Chrysander Notos, Supreme God of the South Wind and Summer, is on a mission: save Eurus from his death sentence and prove his troubled brother can be redeemed. But Eurus fights back, triggering vicious storms that threaten the mortal realm and dangerously drain Chrys.

Laney Summerlyn refuses to give up her grandfather’s horse farm, despite her deteriorating vision. More than ever, she needs the organized routine of her life at Summerlyn Stables, until a ferocious storm brings an impossible—and beautiful—creature crashing down from the heavens.

Injured while fighting Eurus, Chrys finds himself at the mercy of a mortal woman whose compassion and acceptance he can’t resist. As they surrender to the passion flaring between them, immortal enemies close in, forcing Chrys to choose between his brother and the only woman who’s ever loved the real him.
 
Title: South of Surrender (Hearts of the Anemoi, #3)
Author: Laura Kaye
Genre: Paranormal Romance
Length: 326 pages
Release Date: May 28, 2013
ISBN: 978-1-62061-033-6
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-62061-034-3
Imprint: Entangled Select
 

 
 
 

Praise for South of Surrender:

“Sexy, emotional stories, powerful, evocative writing, a vivid and unique vision, and enough magic and mysticism to keep the most demanding reader satisfied, Laura Kaye delivers it all. I love this series!”
- New York Times Bestselling Author Maggie Shayne

Excerpt:

© 2013 Laura Kaye
 

Chapter One

Chrysander Notos found his brother right where their nightmarish summer began, on top of the west tower of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. While he circled through the dark sky far overhead, Chrys watched Eurus pace the narrow catwalk atop the structure. What the hell was he doing here, of all places?

Summoning the powerful energy of the South Wind, Chrys prepared for what was sure to be another brutal battle. He didn’t want to fight Eurus. Just the opposite, in fact. But fighting seemed to be all his older brother knew anymore. The accumulated scars on Chrys’s body from the past three months proved that, and now he wore his weariness like a second skin.

But someone had to save Eurus from himself and the Olympic gods’ death sentence. And Chrys was the only viable candidate. Zephyros and Owen were mated, and Boreas deserved to bask in his new status as grandfather.

Not to mention, Eurus’s problems were partly his fault. After everything, Chrys owed him the effort. Least he could do.

Eurus froze and scanned the heavens, revealing the exact moment he perceived Chrys’s presence. No sense delaying now.

In his elemental form, Chrys shot down before Eurus took flight. Shifting into corporeality at the edge of the tower’s top platform, he braced for Eurus’s attack. He could never predict whether his brother preferred to get right to the main event of kicking his ass—not something he should be able to do, not in Chrys’s own damn season, anyway—or might be up for a little verbal sparring first.

Eurus turned on his heel, black leather duster whipping around him in the heavy, humid wind. Chrys could sense his brother’s glare through the black wraparound glasses he always wore, but the blows didn’t come. Up for the sparring, then.

“Behold the do-gooder. How nice for me.”

“Why are you here, E?” Chrys asked. No way Eurus’s return to the exact spot where he’d killed their brother’s wife—or tried to; Mars had interceded and brought her back as a goddess—was coincidence. It meant something, but with Eurus it was hard to tell exactly what.

“Mmm, just basking in pleasant memories,” he said with a sneer. “What’s your excuse?”

Acidic rage churned in Chrys’s gut. Their brother Zephyros and his wife Ella were happy now, but that didn’t erase his recollection of Zeph’s brutal agony when they’d thought Ella gone for good. Chrys shoved the useless thoughts away. Eurus liked to pick at a person’s most sensitive scabs. It was one of his specialties. So Chrys caged his anger and refused to take the bait. “I’m here for the same reason I’ve been dogging you all summer. Come back to the Realm of the Gods with me. Atone. We can work this out. It doesn’t have to go down this way.”

“Grow the fuck up, Chrysander. I don’t want your help. And I sure as hell don’t need it.” He fisted his right hand, flashing the faceted firestone ring he wore in the bright lights that marked the tower’s corners.

Chrys’s eyes tracked the movement. That damn ring was half the problem. It belonged to their father, Aeolus, the most powerful storm god of them all, and somehow Eurus had gotten his hands on it. Which explained the entire summer’s worth of ass kicking. The sacred stone gave its wearer the power to control all the winds and, thus, him. Bad enough when his father made use of those powers. Catastrophic now that Eurus could.

Chrys hadn’t told anyone that Eurus had Aeolus’s ring for fear that knowledge would hammer yet another nail into his brother’s coffin—not to mention their father’s for not making that little revelation himself. Now, that shit was just waiting to hit the fan.

“What’s your end game here? Huh? You’re playing right into the Olympians’ hands, and for what? For now, they’re letting the family resolve this situation, but once they’re involved, it’ll be too late.” The humid bay breeze whipped around him. He tugged long strands of hair out of his eyes.

“As if I would tell you, boy.” Eurus crossed his arms over his broad chest and sighed. “I tire of your questions.” The smug smile that settled on his face was all the creepier for the new, slashing red scar carved into the left side of his face from temple to lips. How he’d gotten the wound—which could only have come at the hand of a stronger god—Chrys had no clue. “In truth, I tire of you.”

Chrys ignored the way his heart tripped. A lifetime of trying—and failing—to win your big brother’s approval made you a bit sensitive, though. Fucking hell. “Eurus, man, come on. I just want to help you. You’re my brother. And we can fix this.”

The firestone flared to life, a soft red that soon blazed so bright it was hard to look at.

Chrys braced, his muscles suddenly alive with tension. The air constricted around his body.

Eurus’s ring finger twitched.

It was all Chrys needed to see. In a heartbeat, he flashed into his elemental form and shot skyward.

Eurus’s energy followed.

How many more fights did Chrys have in him? Dark clouds already gathered and billowed around them. Inky tendrils of Eurus’s malevolent East Wind gusted over him, crawling through his energy as if searching for a weak spot. Even in his elemental form, Chrys shuddered as he released a burst of power to throw them off.

But it was too little, too late.

Preternatural disturbances in the air rammed him from all directions as if he were a featherweight boxer facing an invisible heavyweight opponent. Icy cold North Wind that Eurus had no business commanding lashed against him like a frozen whip, the frigidity stealing Chrys’s breath and power with every cutting impact. Exactly what his brother intended, since Chrys’s intolerance to cold wasn’t exactly a secret. Chrys dug deep into his powers and poured on everything he could muster, but hell if three long months of fighting a stronger god hadn’t depleted his reserves. He rocketed across the bay and over the Eastern Shore, hoping to draw the threatening storm over the Atlantic Ocean where it would do less damage to land and people.

A ripple of electricity shuddered past him, as if conducted by the humidity. Damn it all to Hades. The defeated thought had barely formed before Eurus’s attack hit home. Lightning belted around him in tight, suffocating, scorching loops.

Chrys cried out, an agonized roar that unleashed a series of deafening crashes of thunder.

Knowing he was out of time, he struggled to twist free and flung bolts of his own, zinging electricity across the sky in flashes of red and purple and orange so unnatural he knew they’d capture the attention of humanity, but he had no choice. Soon, he would be completely at his brother’s mercy. Not that Eurus had any. And damn if that gem of an admission didn’t highlight the possibility that Eurus was a total lost cause. But how was he supposed to just give up on the brother he’d spent the better part of his life trying to save?

He didn’t have time to ponder an answer.

Eurus’s electricity attached to Chrys’s energy signature, slowly but surely stealing his self-control and siphoning off his life force, like a vampire supping at leisure from his victim’s throat. An immortal could only be injured by another of stronger power—and that fucking ring was giving Eurus, normally the least powerful of the four Anemoi, everything he needed.

A monster of a storm opened up all around them, tropical force winds howling, rains pounding down in diagonal gashes, thunder and lightning shaking the very world. The storm, the battle, the manner of Eurus’s attack—this was the worst yet between them.

But Chrys refused to go down alone. If this was it, if this was how Eurus wanted it, they were going out together. Eurus was whole galaxies away from perfect, but hell if Chrys was going to let anyone else take out the brother he’d helped fuck up.

With his last burst of energy and control, Chrys yanked hard against his electric restraints and released, slingshotting himself across the sky toward his tormenter, toward his demise.

He’d lived too long for his whole life to flash before his eyes, so a few key moments sank their hooks into his wavering consciousness—all from his young godhood, and all instances of Aeolus denying Eurus affection, touch, and attention, while he lavished the same on Chrysander. Or, at least, his version of affection.

Chrys would’ve sworn that sometimes, too many times, Aeolus’s touch had been about proving he could control one or all of them. While other times, he just knew the attention was intended to hurt Eurus. The image of young Eurus’s humiliated, yearning, accusing gazes were burned into Chrys’s subconscious, and he saw those now, too. Each instance of his father using Chrys—the only Anemoi birthed by a different mother—as a pawn in punishing Eurus for his mother’s childbed death, left Chrys feeling more and more separate from the rest of them. After a time, he came to associate guilt, resentment, and lack of control with his father’s affection so strongly that he shied away from it, finding it uncomfortable to be touched and hard to believe he was actually lovable. Not when his existence so harmed another.

What-the-fuck-ever. Ancient history. Blah, blah, blah.

Clearly, none of that mattered now.

The lash of lightning unwound from his rocketing body. But if Eurus had realized what was about to happen, he’d reacted too late. Chrys slammed into his brother so hard thunder and lightning exploded around them, the force of the impact sending a devastating microburst of air and rain pounding to earth. Shit!

They plummeted in a tangle of elemental energy through the turbulent night sky, Eurus roaring ancient curses at him before finally regaining control.

Damnit, E, stop!

I was saving you for last, Eurus snarled, using the power of the firestone ring to force Chrys out of the elements and into corporeality.

A preternatural wind held him aloft, his head wrenched backward as Eurus pulled at his long hair so hard his scalp burned.

“No,” Chrys mumbled, almost unable to vocalize the word.

Eurus manifested into his human form, a sword of fiery lightning in his hand. He plunged it toward Chrys’s heart.

Chrys raised his left arm to block the blow, and the white-hot blade sliced into his forearm and scorched deep into his right shoulder. The unexpected angle of the indirect hit threw Eurus off balance, and he released Chrys’s hair.

The air dropped out from under him.

His backward motion un-impaled his shoulder from the rod of lightning. And then he was in a free fall. Struggling to hold onto even the smallest vestige of lucidity, Chrys concentrated with all his might to summon the South Wind, to return himself to the cradling safety of his elemental form.

Flash. He went elemental. Relief surged through h—

Flash. Without trying to, he materialized back into his human form.

He willed the wind to heed his call. Any moment, Eurus would be on him again. If he could just— Flash. Neither wind nor body this time, but his sacred animal form. The winged horse. Ancient icon of the power of the Anemoi.

Almighty Zeus. He couldn’t will it. He couldn’t control it. As he plummeted downward through the black deluge, he shifted randomly, repeatedly, tearing his body apart and reassembling it over and over until he lost track of what he was. Who he was.

And then he lost his hold on consciousness itself.

Chapter Two

Laney Summerlyn hated thunderstorms with a passion, and this was no regular storm. The wind blew so hard it sounded like the roof could lift off the house, and a wet dripping in the living room turned out to be rain forced in through the east-facing windows. The concussive deluge was deafening, not a welcome sensation for someone already nearly blind.

As loud as it was, the screaming of the horses still made it to Laney’s ears. And that was driving her crazy. She debated going out to the barn, checking on them, calming them. But she couldn’t seem to force herself out the door and into the torrent. Her night vision had been the first thing to go, and getting disoriented and lost outside in a storm when she was nineteen had left her terrified of them.

But those horses were her babies. Her family.

A clap of thunder exploded low and close. Laney jumped, chiding herself even as her heart raced. The lights flickered, once, twice, which she could just make out through the pinpoint of central vision that remained in her right eye, like looking through a drinking straw. The threatening dark got her off the couch and in search of a lantern before the power shut off for good. It might not be many years until she lost her sight entirely. Then she’d be forced to live in total darkness. In the meantime, she intended to soak in every bit of light and color and memory of the physical world she could.

“Stay, Finn,” she said to her chocolate Labrador. Not that he was likely to get up, old as he was, but he kept an eye on Laney like the guard dog he’d once been. Laney counted her steps from the couch across the spacious open living room to the adjoining kitchen and finally to the hall closet, then reached in and retrieved the third object from the left on the middle shelf—a battery-operated lantern. Through her mobility training, she’d long ago memorized her way around, as well as the location of everything in her house—such organization made her independence possible. Laney could take care of herself just fine.

She’d no more closed the closet door than a tremendous burst of thunder detonated above her house, shaking the building as if a bomb had gone off. Laney struggled to swallow against the lump in her throat. In. Out. In. Out. She focused on the mechanics of breathing to ease her anxiety. Clutching the lantern to her chest as if it could keep her safe, she forced away the panic.

Despite the air conditioning, the air suddenly felt thick and heavy, like something was happening, something was coming. The rain continued to pour down, but there was a stillness that felt…wrong.

A series of cracks ricocheted from outside, then a crash. The sound of the horses’ distress went from nervous to outright panic. Laney saw every bit of the farm in her head, like a 3-D model she could turn and manipulate. That damn sound came from her stable. Her gut squeezed.

Forcing herself to take the measured steps that allowed her to count her paces, Laney went for the coat closet in the foyer and found her raincoat. She slid it on and snapped it closed with shaking fingers. Taking a deep breath, she stepped out onto the porch and walked right into the howling night and the soaking rain. Her hair instantly matted to her face and the wind blew so hard it stole her breath.

You can do this, Laney. You have to do this.

