.

He buried Tala at the edge of the cliff where they met in secret during the warm summer evenings to watch the sun set over the water and color the sky. He hoped her soul would find peace there. Taking the rosary beads from his neck, he laid them over the flowers covering her final resting place. He would never touch another rosary. God had forsaken him, punished him for loving her, and he wouldn’t serve Him any longer.

Kissing his fingertips and touching the flowers, he whispered, “My love forever.”

He tugged at his collar, and then stripped off his robe. Clothed only in his black wool pants and sandals, Father Salvador walked into the darkness of the hills. He couldn’t bear to look back.

§

Calisto watched her until the car faded away into the night. The Old One’s promise had finally come true. With his heightened vision, he had seen the lighter crescent of color in the lower corner of her iris. He recognized her in an instant. She had the moon in her eyes.

Tala, his love, lived again.

Her features were familiar, but not exactly as she had once been. Her skin was lighter now and the angle of her jaw softer, but her long black hair and her eyes had not changed. Hearing her voice, seeing her smile, brought back memories of a life they once shared.

The sound of her laughter was like a burst of sunlight in his endless night.

But Kate Bradley wasn’t Tala. She had no memory of him. It was a bittersweet moment to see her face again, yet be unable to touch her. Although she didn’t seem to fear him as a stranger, she also didn’t recognize him as a lover.

He knew nothing about her life now.

The desire to touch her had overwhelmed him. He yearned to taste her lips and hold her in his arms. There would be time for that later, he promised himself.

It would have been simple to reach for her thoughts and learn her secrets, to become exactly the man she desired, but he denied himself the intrusion. He vowed not to use his preternatural power to entrance her or to listen to her private thoughts. He’d given up his mortality, his soul, for this moment, this second chance, and if she fell in love with him again, he needed to know it was real. No other person had ever touched his life like she had. Though she was no longer Tala, surely a piece of the soul he once loved lived inside of her.

Calisto walked into the shadows, wondering if she still sang with a voice that rivaled the angels. Would she dance with him in the waves of the Pacific as they had centuries before?

He was anxious to find out. How long had it been since he’d been eager for anything? A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Kate Bradley.

He would see her again. Soon.

Clearing his thoughts, Calisto opened himself to his animal spirit, allowing the raven to take shape in his mind. Gradually, the air around him sparked with energy as his body shifted and changed from a tall, dark-haired man into a large, jet-black raven. Fully changed, he shook his body and stretched out his wings before launching himself into the air. Silently, he soared with the wind and winged his way through the night sky.

Chapter Two

Blood marred the stone wall of his modest dorm room. His knuckles stung each time his fist slammed into the rough rock. Pain cloaked the bitterness and rage that festered inside him.

The monsignor had passed him over. Denied his chance at his destiny.

Again.

It would be Brother Cardina who would fly across the Atlantic Ocean to San Diego. Brother Cardina would watch over the Night Walker and witness immortality with his own eyes.

Grinding his teeth together, he struck the wall once more, imagining it was Brother Cardina’s pious face, but he held back, careful not to hit too hard. Bruised and bloodied flesh could go unnoticed within the ancient walls of the Fraternidad Del Fuego Santo, but broken bones would not help his cause.

Pain burned up his arm, calming him. He stepped back and basked in the ache.

Brother Cardina was no match for an immortal blood drinker.

He moved closer to the wall, drinking in the earthy scent of his blood. He would get his chance. Staring at the fresh crimson stain, he stuck out his tongue and allowed himself a long, slow lick. He closed his eyes and smiled, resting his cheek against the wall. For now, he would be patient.

Clenching his raw fists, he opened his eyes and stared at his pencil sketches of ravens.  His chance would come.

Soon.

§

“Go with God,” Calisto whispered as he tossed the lifeless body into the ocean far from the shore. Although he had forsaken religion centuries before, his victims might still find a merciful afterlife in spite of their many sins. He hoped, for their sakes, they would.