Lantern in one hand, she grasped the lead line tied to the newel post at the bottom of the stairs with the other and followed the well-worn path toward the stable. The thick blackness swallowed the lantern light and negated what was left of her sight, sending her heart into a sprint. Her sneakers slipped in the mud puddles over and over. If she fell and lost the line… No. Don’t go there. She held onto it so tight it dug into her palm. But the pain was worth it. As long as she held onto the rope, she knew right where she was because of the plastic tags hanging from it at ten-foot intervals.

The closer she got to the stable, the more obvious the horses’ fear became. They snorted and blew, kicked and pawed at the walls, screamed and struck their massive bodies against the grated doors and sides of their stalls. She imagined them pacing, desperate for escape. Her stomach squeezed and sank.

Please, whatever that noise was, don’t let it have injured one of my babies.

Soaked, muddy, and breathless with dread, Laney passed the seventh tag on the line, and then her hand encountered the cold metal of the door handle to which the line was tied. She yanked the door to the right and it glided easily on its track.

Laney reached out, found the panel of light switches, and flipped every one of them, flooding the nine-stall center-aisle barn with yellow light. Adrenaline flooded through her so fast she was shaky, making it hard to focus the sliver of central vision she still possessed. But it was clear the barn had been damaged. Wind gusted through, raising a chill on her wet skin, and an intense shower of rain echoed against the floor at the far end.

She settled the lantern on a shelf and let her raincoat drop to the floor. Cocoa Puff’s agitation was clear in the flurry of movements and blows coming from the old mare, who was the most high-strung of them all. Laney moved to the barred grill of the first stall and shushed her like she would a small child. Cocoa let out a high-pitched nicker and tossed her head. Laney wanted to stroke her forehead, but hesitated to get too close when the horse was so riled. “You’re okay. Mama’s here. You’re a pretty girl, Cocoa,” she cooed. The rescued Morgan nickered again and pushed her nose into Laney’s hand. She snuffed as if looking for treats. “Next time, I promise. I gotta go check on the others now. Okay? I’m right here.”

Trailing her hand over the grated fronts of the stalls, Laney moved to the next door and found Casper, a white Sabino gelding that was another of her rescue horses. Casper strained his head toward her, and Laney laid her cheek on his forehead. “You okay, buddy?” She petted the soft white hair covering his neck. “Yeah, you’re okay.”

Laney’s heart still raced in her chest, and she wiped the water from her face as she moved to the next stall. Three more.

“Hey, Rolly,” she said, finding the muzzle of the Appaloosa spotted almost like a Dalmatian, lots of creamy white with occasional black spots. He blew against her hand then pulled away. Rolly was her newest rescue. Recovering from a supposedly accidental gunshot to the abdomen, he remained standoffish. Couldn’t blame him, really.

The volume of the rain tapering off now, Laney crossed the center aisle to an empty stall and turned toward the two remaining horses. Hope rose within her and calmed the worst of her fear. All her senses told her the damage was restricted to the opposite—and empty—end of the barn. Her hand found the next door, and the colt—a boarder—nipped at her fingers. Mouthy thing. Laney smiled as tension eased from her shoulders. She couldn’t imagine telling Windsong’s owner, a fifteen year old named Kara who had just been diagnosed with retinitis pigmentosa—the same degenerative eye disease from which Laney suffered—that anything had happened to the colt. Stroking his cheek, she said, “Good thing you’re so handsome.” He licked her forearm. “Ew, Windy.” She backed away, chuckling, and wiped her arm on her T-shirt.

Finally, Laney came to the last stall she needed to check, and Sappho nickered softly and reached her head out. “Hi, baby,” Laney said, leaning her forehead against the silky black mane of her Friesian, the first horse she’d owned, a gift from her grandfather on her sixteenth birthday. When other kids got cars, Laney got her very own filly. She’d grown up around her pop’s horses, so getting Sappho that day had been a wish come true. Less than a year later, she’d started noticing problems with her vision. As her sight deteriorated, more than once she’d cried on this horse’s shoulder. Ten years had passed, but Sappho still had the power to cheer her up more than anything else.

“You okay?” she asked, reassuring herself more than the mare. Laney let out a long breath, fear making her feel tired and wrung out, even after determining the horses were all fine. “Let’s just hang out for a minute and calm down. How ‘bout that?”

Sappho chuffed out a breath against her hand, a soft affectionate agreement. Laney wished she could clearly see the Friesian’s eyes, which had always held such intelligence and understanding, but the black-on-black coloring obscured the details. This animal probably knew her better than anyone ever had—her grandfather excepted, though he was gone now. Off to greener pastures. The thought always made her smile.

After a few minutes, Laney realized the rain had stopped. A humid breeze gusted and water dripped occasionally, but otherwise only the normal sounds of the horses filled the space.

She gave Sappho a final pat and turned toward the other end of the barn. Seth would have to give her the full picture of the damage when he got here in the morning. Her long-time farm manager and horse trainer—not to mention best friend—was here every day. In fact, he was here so frequently that her grandfather’s will provided for the construction of a caretaker’s cottage for Seth. If it would ever stop raining maybe they could finish construction. This summer had been the wettest on record, halting their progress, and this storm was the worst of them all. In fact, given his protectiveness of her, she was surprised Seth hadn’t called during the storm. She’d made it quite clear on numerous occasions she was more than capable of taking care of herself, but that didn’t stop him from worrying over her every chance he got. It would be annoying if it wasn’t so endearing.

A kind of morbid curiosity drove her toward the damage to see what she could for herself. Trailing her hand along the rail, Laney held her breath in anticipation of what she’d find. A twisted piece of metal railing was the first thing that told her she’d found what she was looking for. Damn. Just before he’d died two years ago, her grandfather had rebuilt the stable, so everything was new and state-of-the-art. Her stomach dropped as she began to get a feel for the damage, which mostly seemed to have impacted the end two stalls. Crossing the center aisle, she found the tack room walls intact. A quick circuit revealed everything was how it was supposed to be. The damage was confined to the other side, then.

Laney grabbed a rake from a hook and flipped it handle side down as she crossed back to assess the damage. She rarely carried her cane around the farm, but if part of the ceiling had come down, there would be debris. As she stepped into the ruined stall, she tapped the pole in front of her, searching out obstructions that might trip her up. The sound was immediately wrong, metallic, and her foot landed on a sheet of metal that wasn’t the normal rubber-over-concrete flooring. Part of the roof had collapsed.

Slowly, she lifted the rake handle and swung it in front of her to ensure no pieces of roofing hung loose from the ceiling. Nothing.

Returning her makeshift cane to the floor, she tapped along a large section of metal sheeting.

But what the hell brought it down?

She expected to find part of the ancient oak tree that stood behind the barn, but nothing she was finding confirmed that theory.

Laney was just about to give up when the handle encountered something on the floor, solid but giving. She focused and scanned her limited vision back and forth, her brain slowly assembling the pieces of the picture into a whole that made her gasp out loud.

It was a horse. She blinked and squinted. A weird yellow halo flickered across her vision when she looked closer. It really was a freaking horse.

How? From where? Laney mentally recounted her steps to ensure she’d checked on all her horses. Cocoa, Casper, Rolly, Windsong, Sappho. She’d talked to and touched every one of them. She was sure of it.

And even if she wasn’t, this stall had been empty for a long time. None of her regular horses used it.

Oh, crap. Could there have been a tornado? They were rare in Maryland, but what the heck else would drop a horse out of the sky? Just imagining that’s what happened made her stomach toss.

Setting the rake to the side, Laney crouched, her gut queasy and pulse pounding in her ears, and found the wet barrel of the horse’s belly with her hand. The lift and fall of its breathing was immediately obvious, shooting relief through her amazed disbelief. He’s alive.

She moved from between the horse’s legs. Downed horses could thrash or kick. Getting injured was the last thing she needed. She crouched near his head and stroked his golden neck, that strange halo effect growing brighter. Laney clenched and reopened her eyes, but it was still there.

“Hey, friend,” she whispered, still struggling to believe what her pinpoint of sight was telling her was there. She leaned in close enough to see the eye was closed, though flickering. Every once in a while, the horse shuddered out a breath, but otherwise its respiration was just a little fast. She pressed her fingers against the fetlock joint toward the bottom of his leg and found a pulse. Heart rate was elevated, but not as unusual as she might’ve expected. How could he still be alive? Given what had likely happened to him and his unconscious state, she expected him to be a lot worse off.

When she leaned away, Laney’s hand brushed something sticky and she traced her fingers over the horse’s left front leg. A gash flayed open the golden flesh.

She needed to get help. Now.

Laney fished her iPhone out of her pocket and pressed the extra-large telephone icon in the bottom right corner. “Seth is going to have a cow when he sees you,” she murmured. She waited for it to connect. And waited. She redialed but had the same luck. No signal. “Seriously?”

Groaning, Laney pocketed her phone as she rose. There were two land lines in the barn. Overkill for a sighted person, but having both made it easier for her to get to one of them when they rang.

Back in the tack room, Laney dialed Seth’s number, but all she got was an odd fast busy signal with lots of crackling static. Why would she still have lights but no phones?

She sighed. Stupid storm. The service would get restored soon. In the meantime, she grabbed the first-aid kit and a couple of stable blankets and returned to her mystery guest. Laney was known for taking in strays, but this was going a little far, even for her.

Inside the kit, the bottles were sized differently and color-coded so she could tell the different solutions apart. She poured saline from the white bottle over the wound to clean it, then did her best to center a gauze pad over the injury before securing it with Vetwrap. Doing this was probably stupid, given what his other injuries likely were, but it made her feel useful. And at least it would stay clean until she could get the vet out here.

“What else is wrong with you?” she murmured. Carefully, she worked her way around his head, and smoothed her hands over his shoulder to his—

“What the hell?”

Her fingers encountered something downy soft. Something that had no business on a horse’s back.

She looked. Squinted. Leaned in and looked again.

There was no way she was seeing what her very low vision was telling her she was seeing.

No way on earth.

Running her hands over the feathery protrusion confirmed what her sight had identified.

The horse…the horse had wings.

Chapter Three

Awe and wonder—not to mention a healthy dose of fear—rushed through Laney’s veins so hard she became lightheaded.

She pressed her fingers against the downy softness of the wings again and sucked in a breath. Never had she felt something so silky, so plush, and her fingertips were especially sensitive to touch.

Sinking her hand into the complex layers of feathers, Laney had to accept what all her senses were telling her.

A winged horse had crashed through the ceiling of her stable in the midst of a terrible storm.

Dizziness threatened to swamp her. She forced a deep breath.

How was this possible? Maybe she was actually in her bed dreaming right now? Or maybe her sight had finally failed her after all? Though, that didn’t explain what she’d felt…

Her amazement morphed into concern as her imagination painted a picture of this magnificent beast battling the elements and losing. Were there others like him? Would they be searching for him?

Did the fact she was actually entertaining the existence of a…of a Pegasus certify her as raving mad?

But here he was. In the flesh. Far, far from wherever he belonged.

The thought that he was lost, all alone, and injured made her heart squeeze. And, oh God, it wasn’t like she could bring the vet out now. What the hell was she going to do? If anyone else saw him, they’d take him away, study him, lock him up.

No way.

Or, they’d take her away, run a series of psych tests, and lock her up.

Also not appealing.

“Don’t worry, I’ll figure something out,” she whispered as she stroked him.

Her finger caught on a bent feather. She smoothed her palm over the area and found more damage—the sharp edges of broken feather spines and, again, a stickiness she feared was blood. Red smears on her hand confirmed her suspicion.

Unlike his leg, she had no idea how to treat a wing, for goodness sake. She just hoped he didn’t thrash in his sleep and damage it further.

“What am I going to do with you?” she asked. She spread out several horse blankets to provide a barrier between her skin and the puddles and debris, then sat all the way down. Her legs were all pins and needles from squatting, and she just needed a minute to stretch them out. “I’ll stay with you, okay?” Stroking his golden neck and mane, all she could think was, I’m touching a Pegasus!

After a while, she grabbed an extra stable blanket and pulled it up over her bare legs. Her clothes were nearly dry, but her sneakers were still wet and squishy, so she slipped them off. Thunder rumbled in the distance, once, twice. Laney’s stomach dropped and, instinctively, she leaned into the horse’s big body. Through everything, horses had always been her greatest comfort. Despite this guy’s differences, he still gave her that same feeling of safety and solace.

And, in contrast to the cooling night breeze, he was so warm.

For a long moment, Laney reveled in the soft rise and fall of his body, proof that this miraculous beast existed. And that he lived.

His heat seeped into her muscles, achy from the tension she’d borne earlier. Now that she knew all her babies were safe, fatigue roared through her body and Laney couldn’t stop yawning. She should get up. Arguably, it wasn’t safe sitting here by him—are Pegasuses even friendly? The question made her head spin. Five more minutes. She just couldn’t pull herself away from something so magical. But it definitely wouldn’t be safe to fall asleep. Just a while longer. The shoulder she leaned against rose and fell, rose and fell. Just a little while longer…

…

Bone-crushing pain and soul-deep exhaustion told Chrysander Notos he was still alive.

He was adrift in a dark sea of agony, disoriented and alone. His limbs weighed a thousand pounds. Putting the full force of his wavering concentration behind the effort, he forced his eyelids open. The low light stung and he blinked and squinted.

Finally, his eyes adjusted. He scanned his surroundings—an odd red metal floor lay beneath him, and the wall before him was made of some kind of unusual fencing. Chrys couldn’t assemble the parts into a meaningful whole, and didn’t have the energy to think about it, anyway.

At least his form had stabilized. He lay as a man…wherever he was.

The tighter his grasp on consciousness, the more Chrys became aware of another sensation: luxurious warmth against his back. And as hurt as he was, he craved more of whatever was providing the life-giving heat.