The Pacific waves lapped at the Southern California beach. The ocean was a perfect disposal for his meals. The sea drank them into itself, and the bloodless corpses sank to the depths of the ocean, food for the marine life. In the cold waters, it took weeks for the bodies, or what remained of the bodies, to float to the surface. If they did wash ashore, the decomposition made it virtually impossible to determine the exact cause of death.

Not that it mattered. If pathologists did discover the true cause of death, he doubted they would link the deaths to someone with no boat and no records of accessing one. And how would they explain bloodless victims with no discernable wound?

No one spoke of Night Walkers anymore except as merely folk tales.

Blood drinkers in Europe had called themselves vampires years before Calisto ever heard the word, but they knew nothing of what it meant to be a true Night Walker. He despised the glamour that went with the ridiculous name they adopted. He found very little romance in death, even less in immortality.

As the years passed his strength and power grew, making him less of a man and more of a monster. He’d slowly changed into a hunter stalking his prey. He fed on the refuse of humanity, killers, drug lords, and child abusers, then gave his victims’ bodies to the sea.

Vampires were for movie screens and romance novels. And he would never think of himself as one of them. He was a Night Walker. But it didn’t matter what he called himself in this modern world. No one believed in his kind, regardless of the label they used.

He wouldn’t believe it himself if he weren’t already living in endless night.

But tonight his existence changed forever. After over 200 years of waiting, he saw Tala smile again, heard her laughter. He felt more human than he had in centuries. Though newfound hope lightened his spirit, he had to remain patient and proceed with care and caution.

He needed to get to know her again, and for her to know him.

But what if she didn’t fall in love with him this time?

He stopped walking to look at the moonlight shimmering on the waves. Could fate be so cruel to show him her face again, to let him know she lived once more, only to have her push him away? As many times as he had dreamed of this day, it never occurred to him she might not want him.

His jaw tightened. She smiled at him tonight. She’d seen him watching her as she drove away. Something inside of her remembered him. He felt it.

Or was he blinded by hope?

Calisto continued down the sand until he reached his home. He wanted to see her again. Surely after waiting lifetimes for her to return, he had been patient enough. He didn’t want to endure one more night without her.

Music blared, interrupting his thoughts. Through the windows of his home, charity patrons mingled and laughed. He’d hoped the benefit party would be over before he got back. He was in no mood to entertain a room full of wealthy mortals. Not tonight.

Tonight he wanted to relive the moment Tala smiled at him. He had forgotten the way the moon sparkled in her dark eyes, and the way her full lips curved in a welcoming smile. If only he could have touched her.

With a determined sigh, he closed his eyes and focused his thoughts. As he approached his front door, he straightened his clothes. Certain no traces of his victim’s blood stained him, he pulled open the door.

“Calisto! What a wonderful surprise.” Betty took his newly warmed hand as he entered. “I was afraid you might not make it. The party has been a huge success. Come, I’ll introduce you around.”

“No. Forgive me, Bettina.” He raised her hand to press a kiss to the back of her fingers. She enjoyed hearing her full name with his Spanish accent. Flattery came easily for an immortal with the power to persuade and years of practice. Although he regretted toying with her, tonight it was a necessary evil. “I do not mean to be rude, but I am too weary from my business trip to entertain guests. Please continue to make use of my home, but I must retire to my room and rest.”

“Oh, I understand completely,” she said with an almost giddy smile. “I’ll start wrapping up the party down here. Don’t worry about a thing.”

“I never do.” He went upstairs to his room, and closed the door behind him.

Within a half hour Betty’s heels clicked against the Spanish tile foyer floor, echoing through the empty house. She had cleared the guests, proving again the wisdom of his decision to elevate her to Director of Foundation Arts. Not only was she intelligent, loyal and hardworking, but her infatuation with him also made it easier to hide his true nature from her. She rarely questioned him, and for an immortal to live among mortals, it was imperative they take him at his word.

However false it might be.

“Calisto?” Betty knocked on the door.

He already knew what she would say. Her thoughts were an open book to him, but he thought it best to keep up appearances. “Come in, Bettina.”

His dark hair hung loosely around his face, freed from the band he used to keep it tied back. He sat on the edge of his king-sized bed as she opened the door. Betty was the only person to ever see him in such a casual state.

She tried to hold back a smile. “The house is all yours again. Everyone’s gone.”

“Thank you. I wish I had been a better host for you tonight.”

She smiled and shrugged a bare shoulder. “No problem. Everyone was thrilled to be inside your home. We raised close to one hundred thousand dollars tonight.”

“You did a wonderful job.”

Her expression said she hoped for more from him, but he couldn’t focus on small talk.

Leaving flowers at the mission in memory of Tala usually left him feeling despondent, but tonight had been the opposite. Tonight, he wrestled against hope instead of bitterness. Fate finally offered him a second chance at love and happiness.

“Well, I guess I’ll go then,” she said. “I’ll be in the office in the morning.”

“I will be out of town again, but perhaps we can set a meeting for Tuesday night? You can update me on anything needing my attention.”

She pursed her lips for one brief second and then assumed her usual professional expression. When he hired Betty, he explained she would probably not work with him often. Even so, he knew she didn’t expect his frequent trips, but she kept her opinions to herself. Working for an influential philanthropist, she expected some eccentricities. He paid her well, and it wasn’t her place to inquire of his whereabouts. Every once in a while, he mentioned details about trips abroad to his homeland in Spain, and she seemed satisfied with his explanation.

“Tuesday night is fine,” she said. “How about six o’clock? We could meet somewhere for dinner.”

“Perfect. Just leave a note to let me know where I am to meet you.” He loathed computers and e-mail.

“I will.”

He stood and worked at the buttons on his shirt. “Good night, Bettina, and thank you.”

Her all-business nod indicated she realized he wasn’t in the mood for conversation. “Goodnight. I’ll see you Tuesday.”

And then she was gone.

He waited until he heard the front door close and the lock turn before leaving his bedroom. He had trained her well.

When the soft purr of her car’s engine faded into the distance, Calisto went downstairs and sat down at his grand piano. Playing was one of the few activities of late that helped ease the loneliness plaguing him. The music surrounded him in a calming embrace, like a child wrapped in his mother’s arms.

Over the years, he had become a virtuoso, a product of having centuries to practice. In that time, he had memorized countless masterpieces by Chopin, Mozart, and Beethoven, but right now Rachmaninoff’s “Vocalise” poured from his soul, through his fingertips, making the grand piano ring with emotion.

The music spoke words he couldn’t recite, and he played with fervor and accuracy only an immortal being could achieve. Tonight the piano sang, not with the bitter ache of emptiness but with hope and the promise of love. Passion built in the melody, and in his mind he saw her eyes shining as he bent to kiss her lips. He closed his eyes as he played, envisioning her body pressed against his, her warm skin enticing him to hold her tighter.

At the final cadence, his hands remained frozen over the keys, suspending the final chord as it echoed through his empty house. When silence crept around him, Calisto rose from the keyboard and made his way to the secret chamber buried deep within the cliff of his beachfront home.

He would find her again. Tomorrow night he would search for Kate Bradley. For the first time in decades, he was anxious for another night.

As the dawning sun warmed the earth above him, he settled into the cold depths below. Closing his eyes, his ancient heart quieted and his lungs let out a final breath.

§

1775

Blood trickled down her arms and legs, but she couldn’t stop to nurse her wounds. Not now.

She ran, breaking through the bushes as they tore at her flesh, never slowing her pace. Thorns stabbed her bare feet, and the pungent smell of sagebrush filled her lungs as she forced herself to move faster.

Deafening wind tugged at her buckskin dress and pushed her back, but she continued to run. Her life depended on it.