Lifting his head made the world swim, forcing him to pause and breathe through the disorientation. His right shoulder protested the movement, still raw from being stabbed by the leashed lightning Eurus shouldn’t have been able to wield, but Chrys had to know what he was feeling.

Easing onto his back, Chrys found himself staring into the sleeping face of an incredibly beautiful woman. Long black hair spilled down around her shoulder, and cherry red lips set off the fairness of her skin. She lay stretched out against him, her head now resting against his bicep.

The comfort her body heat provided was so intense, her laying against him didn’t even set off his usual anxiety about being touched. As long as he controlled physical contact, he could handle it, but being touched by others was a one-way ticket to a panic attack. It was a sign of his pain and desperation that he now wanted more of this stranger touching him. His condition yearned for her warmth, demanded it.

He struggled to turn toward her, and was struck by the burning ache seizing his forearm. From where he’d blocked the— He gawked. Thick bandages now covered the wound. She’d patched him up?

The thought that she’d touched him while he was so vulnerable should’ve alarmed him, but it simply made him crave her even harder. Shaking from the effort, Chrys slowly turned until he faced her. Soft, warm exhalations hushed over the skin of his chest. He scooted closer, until her lips were but a breath away from his pecs. A length of her hair caressed his arm, thick and soft and warm.

It still wasn’t enough.

Chrys pressed his legs against hers. She let out a sigh and shifted. Chrys froze and then nearly groaned as she burrowed against him, her forehead tight against his chest and her legs entwined with his.  Her incredible body heat flowed into him and more than compensated for the dizziness sending black spots around the edges of his vision. He breathed through a rolling wave of nausea.

Thank the gods for this woman, whoever she was. Bad off as he was, he couldn’t even bother to care. He should. Gods only knew what she’d seen, but all he could think about was how her body warmed his from calves to throat. To Chrys, heat was life. And she was giving him both. A shudder of relief ran through him.

Not wanting to wake her, Chrys refrained from going as far as wrapping his arm around her like he wanted to, but he needed heat so intensely he couldn’t muster more than a passing guilt for using her this way.

His head thunked to the floor and his eyes sagged.

Naked. You’re naked, Notos. Shit. Chrys concentrated, willing material, any material—he’d take a damn toga if that’s what he could get—to materialize over his bottom half. He broke out in a cold sweat and shuddered. You know you’re in the shit when you can’t even cover your bare ass.

Fuck it. After some shut-eye and a few hours of her heat, he’d be in more shape to worry about making himself presentable.

Fatigue pressed down on him, made even the involuntary action of breathing take way too much effort. His gut soured and tossed. Closing his eyes and concentrating on her heat seemed to be the only way to combat the revolt his stomach kept threatening. He pressed his face into the woman’s hair—oranges. She smelled of sweet, juicy oranges.

Soaking in her warmth and her summery scent, Chrys succumbed to his injured exhaustion and passed out again.

That is, until he’s offered the chance to command a private hostage rescue team and free a wealthy American businessman from Colombian paramilitary rebels. It seems like a good deal—until he meets his new team: a drunk Cajun linguist, a boy-genius CIA threat analyst, an FBI negotiator with mob ties, a cowboy medic, and an EOD expert as volatile as the bombs he defuses. Oh, and who could forget the sexy, frustratingly impulsive Audrey Van Amee? She’s determined to help rescue her brother—or drive Gabe crazy. Whichever comes first.

As the death toll rises, Gabe’s team of delinquents must figure out how to work together long enough to save the day. Or, at least, not get themselves killed.Because Gabe’s finally found something worth living for, and God help him if he can’t bring her brother back alive.
 
Title: SEAL of Honor (HORNET, #1)
Author: Tonya Burrows
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Length: 336 pages
Release Date: May 28, 2013
ISBN: 978-1-62061-258-3
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-62061-259-0
Imprint: Entangled Select
 

 
 
 

Praise for SEAL of Honor:

“A super sexy thrill ride guaranteed to make you swoon!”
- New York Times Bestselling Author Laura Kaye

Excerpt:

© 2013 Tonya Burrows
 

Chapter One

BOGOTÁ, COLOMBIA

God help him if he didn’t make it to the airport by seven.

Bryson Van Amee checked his watch for the fourth time in as many minutes and frowned. Armando, his usual driver, was as prompt and reliable as the sunrise, and just as cheerful, which was why Bryson—who was not a morning person—always requested him.

Of all the days for him to be late.

Bryson tamped down a hot surge of fear-laced irritation. He had to meet his incoming cargo in Barranquilla and make a three p.m. appointment in Cartagena, and he did not want to piss off this particular client. Just thinking about it made him sweat. Yes, he should have known better than to dip his toes into the murky pool of the gray market, but with that first not-quite-legal gun shipment, he had jumped in with both feet. Now, as he sank into the deep abyss of the black market, where all manner of nasty predators lurked, he couldn’t find a life vest. No wonder his heart had been acting up over the past several months.

He tapped his foot, checked his watch again, checked the street. A skinny tabby cat perched on the edge of a dumpster in the alley behind him, but there was no other soul around. Even the vendor that sold handmade knickknacks, who always set up his rollaway shop on the low stone wall across the street, hadn’t made it out yet.

Bryson normally enjoyed that Colombian attitude of I’ll get there when I get there. No mad dashes through morning traffic with a Starbucks cup sloshing mocha frappe crap all over his Porsche. For a man used to the impatient get-up-and-go of American cities, visiting the laid-back country of Colombia was always a nice change of pace.

Except when his driver was running late.

Another quick check of the watch, street, watch. Twenty minutes late. Damn, he should have bought Armando a cell phone last time he was in town. At least then, he would have been able to call and find out what the holdup was.

He reached into his pocket for his own phone. He hated to report Armando to the limo company when the man had been so good to him, but he needed another car. Now.

Just as he swiped away the photo of his wife and kids on the iPhone’s screen, the phone rang and his sister’s grinning face popped up on the display. Audrey.

He considered ignoring her call—but, God, what if she’d gotten herself into a mess again? He thumbed the answer button and her face filled the screen. Make-up free, her golden brown hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail, she looked so much younger than her twenty-seven years.

“Hi, Brys,” she said with a bright smile. She’d always been a disgustingly chipper morning person, even as a baby.

“Something wrong, sweetie?” he asked. “Are you okay? Do you need more money?”

“I’m fine.” She rolled her eyes and raised a coffee mug to her mouth.

God, coffee. He’d forgotten to grab a cup in his rush to get out the door and his mouth watered for a taste.

“And I’ve told you a thousand times,” Audrey added after taking a sip, “I don’t need or want your money.”

The hell she didn’t need it. “You can’t tell me you’re making enough doing caricature sketches for tourists.”

“Uh, well, no. I’m not doing caricatures anymore.”

Bryson suppressed the groan rumbling inside his chest, took off his square-framed glasses, and rubbed his eyes. He loved his baby sister, he truly did, but dealing with her was tiring and not what he needed this early in the morning when he was stressing out about the missing—

Ah, there it is.

The shiny black limo rounded the corner at the top of the street and cruised to a stop in front of his apartment complex. Instead of short, balding Armando, a tall dark-haired man got out of the driver’s seat.

“Señor Van Amee?”

“Just a minute, Audrey,” he said before addressing the driver in Spanish, “What happened to Armando?”

“His son is very sick and had to go to the hospital. I apologize for the delay. It took some time to find a replacement,” the driver answered, hustled around the car, and opened the back door. He wasn’t dressed in a suit, but Armando didn’t always wear one either. “I am Jacinto. I’ll get you to the airport in no time.”

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He’d used this limo company for years now and had never seen Jacinto before. “Are you new?”

“Just started, Señor.”

Bryson shifted on his feet, checked his watch again. The idea of using a driver he hadn’t screened made him itch but, dammit, what other choice did he have? Barring any morning traffic or an incident at the airport, he should still make both his appointments on time if he left right this very second.

He climbed into the limo.

“Audrey, you still there?” Bryson asked as the driver slid behind the wheel and put up the privacy partition. A moment later, the limo started with a purr and pulled away from the curb.

So maybe Jacinto would do just fine as a replacement. Professional, friendly, and discreet—all excellent qualities in a driver. If his background check came up clean, it wouldn’t hurt to keep him in mind for the future in case another emergency cropped up with Armando’s family.

Bryson made a mental note to find out which hospital Armando’s son was at and send a get well gift. Or money if the family needed it.

“I’m here,” Audrey said and reappeared on the screen. “Ran for a coffee refill. Are you busy?”

“On my way to a meeting.”

“I won’t keep you then. I just wanted to make sure you remembered my opening next weekend at Museo de Arte Contemporaneo. You said you’d come.”

Uh-oh. Her art show in San José, Costa Rica. He’d forgotten all about it. He checked the schedule on his phone. Could possibly move a couple meetings around, but that would take a lot of shuffling just to indulge her and her silly hobbies. “I’m sorry, Audrey, but—”

She set her coffee mug on the table in front of her with a hard thunk. “Brys, you promised!”

“Sweetie, I have some very important business deals happening that weekend, none of which I can shove back, and I have to be in L.A. on Sunday morning for…” He shook his head as his train of thought slid away. What was he saying?

Audrey. Paintings. Work.

It was an old argument, one he could have while gagged and blindfolded, and he settled on one of his pat responses since his mind was suddenly, strangely blurry. “If you want to stay in that condo, I need to work and that means meetings.”

“Well, guess what?”

No, he really didn’t want to guess. She had that petulant look on her face—drawn brows, a poked out lower lip. The same look that had gotten her anything she wanted as a child. The one that told him he would not like the next words out of her mouth.

“Audrey—”

“I don’t live in the condo. Never did. I sold it the week after you left and gave the money to a charity. I gave your accountant the receipt for your taxes.”

“You what?” Oh God, then where was she living? Hopefully not in another beach shack with no indoor plumbing. His parents would roll over in their graves if they knew their precious baby girl enjoyed living one minuscule step up above a homeless person.

“I told you I didn’t want it in the first place,” she continued. “I was happy in Quepos. I was happy in my little hut. Don’t you get that?”

“No, I—” His vision blurred. He blinked a couple times and when that didn’t clear away the fuzziness, he pressed his fingers into his eyelids. Boy, was he tired. All of his time zone hopping was catching up to him. Maybe he should ask Jacinto to stop somewhere for a cup of hot, bold Colombian coffee.

On second thought, if he drank some, he wouldn’t be able to sleep on the short plane ride to Barranquilla. A nap hadn’t been in his original plan—he intended to review contracts on the plane like he always did—but with the way he felt now, a nap was probably the best idea. Last thing he needed was to be sluggish around the people he was meeting this afternoon.

“Are you even listening to me?” Audrey said, and he blinked her blurry face into focus. Had—had she been talking? He opened his mouth to answer, but his tongue wouldn’t wrap itself around her name.

Something was wrong. He tried again and only managed to croak out, “Aw-ree.”

“Bryson?” Her tone sharpened with worry, but he could no longer make out her features on the little screen. “Are you okay?”

No. No, he was not okay, but when he tried to tell her, the words slurred off his lips and barely made sense to his own ears. Was he having a stroke? He was only forty-three, but it wasn’t unheard of. Or an aneurysm? His head pounded and the inside of the limo spun around him. He’d had that scare last summer, a mini heart attack, and his doctors had warned him to slow it down a little. They said if a clot broke off, it could travel to his brain and—

Oh, Christ.

“Bryson!”

“Aw-ree,” he gasped and fumbled the phone in hands that felt as clumsy as catchers’ mitts. It landed hard on the floor. He scrambled after it, clutched it like a lifeline. “Eh nee…elp.”

Jacinto. He had to get the driver’s attention.

Gasping, dizzy, Bryson crawled across the soft leather seat and pounded a weak fist on the partition. The tinted window slid down, and at first, he thought he was hallucinating. Huge bug eyes stared back at him. Some sort of insect now drove the car and—no, not an insect. Jacinto was wearing a gas mask.

Shit.

He collapsed face-first on the seat and turned his head to the side, staring through hazy eyes at the mini fridge across the car. He reached out a hand. Maybe there was something in there… Something he could use to break out the window… Something…

“Tranquilo,” Jacinto said, his voice warped by the mask, but still as friendly as ever. Like he was talking about a fútbol game. Or the traffic. Or the weather. “Let it happen, Señor Van Amee. Go to sleep now. I won’t hurt you. You’re worth too much money.”

DOMINICAL, COSTA RICA

Audrey watched her computer screen in horror as her brother’s face went slack and his eyelids fluttered closed. The phone slipped out of his hand and sent her on a jarring ride to the floor of a limo. Or what she assumed to be a limo. She leaned closer to the screen, saw a curved ceiling, part of a black seat, and the toe of Bryson’s Italian loafer.

“Brys?”

Scrambling. A thump. The picture wobbled and she caught disjoined glimpses of his face, a mini-fridge, the seat, his face again.

“Aw-ree, eh nee…elp”

Her heart thundered blood through her ears and she barely heard his mumbled whisper. She leaned closer. “What? What’s wrong?”

His face slipped away and the picture tumbled into another jerky freefall. White shirt sleeve. Gold watch. White shirt sleeve. He must be crawling across the seat, still hanging onto the phone. And then—

Audrey leapt to her feet, her coffee splashing out of its mug, her chair crashing backward. Vaguely, she registered it knocking into her easel across the kitchen, heard the half-finished painting she’d been working on last night crash to the floor. But she didn’t give a damn. Her whole world centered on the computer screen, where a tinted partition slid down and a man in a gas mask told her brother that he was worth too much money.

The screen blanked.

No. Audrey shook her head in denial and turned around in a slow circle. Her kitchen, with its eclectic mix of art and cooking supplies, looked exactly the same as it had when she woke up an hour ago. The coffee pot hissed as the last of the new pot brewed. Her dolphin-shaped cookie jar, which chirped like the dolphins that hung out by her dock when opened, grinned at her from the countertop. Sheet-wrapped paintings waited propped against the wall for their upcoming trip to San José.