Scrambling through the brush and over the rocks, she ignored the pain as the rough terrain ripped at the bloody soles of her feet. With a glance over her shoulder, she saw him closing in, his face veiled in shadows.

She ran faster, her lungs aching with pain. Her heart raced as erratically as the rabbits that darted in front of her. Blood from her split lip burned the back of her throat.

How much longer could she stay ahead of him?

“Tala,” he yelled, his voice loud enough to startle her. He had drawn closer. “Hay en ninguna parte funcionar.”

She didn’t agree. Escape was still an option. If she reached the boulders, her pursuer would have to abandon his horse or risk the animal losing its footing. If the Spanish guard were on foot she would have the advantage. He didn’t know the terrain as well as she did.

The pendant around her neck thumped against her chest with every stride. Her arms and legs felt weighted with stones as sweat rolled down her face and stung her eyes. Clinging to hope, she pushed herself, pounding her aching heels into the rough dirt and pumping her arms faster.

Until her foot tangled in an exposed root.

She hit the ground hard, knocking the air from her lungs. Gasping, she scrambled on her belly, her fingernails scratching into the dry granite soil as she tried to drag herself away.

The thump of his boots on the dirt spurred her on.

She had to get away.

Before she could struggle to her feet, he grabbed her ankle. She kicked his wrist with her free foot, but he didn’t loosen his grip.

When he flipped her over, she screamed until he covered her mouth with a dirty, calloused hand. Tala stared at him in shock. She recognized the guard from the Mission de Alcala, but the lustful hunger in his eyes was new and turned her stomach.

She slid her bloodied fingers over her slightly rounded abdomen and murmured a soft apology to her unborn child.

He pressed a knife to her throat and tore at her dress with frenzied, rough hands. She struggled to break free, but his weight pinned her to the ground. When she scraped her broken nails across his cheek, he grasped her wrists with one hand and held her prone. And then he violated her.

She closed her eyes, praying for the spirits of her Kumeyaay ancestors to guide her soul.

§

Kate screamed, waking herself from the dream. Her nightshirt stuck to her sweat-drenched body. Coming to San Diego brought back the nightmare that had haunted her since childhood. She shuddered, pushing her hair back from her face. She thought by now it wouldn’t terrify her so much, but the dream felt real, the scent of sagebrush, the ache in her feet, the panic.

Too real.

Shaking off the dream, she got up and did her best to get a jump on the last few items on her to-do list. Since the renters moved out, she had the perfect opportunity to get her parents’ home ready to sell. But instead of making calls to carpet cleaners and painters, she surfed the web on her laptop, searching for Calisto Terana in San Diego.

The search engine’s hourglass turned over and over like it used a hamster running in a wheel as its only power source.

“Oh come on.” She clicked the refresh button again. Maybe he wasn’t from San Diego. He might’ve been a tourist visiting from Europe or something.

Finally the screen shifted, and she stared at the page in shock.

All of the search results showed a Calisto Terana, philanthropist and founder of Foundation Arts, the same charity her mother had supported. The same charity slated to inherit her mother’s piano. Kate glanced at the baby grand sitting in the corner and sighed. She’d tried to take care of everything last year. As the only child, no one else stood beside her to help with the loss, the loneliness, and the demands. In the end, it was too much too soon.

Losing both parents at once, without warning, left her bereft and barely functioning. Lori and Edie helped her box up most of their things and put them into storage, but Kate fell apart at the thought of selling the house. She didn’t make arrangements to donate her mother’s piano and sheet music, or many of the things her mother requested in the will.

In the end, she left the house furnished, rented it out, and left Point Loma for her new life in Reno. She’d deal with the rest of the estate later when her emotions weren’t so raw, she’d told herself.

It was definitely time to finish up her parents’ trust.