All the same. And yet, she must have just stepped into a Twilight Zone episode.

She refocused on the computer screen. Skype had ended the call and now rested on her homepage with her list of contacts. Bryson’s name sat at the top of the list.

She straightened her chair, sat down, and tried to call him. The ringtone buzzed. And buzzed. And buzzed.

No answer. Would she like to retry the call?

She blinked back the tears burning her eyes and jabbed yes.

Chapter Two

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Gabe Bristow never thought he’d live to see his own retirement party. Never thought he’d have a retirement party if he did live that long, but this black tie soiree was so typical of his mother. If Catherine Bristow couldn’t find an excuse to entertain, she made one up. Wedding? Throw a party. Funeral? Throw a party. Global disaster? Throw a party in the bomb shelter. Personal disaster? Throw a party and invite the who’s who of D.C. politics.

This forced medical retirement definitely qualified as a personal disaster in Gabe’s book, so of course, every Tom, Dick, and Jane on Capitol Hill were arriving downstairs in their best monkey suits and gowns.

Standing in front of a mirror in his boyhood bedroom, Gabe straightened his cuffs and then just stared at his reflection. Man, he always figured the next time he wore all of his medals, he’d be in a casket wrapped in an American flag. He’d have preferred it that way. This whole retirement thing felt wrong on so many different levels.

“Oooh, bro, lookin’ good. I do love a man in uniform.”

Gabe lifted his gaze to see Rafael, his youngest brother, propped in the doorway, wearing a hot pink vest over a black shirt, black trousers with a pink satin stripe down the outer seams, and a pink and white striped tie. He carried a black wool jacket over his shoulder and wore a pair of dark shades against the afternoon sunshine. One bright pink highlight streaked his dark hair over his left eye.

Their parents would have a conniption when they saw Raffi today. God love him.

“You’re trying to give the Admiral a heart attack, aren’t you?”

Raffi waggled his brows. “That’s the idea. Why else do you think I act so fabulous when he’s around?” He stepped into the room and performed a quick turn, topped off with a fanciful flourish of his arms. “Like?”

“No, it looks ridiculous. And you’re not doing yourself any favors by perpetuating this”—Gabe waved a hand to indicate the pink monstrosity of a tux—“stereotype whenever you come home.”

“But it’s so much fun to see that vein throb next to Dad’s eye.”

“Raf, c’mon, man. Drop the act. I know exactly how much his prejudice hurts you, and beating him over the head with a rainbow stick every time you see him won’t make it any easier for him to accept you.”

“I don’t want that man’s acceptance.” His tone said he’d rather lick a platoon of combat boots clean than admit he needed anything from the Admiral. He pointed an accusing finger. “And neither should you.”

“Stubborn,” Gabe muttered.

“Hard ass.” Raffi plopped down on the edge of the bed with a long-suffering sigh. “Dad raised his little sailor so well. It’s sad.”

“Hey, I like—” No. Past tense. He had to use past tense now. Gabe paused, drew a breath, and corrected himself, “Liked being on the teams.”

“Okay, you liked it. Though God knows why anyone would like being a SEAL.” Raffi propped his chin in his hand and lifted his brows in question. “So…you’re going into private soldiering, then?”

“Soldiering? Are you trying to insult me?”

“Soldiering, or sailor…ing?” He waved a hand. “You know what I mean. Are you going into the private sector?”

Gabe stifled a groan. This again. He’d already told his best friend and former SEAL teammate, Travis Quinn, that he was not going merc. Several times. In fact, just about every day since the car accident that ended both of their careers last year. “Lemme guess. Quinn talked to you.”

“Mm-hmm. A minute ago, downstairs. And let me just say, it’s a damn shame that guy’s straight.”

This time Gabe did groan. “Raffi, man, I love you, but please don’t talk about my friends like that. It puts pictures in my head and weirds me out.”

“That’s why I do it.” He grinned. “Anyway, for some reason, Quinn thought I’d be able to talk some sense into you. As if anyone can talk ol’ Stonewall Bristow into doing something he doesn’t want to do.”

If anyone could, it would be Raffi. Gabe respected his youngest brother more than any other man on the planet, and Quinn knew it. That sly bastard.

“For the record,” Raffi added and rested his chin on his laced fingers, “I think it’s a great idea. Way better than Dad’s plans for you.”

True. The job the Admiral had lined up for him at the Pentagon was—God, he didn’t even know what to call it. “Boring” came to mind. So did “mindless.”

“Gabe, can I ask you something?” Raffi said after a moment of silence.

“No, but that’s never stopped you before.” Resigned to the lecture he knew he was about to get, Gabe limped over to where his jacket lay on the bed, light glinting off his rows of medals. It always surprised him how many he had. He just did his job and never much cared about the number before—but, man, now he’d never get another one. And how fucking depressing was that?

“Well, I’m curious,” Raffi said. “Did you turn Quinn down because you really don’t want to go private, or because it would put you on level with Darth Vader in Dad’s eyes?”

Inwardly, Gabe faltered, his heart doing a little two-step even though his hands stayed calm, his face schooled into an expressionless mask. “I don’t see why it matters. I’m not going into the private sector. End of story.”

“It does matter. Big time.” Raffi watched him with a rare serious look in his eyes. “That’s it, isn’t it? Look, Gabe, if you’re holding yourself back because of the Admiral’s narrow-minded views—well, we both know how I feel about that. Tell him to go fuck himself sideways with a spoon, then do what makes you happy. And you, brother dear, are only happy if you’re out in some godforsaken wasteland of a country, risking life and limb, saving the world. Go work with Quinn.”

“No.”

“At least think about it? For me?”

“Fine.” He was so going to find Quinn and throttle him for dragging Raffi into this. “I’ll think about it, okay?”

…

It took several hours of elbow rubbing with political so-and-sos before Gabe finally tracked Quinn down in the crowd. He stood in the most shadowed corner of the room, naturally, stiff in his dress whites, eyeing the horde of D.C.’s most powerful as if he expected an attack at any moment.

Not a surprise.

Quinn had earned the nickname “Achilles” during BUD/S training. A warrior to his marrow, all but indestructible since nobody had found his heel yet. His only concession that this was a party and not an op was the slender flute of champagne he held.

Gabe stalked toward him.

“This place is a terrorist attack waiting to happen,” Quinn muttered and lifted his glass in a salute to the room.

Yeah, it was, and securing the damn mansion had been a nightmare, but that was beside the point. “Seriously, Q, you’re a rank bastard for siccing Raffi on me.”

His lips twitched. “Did it work?”

Gabe thought about the glittering crowd he’d been forced to schmooze with all afternoon and held back a wince. Did he really want the rest of his life to consist of politics and state dinners? Because if he lived in D.C. fulltime, the Admiral would guilt-trip him into attending. More importantly, did he really want to live under his father’s thumb again? Oh no. Make that, oh hell no.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “It worked.”

“Good.”

“But answer me something first. Why don’t you want to command this private team by yourself?”

“You know me.” He took a long swallow of champagne. “Would rather take orders than issue them.”

“Since when?”

“Since always. You have command in your blood. Me, I’m just one of the rank and file.”

“Quinn—”

“Incoming.” Quinn eyed the Admiral, who had spotted them and was making a beeline for their position. For some reason, the Admiral had never liked Quinn, pictured him as a bad influence even though he was the most squared-away guy Gabe knew.

“Better get back to the party before Admiral Stick-up-the-Ass blows a gasket,” Quinn said. “Meet me outside in twenty. If you’re serious, there’s someone here I want you to meet. Oh, and you can remember to thank me for saving your sorry ass from a desk job anytime now.”

He wasn’t joking.

Gabe snorted in response. “You really are a bastard.” He waited until Quinn lifted his glass to his lips before adding, “But Raffi thinks you’re hot.”

As he walked away, he had the great pleasure of watching the unflappable Achilles choke on his champagne.

…

Gabe slipped outside twenty minutes later, found Quinn and another tuxedo-clad man on the terrace overlooking the garden. Well, if it wasn’t Tucker Quentin. A businessman with sights on a senate seat, Gabe recognized Tucker from other political shindigs around Washington, but had never spoken to him before.

“Ah, the man of the hour. Lieutenant Commander Bristow,” Tucker said as Gabe hobbled toward them. His foot hurt like hell, but he’d left his damn cane inside somewhere.

“Gabe,” he corrected. “I’m not in the Navy anymore.”

“Don’t give me that load.” Tucker flashed a smile worthy of his Hollywood roots. “We get out, but we never leave. I’ve been gone from the Rangers for ten years, but my men still call me L.T.” He held out a hand. “Tuc Quentin.”

Gabe ignored it. “I know. So you’re the guy that put the idea of a private hostage rescue team in Quinn’s head.”

“No,” Quinn said. “I heard Tuc was thinking of putting one together and approached him about funding us.”

Tuc nodded. “On paper, you’ll be employees of Quentin Enterprises, specifically HumInt Consulting, Inc., but save for a quarterly expense report and the occasional contract I’ll throw your way, I plan to have nothing more to do with your team. If you come to me for advice, of course I’ll be glad to give it, but otherwise it’s yours to run as you see fit.”

“Why?” Gabe asked.

“I already have several teams working for HumInt, plus a multi-billion dollar empire to run.” His lips twisted. “I think I’m quite busy enough.”

“No, I mean why are you doing this? People don’t hand out free money and expect nothing in return.” Especially not savvy businessmen, but Gabe couldn’t figure out Tucker Quentin’s angle.

Tuc leaned his forearms on the balustrade and studied the garden in the courtyard. “That garden’s amazing.”

“What are you getting out of this?” Gabe repeated.

“Quinn’s right. You’re tenacious as hell. Perfect for this job.”

Yeah, right. Gabe bit back the automatic response. If that were true, if he was perfect for any command position, the Navy wouldn’t have tossed him and his bum foot to the curb. He shifted his weight, suddenly very aware of the pain.

“Why?” Gabe asked again. Meaning, why me? But he’d be damned before putting a voice to that insecurity.

Tuc twirled the stem of his champagne glass between his fingers. “The brother of one of my men was taken hostage recently and we were unprepared to handle it. I don’t want that happening again. I’m a big believer in being prepared, and you have an admirable reputation in the spec ops community. I only ask that if I contract you for a job, it’s given top priority. You of all people must understand how important my men are to me. They’re family.”

Gabe briefly met Quinn’s stare and then nodded once. He understood, all right, and his respect for Tuc ratcheted up a notch. “Should the occasion call for it, you and your men will have top priority.”

“Thank you. So.” Tuc finished his champagne in one swallow and pushed away from the balustrade. “Quinn tells me you have a team lined up from the dossiers I gave him.”

Gabe honestly didn’t know and looked at Quinn, who nodded and said, “We had six men submit resumes.”

“Their qualifications?” Gabe asked.

“Couple ex-CIA spooks, an FBI negotiator, a Delta Force medic, an explosives tech…” His eyes slid away for the barest instant before he continued. “And a Marine sniper. They’re all experts in their fields—”

“Whoa, wait.” Gabe held up a hand. “What sniper?” He got nothing but a whole lot of stubborn silence in response and shook his head in disbelief. “Goddamn. You’re talking about Seth Harlan, aren’t you? The same Seth Harlan that—”

“I recommended him for a position. He’s an excellent sniper,” Quinn said with an expression on his face that dared Gabe to argue. Well, he’d take that dare.

“Q, are you out of your fucking mind? Harlan’s unstable.”

“He’s better now.”

“Good for him.” When Quinn just gave him a long stare, the kind that always made him feel like a complete ass, he added, “Listen, I give the kid credit for surviving what he did, I do. And I know you have a soft spot for him, but he’s traumatized. Who wouldn’t be? I don’t want that kind of baggage weighing down my team. Think about it. What if he has a psychotic break in the middle of an op?”

Quinn held his gaze a moment longer, then swore softly. “Yeah, you’re right. I know you’re right, but—shit. All right. Harlan’s out.” He turned back to Tuc. “The only man I haven’t been able to reach yet is the linguist, Jean-Luc Cavalier. Apparently he lives in the middle of the bayou and has spotty cell service.”

“If you want him, you’d better find a way to get in touch,” Tuc said. “Because I already have a job for you. I was recently contacted by Zoeller and Zoeller Insurance Company, on behalf of Bryson Van Amee. Have you heard of him?”

Gabe had. “He’s in imports and exports and does a lot of subcontracting for the military.”

“That’s right. Bryson was taken hostage this morning in Bogotá during a business trip. The FBI fears one of the guerilla groups may be responsible.”

Gabe nodded. Wealthy American businessman plus Colombian paramilitary—yeah, the math added up, and the sum didn’t look good for Bryson Van Amee.

“The FBI is working with his wife, Chloe,” Tuc continued, “but Zoeller and Zoeller wants to free him before a ransom is paid, or else they’ll be liable for a hefty kidnap and ransom insurance payout.”

“Does the FBI know what Zoeller’s doing?” Gabe asked.

Tuc gave a thin smile. “What do you think?”

That’d be a big negative. Okay, he wasn’t all that crazy about working against the FBI—well, maybe “against” was too harsh a word, since they all wanted the same results. Still. It somehow seemed a betrayal of his former career.

“I understand your hesitation,” Tuc said after the silence stretched too long on his end. “Believe me, I do. I had some bad moments when I went private. But I’d also like to point out that the FBI hasn’t sent a team in after him and isn’t planning to. They’re hoping to simply talk his abductors down or, if all else fails, pay the ransom. He’s not important enough to them. Even with his government contracts, he’s a small fish in the grand scheme of things, and Uncle Sam could care less about what happens to him. But that man’s damn important to his wife and kids, his sister, his company—and you’re his best chance at survival.”