She set the laptop on the table, deciding to walk off some of her excess energy. It was a small world. What were the chances the founder of her mother’s favorite charity would be at the Mission de Alcala at the same time as her? What were the chances he’d be at the Mission at all?

And what were the chances he’d be gorgeous?

She sighed, remembering the way he approached her with the confidence and stealth of a jungle cat. He’d worn khaki slacks and a sage button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up loosely, exposing his muscular forearms.

It seemed plain to her that he was successful and professional, but there was something more she couldn’t put her finger on.

She reached up behind her neck, rubbing at a tight muscle. If she closed her eyes, she could still see him staring at her with dark, brooding eyes that warmed when his lips hinted at a smile. His broad shoulders and narrow waist made his athletic build impossible to ignore.

He had a European air about him, and even discounting his accent, Calisto didn’t strike her as a San Diegan. He wore his dark hair just past his shoulders, but rather than allowing it to hang in his face like a La Jolla surfer, he tied it back. And despite his olive skin, he didn’t seem particularly tanned.

The way he looked at her still haunted her thoughts and sent a shiver down her spine. Somehow Calisto had made her feel like a priceless treasure without ever saying a word. He hadn’t even touched her. And when he said her name…

She shook her head. Snap out of it.

In the den, she sat down at her father’s empty desk. She pulled her mother’s worn address book from her backpack and dug through it for the Foundation Arts phone number. Her mother wanted this, she told herself. She was fulfilling her mother’s wishes, not concocting a ploy to run into Calisto again.

Not much of one anyway.

What would be the harm if she happened to see him again? He was sexy eye candy. It wasn’t like she was going to marry him.

Now she sounded like a moonstruck fifth-grader. Great.

Kate rolled her eyes at her excuses and flipped pages in search of the number for Foundation Arts.

Her mother supported the arts around San Diego for most of her life. Kate hadn’t been shocked to discover she left her baby grand piano and collection of rare sheet music to her favorite charity. On some level, it did hurt a little that her mother didn’t leave it to her. She was by no means a virtuoso, but she knew how to play, and a piano would have been handy for her job as a choir director. She could’ve used it to plan the music for her classes and student choirs.

It didn’t surprise her, though.

Her mother lived to support the foundation, to support “The Arts.” As if Kate’s work was less than art. Her mother had her own set of goals for Kate’s future. You have miles of potential, she’d tell her. She really wanted her daughter to be a performer of some kind. Although Kate aced her vocal performance juries in college, teaching was her true passion.

The disappointment was plain in her mother’s eyes the day Kate turned down an offer for graduate school to study voice. Instead she entered the teaching credential program. She’d found her calling. She wouldn’t live her mother’s dream, but she wished her mom could’ve seen her work.

If she had been able to witness the joy on the teens’ faces when they sang together on stage for the first time, maybe then she might have realized Kate hadn’t settled. She might have understood Kate was an artist, and better yet, her work ensured an ongoing love of music in the next generation of art lovers.

If only.

Finding the number, she went to the phone and made the call.

“Foundation Arts, this is Betty.”

“Hi, I’m Kate Bradley. My mother left her piano to the Foundation—”

“Oh Kate, I’m sorry for your loss,” Betty said. “Martha was a wonderful woman. We all miss her. She spoke highly of you.”

Kate was more than a little surprised. “She did?”

“Of course,” Betty said, a smile coming through in her voice. “You’re a choir director in Nevada, right?”

Kate’s surprise morphed into shock. “Yes. I teach middle school chorus.”

“I’m sure it takes a lot of patience.”

“Yes, it does.” Kate collected her thoughts. “Um, the reason I called though…  My mother left her baby grand piano and her sheet music collection to your foundation. I just wanted to find out who to call about the piano moving.”

“I can handle all of it for you. I’ll need your signature on a few documents, and I’ll take care of everything else.”

Kate raised a brow. “You’ll handle finding piano movers?”

“Sure thing.”

“Great. How soon can we get this going?” Kate asked.