Gabe considered it. He had two choices. Go wheels up, sneak in under the FBI’s nose, and bring Bryson Van Amee home to his family, or gimp back to his boring new job at the Pentagon, where he would forever be under the Admiral’s thumb. Yeah. When put that way, there was really only one choice.

“Q, we have to get mobilization orders to the men,” Gabe said, his mind already working through the logistics. He checked his watch. “Tell them to be ready at—wait, do you have a plane for us?” he asked Tuc.

“Fueled and ready to go. You’ll also have helos and a HumInt pilot at your disposal here and in-country.”

“Perfect. We’ll need one to dig Cavalier out of his hole in the bayou.”

Tuc snorted. “Good luck with that.”

“Tell the men to be at their local airport for a 0400 pickup,” Gabe said to Quinn. “I’ll swing by Louisiana and grab Cavalier, then meet you at…” He trailed off.

“I have a private airstrip about forty miles outside New Orleans,” Tuc suggested. “My pilots all know where it is.”

“That works. Thanks. We’ll come up with a plan of attack once everyone is together and we have more intel, but we need to get moving.”

“On it,” Quinn said, already dialing. He tucked the cell phone between his shoulder and ear as he strode toward the relative privacy at the other side of the balcony. “Hey, Marcus, it’s Quinn…”

Tuc turned toward Gabe and held out a hand. “I’ll have all the information you need before you leave. Welcome to HumInt Consulting, Bristow.”

Gabe shook the offered hand. And tried to tell himself he hadn’t made a pact with the devil.

NEW ORLEANS, LA

Jean-Luc Cavalier was drunk.

And naked, buried underneath a pile of equally drunk and naked women. Three women to be exact.

None of them moved when Gabe knocked on the wood doorframe of Cavalier’s shack, so he let himself in through the screen door.

“Cavalier.” Gabe nudged the guy’s head with his boot.

Jean-Luc mumbled something in French and palmed one woman’s ass, gave it a squeeze, then drifted back to sleep with a smile.

Jesus Christ. This is what his life had come to? Scraping a drunk linguist off the floor so that he had enough men for an op? He never would have found one of his SEAL teammates like this if they were waiting for a call to go wheels up.

Gabe sighed, picked a half-empty bottle of wine off the end table, and dumped the contents over Jean-Luc’s face.

“Huh? Wha—?” Jean-Luc sputtered and blinked up at Gabe. “Merde!” He scrambled to his feet and cussed in a lively string of Cajun French. His shoulder-length blond hair looked as if someone had styled it with a handheld mixer. “I didn’t know she was married. I swear. She didn’t have a ring.”

“Which one?” Gabe asked, eyeing the women as they stirred to life. Girls Gone Wild, the morning after. Not pretty.

“Any of them!”

Gabe had to clear his throat to hide a laugh. “I’m nobody’s husband. I’m your new boss, Gabe Bristow.”

“Oh.” He looked confused at that and ran a hand over his face. Then, “Ohh. HORNET.”

“HORNET?”

“I thought all you military types like acronyms.” He rooted around through a heap of discarded clothing, tossed some to the women, and pulled on a pair of khaki shorts. “HumInt Inc.’s Hostage Rescue and Negotiation Team is a mouthful, so I shortened it. HORNET.”

Leave it to the linguist to come up with something like that. “We have a job in Colombia. That is, if you’re still interested.”

“Fuck, yeah. I’ve been bored mindless.”

“Looks it,” Gabe said.

…

The plane arrived at the private airfield fifteen minutes past 0800. Thank God. If Gabe had to listen to another of Jean-Luc’s tone-deaf renditions of whatever song came over the radio, he might just draw his firearm and shoot the man.

It was a big plane. Bigger than Gabe had expected, and each of the five men already aboard had claimed a row of the plush seats for himself. The former FBI agent, Marcus Deangelo, dozed in the second row, a plaid fedora pulled down over his face, his legs crossed at the ankle, blocking the aisle. Jean-Luc reached over the seat and flipped the fedora off his head.

“Hey!” Marcus snatched his fedora back, blinking against the light. “Asshole. I should—whoa, it’s the Ragin’ Cajun.” He laughed as he sat up and slapped Jean-Luc a high five. “Dude, you smell like a wine cellar.”

“Better than a Calvin Klein cologne ad.” Jean-Luc grinned and plopped into an empty seat in the fourth row beside Eric Physick. “Harvard! Where y’at? How’s post-Company life treatin’ ya?”

Former CIA analyst Eric “Harvard” Physick chuckled and set aside the crossword puzzle he’d been working on. “I should have figured you’d sign on for this. I’m fine. How about you? Learn any new languages lately?”

Jean-Luc answered in a musical string of words. Harvard tilted his head to one side, listening. “Is that… Yucatec Maya?”

“That it is. I said ‘you bet your ass, I have.’”

“Fluent?” Harvard asked.

“Pretty damn close.”

“That’s what, thirteen now? You’ve been busy.”

“You have no idea. Let me tell y’all about the night I had.”

Within minutes, Jean-Luc had everyone on the plane laughing at his night of adventure with the three women. The jet coasted toward the runway and the seatbelt light came on with a ding.

Gabe sat next to Quinn in the front row. “So, what do you think?”

Laughter exploded behind them. Quinn shook his head, but didn’t look up from reading the file on his lap. “It’s going to be interesting. To say the least.”

“That the intel Tuc sent?”

“Yes.” He handed it over as the plane picked up speed and pushed them back in their seats. “Bryson Van Amee is worth around a quarter of a billion dollars.”

“Has a ransom demand been issued yet?” Gabe asked.

“About an hour ago, according to Tuc’s sources. Sixty-two point five million.”

“That’s pretty damn high for one guy.”

“No. What it is, is damn specific. In fact…” Quinn slid a calculator from the bag at his feet and punched in some numbers. “It’s exactly a quarter of Van Amee’s worth.”

And, Gabe noted, the maximum amount Van Amee’s kidnap and ransom insurance would cover. “That can’t be a coincidence.”

“So what are we dealing with?” Quinn asked. “Tangos who do their homework?”

“Too soon to tell.” The plane leveled out and a moment later, the seatbelt light went off. “Suppose it’s time to brief the troops.”

Quinn grunted. “If you can call them that.”

Gabe stood and braced his hands on the backs of the seats on either side of the aisle. Pain spiked through his foot, but he’d be damned if he relied on his cane. Last thing he needed was to show any sign of weakness in front of this ragtag group.

He waited a moment. When nobody quieted down, he put his fingers to his mouth and gave a sharp whistle that echoed around the plane’s interior in the silent aftermath.

“Gentlemen, listen up. I’d like to introduce myself before we get started. My name’s Gabe Bristow. You’ve all been dealing with Quinn, my XO, but from now on, you’ll answer to me.”

“Do you expect us to salute?” Ian Reinhardt asked. His motorcycle jacket creaked as he raised an arm and gave a cheeky two-finger salute. “Sir.”

So this was the explosive ordnance expert. After reading everyone’s dossiers on the way to New Orleans, he’d known Ian might be a problem. The guy was bad attitude personified. “No, I don’t expect that. However, showing some respect for a fellow teammate wouldn’t hurt.”

“Bite me,” Ian said.

Oh, yeah. This was going to be fun. “Do I look like a fucking vampire, Reinhardt? And if you have a problem with my leadership…” He turned, walked to a closet at the front of the plane, grabbed one of the parachutes he’d asked Quinn to pack, and tossed it to Ian.  “Strap in. The door’s right there. Go find yourself a new job.”

Ian caught the chute and his dark eyes locked on Gabe’s in a game of chicken for a long moment. Then he flashed a smile that held just an edge of malice and tossed the chute back. “Nah, I don’t have a problem with you, Bristow. I like your style. We’ll get along fine.”

“Let’s hope, because I have no use for disrespectful assholes on my team. Those guys get their teammates killed, and I want everyone here to go home to their families when this is over. You clear on that?”

Ian grunted something that may have been an agreement. Or, more likely, a fuck you.

Gabe decided he’d have to chat with Reinhardt about his attitude at some point in the next few hours.

He took a moment to replace the parachute in the closet, then returned to his spot in front of his men.

“Our objective is to find and rescue this man, Bryson Van Amee, before any ransom money is paid.” He opened the folder Quinn handed him and held up the businessman’s photo. “He’s forty-three years old, five-eleven, one-eighty, with thinning brown hair, brown eyes. He co-founded The Bryda Corporation twelve years ago with his college roommate, has been married to his wife, Chloe, for five years, and is the father of two young boys, Ashton, five, and Grayson, three. His parents are deceased, so he also provides for his younger sister, Audrey, twenty-seven, a struggling artist.”

“In an ideal situation,” Quinn said and passed around copies of the file, “we’d have trained together for a couple months before taking on our first mission, but we don’t have that luxury. Most of you have been on this type of op before, so we’re confident we can pull together and bring Bryson home to his wife and kids.”

“This is truly a trial-by-fire, gentlemen,” Gabe agreed. “We fail and this man will at best live the next few years of his life in some Colombian jungle shithole. At worst, he dies. Neither of those outcomes is acceptable.” He gave them a moment, letting the grim reality of this mission settle into their minds. The lighthearted mood dissipated as everyone got their game faces on. “I expect you to know the information in this file inside and out by the time we land.”

“Has there been a ransom demand yet?” Marcus Deangelo asked.

“Sixty million and some change,” Quinn said. “It’s all there in the file.”

“Who’s taking responsibility?” Harvard asked.

“A new terrorist faction calling themselves Ejército del Pueblo de Colombia, the People’s Army of Colombia, or EPC,” Gabe said. “All we know about them is that they broke off from the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia about six months ago and have been on a terror campaign ever since.

“That’s where Harvard comes in.” He turned toward Eric Physick, who had a rep as one of the best analysts ever to work for the CIA. A genius with more brain than brawn—something Gabe would have to fix if the kid wanted a chance of staying on this team. “We need you to gather as much intel as possible on the EPC. Who, what, where, how—get me everything available. We’re working against the clock. The FBI will only be able to stall the ransom drop for so long and I don’t want to go up against these guys blind.”

Harvard nodded, picked up his laptop case, and unzipped it. “You’ll know the basics by the time we get to Colombia. The rest will take me a little longer.”

“Thanks.” Gabe refocused on the rest of the men. “Okay, so here’s how the team’s going to work. Harvard will control base camp and all the comms, including all contact with the hostage takers, should it come to that. Harvard, make a list of everything you might need and you’ll have it when we land.”

The kid nodded, but didn’t look up from his computer.

“Jesse Warrick will function as our medic. Anyone gets hurt, we defer to him. If you need anything, Jesse, let either Quinn or me know and we’ll get it for you.”

Jesse tipped the brim of his Stetson back with one knuckle and patted the bulging bag on the seat next to him. “I travel with my own supplies, thanks,” he drawled. “But I do want access to medical records and everyone needs to have a physical exam in the next twenty-four hours so I have a baseline reading should one of ya get hurt.”

“Done.” Gabe studied the group. “We’ll rely on Jean-Luc as our translator. Anyone else fluent in Spanish?”

“Mine’s passable,” Jesse answered.

“All I remember from Spanish class is un burro sabe mas que tu,” Marcus said and Jean-Luc snorted a laugh.

“‘A donkey knows more than you?’ Nice, Marcus. If we need to insult the EPC into submission, we’ll know who to call.”

“All right, gentlemen,” Gabe said. “Enough joking around. We have a little over four hours until we land. Read up and catch whatever sleep you can, because once we’re on the ground, we’re on the move.”

She’s torn when she learns Kade may be behind the murders. Val’s worked hard to protect humans from vampires, but the truth surrounding the murders could ignite a bloody battle between their races, one humans are sure to lose. Someone is pulling strings to build a vampire army and spark the war—setting Kade up to kick it off. But if she trusts the vampire prince, she risks her job, her integrity, and her heart if he betrays her as all the men in her life have.

Information:

Title: Bad Mouth
Author: Angela McCallister
Genre: Paranormal Romance
Length: 237 pages
Release Date: May 2013
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-62266-805-2
Imprint: Covet
 

 
 
 

Excerpt:

© 2013 Angela McCallister

Chapter One

“It’s a monstrosity.”

Valerie Craig agreed with her companion’s sentiment wholeheartedly, not exactly thrilled about entering the remote mansion in front of them. She spared Graham a quick smile despite the falling sensation in her stomach.

“You say that every time we come here,” she said.

She felt clammy and wilted like a cold, half-cooked noodle. The entire western half of Washington State often wore gloomy skies like a skin, but today the humidity exceeded Val’s expectations. Graham didn’t look disheveled in the slightest, each strand of his thick brown hair perfectly aligned as usual and nary a wrinkle in his crisp charcoal slacks and vanilla button-up. He could have been a cover model. Amazing. Four dismal hours out of Seattle along winding roads into the Middle-of-Nowhere Mountains and he looked as fresh as the minute they’d left the office.

Val angled the rearview mirror toward where she sat in the passenger’s seat of Graham’s Prius and took a last-minute peek at her reflection. She grimaced, brushing the smudges under her eyes with her fingertip. Even her makeup sagged under the humidity and perspiration coating her skin.

“Stop, V. You look beautiful.”

“Eye of the beholder, Graham. You’re too nice to be honest.”

No one in their right mind would call her once wavy-golden tresses—that now hung in ropy tendrils—beautiful. Sustaining an impeccable appearance was easier for Graham. He bordered on pretty, with the face of an angel that hosted long, dark lashes, a sculpted nose, and high cheekbones with a slightly cherubic roundness to them. He hadn’t broken a sweat once during the humid drive. She wasn’t sure Graham could sweat.

Val took another minute to blot at her eyeliner and renew her lip gloss, but she was only stalling. Then again, the vampires they were calling on were nothing if not fastidiously snobbish, thus necessitating the attention to her makeup meltdown.

Steeling herself, she stepped out into the misting rain and peered up at the three stories that contained the source of her dread. As dismal as the clouds, the mansion towered over them like a weathered sentinel. Slate-gray stone ended in jagged spires at the top of each corner, the sharp angles stabbing into the sky. Occasionally, a sliver of stained glass interrupted the structure’s flat planes, but aside from the slivers and a few balconies, the place was windowless. It made sense, considering who lived—or rather existed—within.

They were about to enter an upscale coffin.

Graham nudged her with his elbow as he reached her side. “Come on, Val. Buck up. It’s just a building.”

“It’s not the building I’m having issues with.” What awaited them inside was worse. Much worse. She shook her head. “I’m fine, Graham. You know I always get a case of nerves before I go in. It’ll settle.”

“You think they’ll blow us off?”

“Of that I have no doubt.” Her shoulder lifted in a half shrug. “But we’ve got a job to do. We have to give them a chance to fix the problem before we can consider taking drastic measures with them.”

“I can’t believe I get to come in this time. I’m about to meet royalty face-to-face.” The touch of awe in his voice earned him a scowl. As one of very few who knew of her antipathy for vampires, he should’ve had the courtesy to put a leash on his excitement. Instead, he acted like an eager groupie.

“You’ve talked to them before.” Val tried to keep the irritation from her voice. “Besides, royalty and politicians mean the same to me. Overindulged, overpaid, overglorified, and any other over-word you want to add.”

With a sharp tug on his sleeve, she steered him along the cobbled, oval drive toward the dramatic steps leading to the entry.

“How many times have you seen them in person?” He only half listened for her answer as his gaze roamed the estate, his interest caught by the topiaries lining the driveway. She snorted indelicately.

“Too many to count. They’re creepy. Just be prepared and show no fear or they’ll take it as weakness. They’ll tread all over you.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Coming to the mansion in person was akin to walking a minefield. She always expected a blast if she made the wrong move. “All right. Let’s go in.”

Val schooled her expression into a professional mask as they ascended steps wide enough to park a car on and reached the titanic double doors. Graham ducked in front of her and tapped the wrought iron knocker against the slab of blackened timber. He was enjoying this entirely too much. She pinched him in the side. His startled grunt told her she might have pinched a little too hard.

Without a hint of squeak, the door swung wide to reveal a slender pole of a man with slightly sunken cheeks, wispy white hair, and a gray undertone to his skin. A walking corpse. The upper-caste vampires, Immortalis Dominorum, and their vampire followers, the Immortalis Legio, were always well fed, giving them an unnaturally healthy glow. This man had to be a human subjugate not yet worthy of transformation.

Some subjugates were never found worthy and were left to waste away, waiting for an everlasting reward that would never transpire. Hardly fair, considering these desperate humans were approved for transformation by the Dominorum only to discover their probationary period often ended in death—which is exactly why she and Graham had come to the mansion.

She’d fought for more than two years to restrict or eradicate transformation altogether, and Congress had appointed her vice director of a small team of Vampire Liaisons. That simple title came with a whopping perk of legislative influence she had every intention of using, hopefully without anyone at the VLO figuring out her intentions.

Wordlessly, the man led them through a narrow entry into a grand foyer. A high dome rose a dizzying thirty feet above their heads. Dual stairways curved along the walls on each side, climbing to a lofty, second-level landing. Most of the guest rooms were on that floor. They were opulent. She’d taken the full tour upon her first arrival over a year before, but Graham gawked openly at the luxurious black marble floors, glossy mahogany railing, Tiffany crystal chandeliers, and all the other glaring displays of decadence along the way. Personally, she found it frigid. The textures and colors exuded sterility and the chill in the air gave her goose bumps. It even smelled cold.

“Psst,” she whispered. “At least close your mouth and quit drooling.”

He flashed a smile. “It’s gorgeous.”

“A monstrosity, you said.”

“Changed my mind.”

They passed through the arched entry under the landing and stopped in a sitting room decorated in gaudy black and deep crimson. Gold accents around the room reminded her how grossly rich, and therefore powerful, the oldest Immortalis were. Massive portraits lined the walls, each highlighted by a lit sconce beneath its heavy frame. The miniscule lights casting shadows around the portrait edges and the stark darkness of the walls didn’t give her impression of menace any relief.

The gaunt man gestured toward one of the long settees and left the room. His behavior didn’t seem strange considering what he was. In fact, he fit right in. With each encounter of a subjugate, she wondered why they’d chosen to become a vampire. It wasn’t like vampires were automatically rich and powerful and sexy. Humans came out of the transformation, if they survived, much the same as they went in. What could make anyone wish for that excruciating, morbid transformation?

Especially her ex-husband, Will.

“What’s wrong?” Graham stroked a stray lock of hair away from her cheek, his touch tender. “You seem far away.”

“Sorry.” She perched at the edge of the couch, her fingers smoothing over the velvety crimson upholstery.

Graham’s lips thinned into a disapproving line. “Don’t think about him.”

“I can’t help it. He’s partly why we’re here.”

“He’s not the man you married and not the man I befriended. That man no longer exists. May as well think of him as someone else.”

“You’re right.” She took his hand and pulled him to the seat next to her. “I’m glad you’re here.”

She evaded his attempt at eye contact. He’d developed feelings beyond friendship for her, but it was a one-way street. She could never look at him without seeing her ex-husband’s best friend. And the man who’d revealed Will’s betrayals. All of them.

When Graham opened his mouth to speak, she silenced him with a swift jerk of her head. They weren’t alone. Two figures moved toward them, their motion liquid. Both vampires appeared to be in their late twenties or early thirties, but Val knew the couple to be much older.

The woman’s hair tumbled in lustrous auburn waves past her waist, her delicate face like beauty incarnate, with creamy smooth skin and pouty lips. Her body, elegantly displayed in a clingy, floor-length gown of soft teal, was lean and sleek with generous, perky breasts. It was false advertising. Vampirism didn’t get her those looks. Evangeline had been born physically perfect—and human. Just as the male, Olen, had been.

Olen, his spine straight and his shoulders back, wore an autocratic air with apparent ease. Though barely half a foot taller than Val’s five-foot-seven inches, he seemed to peer several feet down his straight nose at her. Fine lines graced the corners of his eyes, although she’d never seen the vampire smile. His black hair had grayed prematurely at his temples before he’d turned.

Olen’s impact came from his eyes. Their dark red coloring didn’t impede the keen edge of intelligence that hit like armor-piercing bullets. She felt as if he could see into her soul. He tipped his head slightly toward her, sending a stab of ice down her spine.

Graham, the sociable one, normally would have been the first to extend a greeting, but he appeared struck dumb. She stood to address their hosts.

“Olen Rex, Domina Evangeline,” she said. “Thank you for seeing us. This is my associate, Graham Fischer. Graham joined the Vampire Liaison Office two months ago. He has prior experience working with the governor as an attorney and private consultant.”

“I recall we’ve spoken several times. Lovely to meet you in person, Mr. Fischer.” Evangeline’s voice swathed his name in a sexy rasp. “Welcome.”

The vamp’s ruby-eyed gaze fixed on Graham with too much interest for Val’s comfort. Evangeline’s sensuality cranked to high volume reduced her friend to a giant walking gland that would end up being useless to their cause. Perhaps that was the vampire’s intent. If he kept this up, she’d have to neuter him before he could come back again.

Evangeline’s red lips curved into a knowing smirk. The vampire most likely smelled Graham’s physical arousal, and Val wanted to jettison his traitorous body back to Seattle at Mach ten speed.

“What brings you to us in such dreadful weather?” Olen asked.

Of course he knew what brought her, but he liked to play games. After nearly two years, the game had become tiresome.

Val cut straight to the point. “There’s been a rash of bloodings.”

If the thought of depraved vampires rampantly sucking humans dry caused the vampires alarm, they hid it well.

Heartless. She caught her tongue between her teeth, fighting the bitter words aching to get loose. When they didn’t respond, she added, “And a sharp increase in derangements over the last two months.”

Deranged transformations were illegal, even among the Immortalis Legio, commonly known as the Legion. No self-respecting vampire would lower themselves to transform a human not approved by the Dominorum. A sudden increase could only mean the Dominorum hadn’t been enforcing the law and capturing the greedy vampires as they were supposed to.

“Unfortunate,” Olen replied. For all the concern he showed, he could have been talking about the Seahawks game last weekend. “We make every effort to curb unruly Legion citizens and prevent harm to humans. Are you certain the bloodings are authentic?”

Val’s eyes widened, shock and fury vying for domination. “Are you implying the VLO can’t tell the difference between a blooding and a copycat?”

“Certainly not,” Evangeline cut in, still smiling. Val hated that smile. Only a sociopath could sport that cat-with-warm-milk smile when they were talking about murder. “We only want to avoid pointing fingers at innocent citizens.”

There was nothing innocent about vampires. They shouldn’t even exist, although Val could never utter those words publicly and expect to keep her liaison position.

“No one wants to make false accusations,” Graham said, “but only a vampire could have caused these deaths.”

Ah, he speaks.

“So you come to us expecting the Dominorum to solve your homicide cases for you?” Olen arched a haughty brow.

“This problem isn’t ours to solve alone, Olen.” Val concentrated on smoothing the emotion from her face. There was no way in hell she’d let him know he was getting to her. “They were perpetrated by some of yours.”

“Or by a rogue. The Legion follows the dictates of the Dominorum.” Olen’s lips settled into a contemptuous smirk. If he were to acknowledge one of the Legion vampires as suspect, it would be a step closer to admitting transformation was a problem. If all transformations became illegal, the Immortalis would lose considerable power over human society. Transformations were their biggest commodity.

“Perhaps the Dominorum is losing control over the Legion.” Val kept her voice low and steady and her expression placid as she dug into his sense of pride. Her knees went weak at the risk of pushing him too far, but she’d be damned if she’d return to her seat while the vampires stood over her.

Olen’s eyes flared with inner light before he composed himself. She was glad she’d brought Graham, despite his earlier lapse in good taste. It wouldn’t be a stretch for her to disappear, the victim of a mysterious accident on the way back to Seattle.

Evangeline turned to Olen, her head tilted to the side. When Olen met his mate’s gaze, Val’s fine hairs stood on end. The air charged with restrained energy as the two vampires spoke telepathically. After a few silent, tense minutes, Olen’s attention settled on Val.

“It is in our interest to punish any Legion who may be violating Dominorum rule. In light of the possibility the murderer may not be a rogue but one of the Legion, we offer you a liaison to smooth over any…bumps you encounter with the Legion when questioning them.”

“A liaison? As in only one? You want to give us a desk jockey and no enforcement officers?”

This time Evangeline’s smile exuded wicked delight and grew broad enough to expose her fangs. Even Olen, the one who never smiled, had a look of smug amusement.

“You need someone with Immortalis jurisdiction to find the killer you’re looking for, even to eventually discover that the killer is simply a rogue,” he said.

There were too many derangements in such a short period of time to be caused by one rogue.

“Yes, Ms. Craig, we’ll give you one vampire. Once you meet him, you’ll see one could never speak his name and the word only in the same sentence.”

Something in his tone put those icy fingers back into her spine. “Do I know this vampire?”

“No. He’s not particularly inclined toward politics.” Olen’s strange inflection gave her the impression he’d made an inflated understatement.

“Who is he?”

“Kade Rollins.”

“A last name,” Val noted. “He’s young then. Will the Legion obey him?”

Evangeline laughed. “Oh, they’ll obey. He’s an adjuvant.”

Val’s face tightened. Adjuvants were the ultimate bane of her existence, the only vampires capable of turning humans and supercharged with extraordinary strength, speed, and abilities. No good could come of working with a creature like Kade Rollins.

“Find someone else.” Amazed she’d kept her voice steady, she willed Olen to rescind his choice.

He didn’t even blink. “Your liaison is Kade. By the time you reach Seattle, his contact information will be at your disposal. Keep in mind that he’s one of ours. He is not your minion.” He cocked his head in thought. “Although I doubt you’ll have any trouble remembering that.”

The pair turned in unison, walked out through the archway, and disappeared down the hall. Val and Graham had been dismissed.

As they started for the foyer, the walking corpse appeared on cue to lead the way. Val sensed the tension humming in Graham. At least he waited until the massive door boomed shut behind them before he spoke.

“Holy Christ!”

She sighed, wishing she wasn’t about to hear the veneration in his voice but knowing she would nonetheless. “Let’s go. I can’t get away from here soon enough.”

“Wow. They were something amazing. Did you feel that—their presence?”

“Graham.” She peered at him like a bug under glass. “Stop. What you’re doing, what you’re thinking. Just stop. They’re the bad guys you know.”

“But they don’t have to be.” He cupped her shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “I know you have a reason to hate them, but Will’s weakness isn’t their fault. Look, they’re willing to help out with the investigation. Doesn’t that count?”

“It’s calculated. This Rollins guy will be useless. They made it look like they’re helping, but instead they’ve given us a roadblock.”

“Maybe.” Graham’s semiagreement was grudging at best. She wanted to wipe the traces of reverence from his face. Forty-grit sandpaper would do nicely. “He could get the Immortalis to talk.”

“Did you miss the desk jockey part?”

“So are we. Now look at us, neck-deep in a murder investigation.”

“Because they pushed it this far and because…Just get in the damned car, Graham. There’s something you need to know.”

She climbed into her seat, closed her eyes, and waited for him to walk around. Once she’d settled in, she couldn’t stop the fine tremors that always followed her contact with vampires. She kept her eyes closed until she heard his door open. He watched her curiously as he slid in, buckled his seat belt, and started the car.