“Well…” Kate heard pages flipping on Betty’s end of the call. “I have a meeting at six o’clock tomorrow night. I can be a little early. How about five-thirty at The Fish Market? It’s the one near Seaport Village, on the bay.”

“Sounds great. I’ll see you then.” Kate placed the phone back on the receiver with a little smile. Maybe her mother respected her work more than she ever realized. Too bad it was too late to tell her how much it meant to her.

§

1775

Gregorio lived with the tribe for nearly three months before they took him to the Old One. He still mourned Tala’s death, unable to move past the pain and emptiness weighing down his soul. He drank very little and ate only when someone reminded him.

The pain of her loss became his only reality. Shadows and loss colored every part of his world.

Every time he saw the Romneya bloom in the valleys, he ached with memories of Tala, of the way she wore them in her hair and how they perfumed her skin. The sight of the ocean waves where they learned each other’s customs now tore him apart.

As the weeks passed, he found some solace in the tribal beliefs and eventually became involved in spiritual discussions with the Shaman about death, spirits of the dead, and the belief they might one day live again.

The night of the full moon, after the tribal ceremonies ended and embers were all that remained of their community fire, the Shaman told him stories of the Old One. The white-haired man lived on the cliffs overlooking the ocean. They believed he could delve into the minds and hearts of men. If the Old One found Gregorio worthy, he would bestow on him a new title, and Gregorio would become a member of the tribe.

The Shaman honored him with his invitation to meet the wise old man and make Gregorio a part of their tribe. But it did little to raise his spirits. A new name, a new life, it didn’t matter. Tala would not be part of it, and his soul would still be empty.

Each night when he slept, he saw her, held her, tasted her lips, and drank in the sound of her laughter, and each morning when he woke, his loss felt raw.

He began to hate the sun.

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Autism spectrum disorder (ASD) and autism are both general terms for a group of complex disorders of brain development. These disorders are characterized by difficulties in social interaction, verbal and nonverbal communication, and repetitive behaviors.

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Information:

Title: Love Knows No Bounds
Authors: Boone Brux, Nina Croft, Brooke Moss
Genre: Romance
Length: 289 pages
Release Date: April 2012
Imprint: Entangled Publishing Charity Anthology
 

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TWEET by Boone Brux
When ultra-shy pushover Faye Albert decides to live a little, she inadvertently binds her soul to Satan by following him on Twitter. And overnight, her dreams of being confident, beautiful, and adored by men are coming true. No longer is she overlooked, pushed out of her place in line, or just plain pushed over.

With time running out, and no idea how to unfollow Satan, she enlists the help of Christopher White, a gorgeous photographer from work. All the while, Satan’s little helper dogs her every step and offers her things she’s only dreamed of, tempting Faye with a lifetime of earthly treasures. And unconditional love. But will she say yes to a love that knows no bounds?

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BITTERSWEET by Brooke Moss
Anna Kirkpatrick isn’t looking for love. Being a single mom to Bowan, her eight-year-old autistic son, takes up all of her time…leaving no room for romance. Willing to do anything to help her son come out of his shell, Anna agrees to take Bowan to cooking classes with a world class chef.

When Anna and Leo discover that Bowan’s fondness for the kitchen extends beyond his peculiar cookbook collection, Leo quickly becomes the one person who can break through his barriers. But will Leo and Anna’s attraction lead to more than just a weekly cooking lesson?

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REMEMBER ME by Nina Croft
Unable to bear the thought of losing his mortal wife, Caden Wolfe steals the Elixir of Life and offers her eternity. But the theft is discovered, his wife is slain, and Caden is stripped of his angel wings and cast down into the Abyss.

Caden has spent a thousand years searching for his wife. Now he has found her, and only Phoebe’s love can redeem them both. But Phoebe fell in love with an angel, and Caden is now a demon of the Abyss. Can she see past what he has become, remember the love they once shared, and have a second chance at forever?

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