“Alice left me a message. They identified one of the deranged,” she said, finally making eye contact with him. “It was Will. He got the transformation he would have given a limb for, but it didn’t turn out the way he’d wanted. He’s missing.”

Tech mogul Joseph Ashton never expected an Internet blind date to end in the best sex of his life. Yet as the chemistry between him and Christie burns out of control, he can’t help but think this woman is out for his money like all the rest. She claims she wants his heart instead – but that’s the one thing he can never give.

Information:

Title: Talking Dirty With the CEO (A Talking Dirty Series Book)
Author: Jackie Ashenden
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Length: 205 pages
Release Date: May 2013
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-62266-066-7
Imprint: Indulgence
 

 
 
 

Praise for Talking Dirty With the CEO:

“A sexy hero, spirited heroine, snappy dialogue and sizzling heat…all the best elements combine in this stellar story.” —USA Today Bestselling author Natalie Anderson

Excerpt:

© 2013 Jackie Ashenden

Chapter One

Joseph Ashton sat at Karl’s desk and looked idly around the office, tapping his pen on the desktop. Christ, he hated waiting. Especially when he was working late and there was a lot of work to be done. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the work, he just wasn’t a fan of sitting still.

It bored him. Just like he was bored now.

Dropping the pen with a restless movement, he stretched out his legs and put his hands behind his head, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. He’d been up until 2:00 a.m. most nights working on fine-tuning Ashton Tech’s upcoming E-Slate launch and he was exhausted. If he didn’t find something to keep him occupied while he waited, he’d crash right here on the damn desk.

Joseph blew out a breath. What he really needed was something new. Something challenging. Ashton Tech’s E-Slate was already the talk of the tech world, but given how fast the market was growing, he was going to need a follow-up to keep the momentum going. Some kind of product that would be the Next Big Thing.

A pity his friend Caleb was playing rugby overseas—he was great for bouncing ideas off of.

But maybe this required a feminine touch. Perhaps he should call Alicia after he’d finished here. Work out the restlessness with a bit of fun in bed… No, on second thought, not Alicia. He’d been there, done that. Two nights with her was plenty.

He looked around Karl’s untidy desk, scanning for something else to fiddle with, when a soft chiming noise came from his employee’s computer. Joseph glanced at the instant message chat window that popped up.

Bloody Karl and his online games. Clearly Joseph needed to send out a memo regarding company Internet policy. Either that or block the site, because this was happening way too often.

A line of text blinked and he couldn’t help but read it.

Naughtygirl25: What am I wearing? A bra, garter belt, sheer black stockings, and…

Joseph sighed. God. What the hell was Karl doing? Picking up women in a gaming forum was hardly a work-related activity. He reached for the mouse, intending to close down the IM window, when another line of text appeared.

 …and some Ugg boots.

His hand paused on the mouse, his attention caught. Ugg boots? Surely not. Black stilettos or thigh-high bondage boots, maybe. Sheepskin slippers? No. The contrast with the garter belt and stockings was…interesting to say the least.

He glanced at the username. Naughtygirl25. Unusual handle, especially considering the Ugg boots. Did naughty girls even wear slippers? The ones he knew didn’t.

The IM window pinged and more text appeared.

Naughtygirl25: What? You think the boots are too much?

Funny girl. Joseph felt a grin coming on. Before he knew what he was doing he’d typed a response.

Studman500: Ugg boots are never too much. I love sheepskin on a woman. Or should I say, a woman on a sheepskin.

He winced at the Studman handle. That was Karl. Subtle.

There was no response for a long moment. Then:

Naughtygirl25: Who says I’m a woman?

Joseph’s grin widened. Whoever Naughtygirl25 was, he/she/it was amusing. He thought for a minute and then responded:

Studman500: If you’re not then you’re going to look bloody funny in a bra and garter belt. Either that or you’re going for the sexy transvestite look.

The chat window remained empty for a second or two and then another smiley face popped up.

Naughtygirl25: Ha. Ha. I could be a sexy transvestite for all you know.

Well, Naughtygirl could be but he didn’t think so.

He stared at the screen, wondering if he should call a halt to it. Online chatting with strangers wasn’t really his thing, but he couldn’t deny that this was momentarily diverting. And he wasn’t bored now, was he?

He looked up from the computer, checking Karl’s position through the glass walls of the meeting room. The guy was over by the water cooler, talking on his cell phone. Well, if Karl could interrupt their meeting to chat on his bloody phone, Joseph could answer an IM. Besides, wasn’t it his job to see exactly what his employees were up to when he wasn’t around?

Returning his hands to the keys, he typed in a reply.

Studman500: And here I was thinking you were a naughty girl. What a disappointment.

The reply came back quickly this time:

Naughtygirl25: No need for disappointment. You were right. I am a naughty girl. Emphasis on the girl.

Interesting. Very interesting. And a comeback that could be interpreted in a whole lot of different ways. Best to be certain, though.

Studman500: Oh really? I was hoping the emphasis would be on the naughty.

There was a long pause, as if she was thinking about her answer. Then, much to his disappointment, another couple of people entered the chat room. Joseph shifted in his chair, unaccountably annoyed. Dammit. He’d been enjoying himself.

Naughtygirl25: Hey, looks like the game’s starting. See you on the map?

That would be a no. He wasn’t a gamer.

Studman500: Nah. I’ll sit this one out. And think about naughty girls instead.

Another pause. The chat room—where everyone gathered before the map loaded—cleared out as all the participants entered the game. All except Naughtygirl25. Now why was that?

Studman500: What’s happening, Naughtygirl? I thought you wanted to play?

There was no response for a minute. What was she doing? Had he taken the “naughty” a bit too far? A few moments later Naughtygirl’s reply appeared:

Naughtygirl25: I do want to play. How about this for a game? Me: bra, garter belt, stockings, and Ugg boots. You: leopard-print thong, baby oil, and…

The cursor blinked, annoyingly still. Then:

Naughtygirl25: …and a smile.

He laughed. So she wanted to stay and chat, did she? He was all for that. Because this was way better than staring aimlessly at the ceiling while he waited for Karl to wrap up his office gossip, that was for sure. Hell, this was better than any of the last few face-to-face flirtations he’d indulged in. He reached for the keyboard again:

Studman500: I like your game, Naughtygirl. But can you make it naughtier?

Another smiley face popped up.

Naughtygirl25: Add a lava lamp, a sheepskin rug, a mirror on the ceiling, and some etchings I can come up and see. Naughty enough now?

Dammit, now he couldn’t stop grinning. They’d bypassed the naughty and were now heading into cheesy territory. That was okay, though. He liked cheesy. After a quick check to make sure Karl was still talking, he typed in another response.

Studman500: Not quite. We need music. How about a bit of Neil Diamond to set the mood? Though, if you prefer Barry White, then I have that, too.

Naughtygirl25: Nope, I’m a Neil Diamond girl all the way. Are we having drinks?

She really had to ask?

Studman500: How does a Bloody Mary suit you? On the rocks, naturally.

More laughing emoticons:

Naughtygirl25: Naturally. So drinks are sorted. What other naughtiness can we get up to?

He could think of several things. But really, how far should he take this? Sexy online chat wasn’t something he’d ever done, especially at work. And although he was enjoying himself, he supposed he needed to get rid of her and not actively encourage her.

The cursor blinked and more text scrolled past:

Naughtygirl25: Don’t leave me hanging here, Studman. I’m coming to the end of my Bloody Mary. Bring on the naughtiness!

Then again, he was the boss, wasn’t he? And what was the point of being in charge if you couldn’t break the rules now and then? Hell, if he wanted to engage in some flirtatious sexy chat with a faceless stranger then he damn well would.

Naughtygirl25: Helllloooo…Studman?

He flexed his fingers and typed:

Studman500: How naughty do you want me to be?

Naughtygirl25: I don’t know, how naughty can you get?

Oh. Very.

Studman500: Okay, how’s this? First, I’ll be laying you down on my sheepskin rug and next I’ll be taking all your clothes off, revealing you inch by delicious inch. Leaving the Ugg boots till last.

There was a long pause.

Joseph sat back and stared at the screen. Had he scared her off? Perhaps he’d been too full-on with the sexual innuendo. He did sometimes get carried away when he got very focused on a particular thing, though not usually to that extent.

Annoyed with himself and too impatient to wait for a response, he quickly typed another message:

Studman500: Well, I guess that’s inappropriate. Sorry.

There was nothing for a moment. Then:

Naughtygirl25: Hey, no worries. And you weren’t too inappropriate. At least up to the point where the clothes came off. LOL! Are you always this forward with strange women?

A weird kind of relief went through him.

Studman500: I blame the Ugg boots. One look at them and I completely lost my head.

Naughtygirl25: In that case, wanna know a secret? *whispers* Men in thongs drive me wild.

Joseph laughed. Like thongs were ever a good look for men. At least he’d never be caught dead in one. Whoever this woman was, he was starting to like her. Very much.

Studman500: Oh, don’t tease. I’m hard for those Ugg boots already.

Another pause, and then she shot back:

Naughtygirl25: Okay, since we’re not being prudish here, why don’t I ditch all my clothes and just keep the Ugg boots on?

Nice. If this was an example of her dirty talk, then he wanted more. Discovering something new and different was always a turn-on. Shifting in his seat again, he answered:

Studman500: A naked woman in Uggs. This is getting better and better. Though I want you to turn down the tops of your boots so that when you wrap your legs around me, I can feel the sheepskin lining against my back.

Would she like that? Would she find it as much of a turn-on as he did? Oh, he hoped so.

Naughtygirl25: Phew *fans self* I can go you one better, though…

The cursor blinked for a long moment. Then the text came back fast, as if she had to get it down in a hurry:

Naughtygirl25: …if I’m on top, you could lie down on the sheepskin rug and have the whole thing against your back.

Hot. Extremely hot. He couldn’t wait to hear more:

Studman500: Now you’re getting into the spirit of it. Perhaps we could

“Sorry about that, boss.”

Joseph cursed under his breath. Quickly he erased the chat history and closed the chat window as Karl came back to his desk.

Jesus, the guy’s timing sucked. Especially when things were just getting interesting with Naughtygirl. Couldn’t he have continued his bloody phone call for another five minutes?

It was crazy but for the rest of the meeting, Joseph hardly paid attention. He was too busy thinking about the mini-flirtation with Naughtygirl25. E-mail and chat were part and parcel of his business but he’d never gotten into anything like that before. Although he’d never needed to. He had women coming out of his ears. And he didn’t need to go to the Internet to find them.

But there was something about that Naughtygirl25. Witty, flirtatious, with the quirkiest sense of humor. Man, he’d never had such an off-the-wall conversation with a woman before.

Joseph sat there, listening but not really taking in what Karl was saying. All he could think about was how he could possibly get the other man to leave again. At least long enough so he could find out more about Naughtygirl25.

…

He’d gone. Just like that. At least she thought he was gone. The cursor had been motionless, blinking steadily in the middle of the last sentence for a while now.

Christie St. John leaned back from her laptop, her hands shaking, unable to repress the genuine stab of disappointment at Studman500’s no-show. God, that chat had been something else. Possibly flirty. Definitely naughty. And yeah, go on, downright sexy, too. Except that sexy flirting wasn’t something she did often—correction—at all. Ever. It had been as if someone else had been typing those things for her. A vampish part of her she’d never known she’d possessed.

Christie stared at the screen, willing Studman500 to keep going. But the chat window remained stubbornly blank. And then a notification popped up saying Studman500 was offline.

Damn.

She sat back on the couch and took a sip of her wine, her hands trembling. What on earth had gotten into her? She’d logged on to the New Zealand site of Zombie Force Online for a quick game. A game she’d then ditched just to talk to him about sex in Ugg boots.

Her cheeks felt hot. What an idiot to mention those. But the group she’d been with in the chat room had started a jokey conversation about what clothing they gamed in, and she’d gotten a tad stupid with the whole garter belt/Ugg boot thing. Yet he’d seemed to get it, hadn’t he?

A small grin crept up on her. She was no stranger to online forums or chat rooms but that was the first time ever she’d actually flirted in one. It was kind of a rush.

Letting out a breath and fighting feelings of disappointment at the lack of response from Studman500, she minimized the chat window and brought up her e-mail program. There was a new e-mail from Marisa, her boss’s PA.

The e-mail only had one line: “Have you set up any dates yet?”

Ben, her boss and editor at Total Tech, the gadget/computer magazine she wrote for, had given Christie the unenviable assignment of writing an Internet dating piece in a bid to gain a few more readers for the magazine. Marisa, self-acknowledged dating expert and Christie’s friend, had volunteered to “help” with setting up the dates. Help meaning nag.

Christie made an irritable noise. She liked Marisa, but the other woman had an annoying habit of trying to get her to come out of her shell. Annoying because Christie was perfectly happy inside her shell.

She leaned forward to type in a reply but right on cue, her phone rang. She didn’t need to check the caller ID to know who it was.

“I was just replying to your e-mail, Marisa.”

“Damn technology,” Marisa replied. “I thought I’d actually talk to you.”

“Fine. What do you want to know?”

“The date and how’s it going?”

Christie pursed her lips. “It’s going.”

“You haven’t set any up at all, have you? God, St. John, it’s only a couple of dates. Not open-heart surgery.”

“I know.” Christie sank into the couch. “I’m getting myself in the zone.”

“Yeah, right. And how, exactly, are you doing that? Pictures of naked men? Internet porn?”

Christie toyed with her wineglass. A sneaky online game of Zombie Force didn’t fall into either of those categories. More like the procrastination category. But Marisa didn’t need to know that. “No, of course not. I’ve been checking out…um…stuff.”

“‘Stuff’. Uh-huh. Well, do you want help with that ‘stuff’? I’ve got a few profiles set up on some dating sites. You can use them if you want.”

She knew Marisa had a few profiles. Just like she knew the photo that went along with them.

Long, blond tumbling locks. Curves that would’ve made Marilyn Monroe jealous. Wide, crystalline blue eyes. None of which Christie had. Oh no. She didn’t have curves, she had bones. And frizzy chestnut hair. And eyes an indeterminate shade between green and gray.

But hey, that was fine. After a lifetime of having her appearance picked over by her mother, she’d gotten to the point where she just didn’t care anymore. Bones and frizz were A-okay with her. They went with the jeans and the Doc Martens boots quite nicely, thank you very much.

“Uh, thanks for the offer, Mar. But no.”

“Why do I get the feeling you don’t want to do this?”

“Maybe because I don’t?” And she didn’t. In fact, she hated dating. With a passion. “I don’t even know why Ben gave me this stupid assignment. Probably because I’m the only woman on the team.”

“Ahem.”

“Sorry. The only female writer on the team.”

“Oh, come on. He chose you because you write extremely well and you know it.”

“Yeah, but face it, I’m the world’s worst choice to write an article on dating.” Christie bit her lip, trying not to dwell on the unfairness of it and failing. “I suck at that face-to-face, man-woman stuff.” At least she did when it came to stepping outside the gaming/tech world. Not that it bothered her. Most of her friends were guys, and being friends with them was cool. She wasn’t after anything more.

Marisa huffed. “So what was Greg? Chopped liver?”

“Greg was different. Greg was—”

“Greg was barely a man. You need to get over that loser.”

Christie’s grip tightened on her wineglass. “This has got nothing to do with G—”

“Bull. It’s been a year since you two broke up and you’re still single. What’s the holdup?”

With a conscious effort, Christie eased the stranglehold on her glass. “There’s no holdup. I’m happy being by myself.”

“Yeah, and I’m Elvis Presley reincarnated. Come on, sitting around at home IM’ing your friends and playing online games does not constitute a social life. Or any life, for that matter.”

Christie pulled a face. What was so wrong with it? She liked upgrading her computers and IM’ing people. She liked playing online games. Okay, so she didn’t get out much, but she hated bars and nightclubs. Being at home watching TV or reading a good book was much more interesting than the endless round of socializing Marisa seemed to do.

“Mar,” she said, trying for patience, “this dating thing isn’t about me being single or otherwise. It’s to do with Ben’s assignment.”

“But you can’t deny it’s a great excuse to get yourself a hot man.”

“I don’t want a hot man. Or a cold man. Or any man for that matter. Like I said, I’m happy as I am.”

Marisa made an exasperated sound. “Well, okay, fine. Ignore me then.”

Christie sighed. She kicked her feet up onto the coffee table and examined the steel-capped toes of her new cherry-red Doc Martens boots. “I guess you could help me sort out the weirdos,” she offered after a moment.

There was a small silence on the other end of the phone. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’ll set up a few profiles on those dating sites you told me about. Hopefully I’ll get a couple of bites. Then when it’s date time, you can come along with me, check out the guy to make sure he’s not an ax murderer or something, and then come and rescue me if things go bad.”

Which they would. Because they usually did. Not bad in a weird way, just bad in a hideously awkward “I can’t think of anything to say to you” way. Talking to complete strangers had never been something she’d enjoyed. Face to face, at least. Online was entirely different.

“Be your wing-woman?” Marisa asked.

“Yeah. What do you think?” If she were completely honest with herself, having the moral support would be good. God knew she needed it.

Marisa made a soft humming sound, as if weighing the scenario. “You do know I’ve been trying to be your wing-woman ever since you and Greg broke up.”

“Er…have you?”

“Uh-huh. And don’t pretend you don’t know that.”

Christie could feel herself blushing. Yeah, okay, so she may have been avoiding Marisa’s setups. But that had nothing to do with Greg. Less than nothing. Yes, he’d cheated on her with a blonde go-getter who worked in an ad agency. Yes, it had hurt. But she was over it. In fact, she was glad the loser had ditched her. Because when it got to the point where your family seemed to like your boyfriend more than they liked you, then clearly it was time to be single.

Christie took a steadying sip of her wine. “Is that a yes then?”

“Are you kidding me? Of course it’s a yes.”

Five minutes later, a plan in place, Christie was in the process of mentally girding her loins in preparation for the date-finding when her phone rang again.

Reflexively she answered it. Probably Marisa with a whole raft of date wardrobe suggestions.

“Christie?”

A small, hard stone settled in the middle of her chest. Oh joy. She did love talking to her mother. Not.

“Mum. This is a surprise.” She hadn’t spoken to Helene St. John for at least a couple of months. Not since the last call about how Andrew, her brother, had made partner and what a wonderful son he was and how she was so proud. She hadn’t asked Christie a single question about how she was doing. Not one.

“Oh darling,” her mother said, her warm endearments as fake as her eyelashes, “don’t be like that. Not when I have such wonderful news.”

Hating herself for the need that opened up inside her every time she heard her mother’s voice, Christie bit down hard on her lip. “What is it? I’m kind of busy.”

“Not playing one of those silly computer games again?” Her mother gave a musical laugh. “Aren’t you a bit old for those?”

A sharp, metallic taste filled Christie’s mouth. “They’re not silly.” Same old broken record.

“Yes, well. You know my thoughts on the subject. Anyway, that’s not what I called about. Andrew and Emily have just gotten engaged!”

“How lovely,” Christie said in a mechanical voice. So her gorgeous, highly successful brother had just got engaged to the beautiful daughter of one of Auckland’s richest families. Her mother must be over the moon that at least one of her children was doing well.

“Try to sound excited, darling,” Helene chided. “In a couple of weeks we’re going to be throwing the most fabulous party for them and Andrew will be heartbroken if you don’t come.”

Andrew wouldn’t be heartbroken. A few years older than she was, he tended to view her with either mild scorn or complete indifference. Like her father. Both of them were too involved in their careers to pay much more than fleeting attention to her.

Not that she cared. She’d gotten over trying to fit into her family years ago. She had a good job, a nice apartment—at least when she bothered to tidy it—and a whole lot of cool friends. She didn’t need them.

“Thanks, Mum, but I’ve got a…” She tried to think of a decent enough excuse that wouldn’t send her mother into one of her usual pouting fits. “A work deadline. I really can’t miss it.”

There was a pause. “Oh, Christie.” Her mother sounded wounded. “Surely work isn’t that important? Please come. I haven’t seen you for months. You know I miss you.”

Christie’s hand tightened on her handset. A lie, her brain knew it. Her experience backed it up. Helene didn’t miss her. She’d only said that so Christie would do as she was told. So Helene could show off her “perfect” family, prove what a fantastic mother she was.

Oh yes, Christie’s brain knew those things. But her heart didn’t. Her heart refused to believe it. Her heart was a doormat that wanted Helene to be a real mother. A mother who would be proud of her only daughter.

“You don’t miss me.”

“Of course I do. And I’m hurt you’d even think otherwise.” Helene in full-on aggrieved mode. “Please, darling. Do come. For me?”

And of course her stupid heart ached. Wanting to believe her. Telling Christie that perhaps this time, on this occasion, her mother meant it.

“Mum—”

“Darling.” Helene’s voice was very soft. “We could have some together time perhaps? Just you and me?”

Lies. Such lies. Hot, angry words flooded into her head. Words that she could never say because somehow whenever she tried to speak the truth to her mother, the words always tangled themselves up and she couldn’t get them out. “M-m-mum…”

“Oh don’t stutter, dear. It’s a dreadful habit.”

Christie shut her mouth. Bit back the words, just as she always did. Hated herself for doing so, just as she always did. Hated her poor, deluded doormat heart for wanting something it was never going to get. Hated herself for giving in.

“Yes, okay,” she said, tiredly. “I’ll come to the party.”

“Wonderful.” The wounded tone vanished as if it had never been. “I’ll send the invite to you as soon as I’ve approved the mock-up. Oh,” a small pause. “I don’t suppose you patched things up with Greg, did you? We’d just love to see him again.”

Of course they would. Her family had thought the sun shone out of Greg’s proverbial. Even when Christie had told them about their breakup and his cheating, they’d been all “poor Greg,” making her feel as if she was to blame somehow.

Christie stared straight ahead, her jaw tight. “Patch things up? You do remember the whole cheating thing, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course I do. But men are like that. You really have to make an effort to hold on to them.” Her mother sighed. “So you’re not going to try and get him back then? He was such a wonderful man. Very much our kind of people, darling.”

“No, I’m not,” Christie said stonily. Really, the amount of wine left in the bottle wasn’t going to be enough after this conversation. She’d need the whole bloody vineyard. “I think I’d rather poke my own eyes out with matchsticks.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Christie. There’s no need for that kind of thing.” Helene sighed again, sounding long-suffering. “I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything different from you. All right, come by yourself. I’m sure we can find someone nice for you.”

Oh yeah, like the last family party. Where her mother “just happened” to have invited one of the younger tax lawyers from her father’s corporate law firm to “keep Christie company.” The guy had spent a whole hour talking about himself and his boat, then asked her about her stock portfolio. And since Christie knew nothing about stocks, still less about portfolios, the conversation had gone downhill from there.

Her mother’s version of “someone nice” was Christie’s version of “someone who liked to talk about himself and nothing else for hours,” in other words.

Christie swallowed. “I have a boyfriend already, okay?”

A complete and utter lie but it was the only way to get her mother off her back.

“You do?” Genuine surprise this time. “Anyone I know?”

Oh crap. Her and her stupid mouth. “No, no one. Sorry, Mum. I’ve got to go.”

“Make sure you bring him—”

Christie hung up before her mother could finish, her hand shaking as she stabbed the disconnect button.

Great. So now not only had she agreed to go to her perfect brother’s perfect engagement party, she’d totally made up a boyfriend to bring along as well.

Good going, St. John. Perhaps you could make up an imaginary guy for an imaginary date for Ben’s article, too?

Christie picked up her wine and swallowed the rest of it, choking only slightly. The alcohol sat in her stomach, lighting up a fire, her anger beginning to burn.

No, dammit, she wasn’t going to let her mother get to her like this. The days of trying to please her, trying to get just one word of praise from her, were over.

O-V-E-R.

She wasn’t hopeless with men. She hadn’t been with Studman, had she? Oh no, she’d had a sexy conversation. Involving garters and Bloody Marys and sheepskin rugs.

Christie set her jaw and glared at her laptop, determination hardening inside her.

She was going to get her date for her article and the date would be great. No, scrub that—the date would be amazing. She’d show her mother just how damn good she was with men.

And she knew just where to go and who to ask to prove her point.

Christie logged back in to the Zombie Force chat room. Empty. So maybe Studman wouldn’t show, but it didn’t hurt to check. Maybe she’d get lucky. And if he wasn’t around then there would be others. Plenty of others. She’d find someone. She wasn’t totally lame.

Five minutes later, the chat room remained empty and Christie was feeling more disappointed than she cared to admit. Perhaps it was time to call it quits and find someone else. Clearly he wasn’t going to show.

She was on the point of logging off when a chat window popped up again.

Studman500: Hello Naughtygirl, I was wondering if you’d visit again.

A fierce dart of exhilaration arrowed through her. He was here. Now all she had to do was find a bit of courage, ask him if he wanted a date, and she was set. Easy. Yeah, right.

Naughtygirl25: Just passing through. Where did you go?

He seemed to ignore her question.

Studman500: Liar. You were checking to see if I was online, weren’t you?

Even here, sitting in her apartment by herself, she blushed.

Naughtygirl25: Maybe.

Another pause.

Studman500: Tell me what you’re doing right now. Lounging on the sheepskin rug?

Oh boy, she’d love to do more dirty talk with him, but she was on a mission now. An important mission. One that had nothing to do with killing zombies for a change.

Before she could lose her nerve, Christie opened a private message and typed quickly:

Naughtygirl25: Do you want to meet? For a date?

God, the guy probably thought she was a complete and utter freak. She’d only talked to him for the equivalent of ten minutes before the game had started and then in the chat room by themselves. But they’d had…something in those moments, hadn’t they?

Studman500: A date? IRL?

In real life.

Naughtygirl25: Yes.

Christie stared at her screen until it blurred, her heart thumping, caught on the fine edge between disappointment and relief that he’d say no.

Then his reply came up:

Studman500: As a rule, I don’t date women I meet in chat rooms. But I’ll make a special exception for you. Especially if you bring the sheepskin rug.

He was into it. He really was. Oh bloody hell.

Christie reached for her wine bottle and poured herself another large glass to calm the sudden, spiraling doubt. Perhaps this was sleazy. Perhaps he was a serial killer. Perhaps he was a sweaty, pimply teenage boy. Or, worse, eighty-five and into little girls.

But it didn’t feel sleazy. The gut feeling she got from Studman500 was anything but.

And Marisa would be there as her wing-woman. In retrospect that had been a great move. There was no risk involved.

Christie took a deep breath and typed:

Naughtygirl25: Okay. Where and when to meet?

His reply came back without hesitation.

Studman500: Tomorrow night. At Blue. 7 p.m.

Blue was a bar in the Viaduct Basin on Auckland’s harbor, the restaurant district. It was popular, crowded, and just the kind of place that Christie hated. Crap.

Studman500: Oh, and wear the Ugg boots.

Christie groaned.

Naughtygirl25: IN the pub? I don’t think so. I’ll wear…a sheep brooch. How does that sound?

Studman500: Bizarre. But distinctive. See you there, Naughtygirl.

Darius Vasily, Prince of Teirenias, can’t figure out what pretty, but accident-prone, Helene is doing at his private estate. After dousing him in paint, she disappears inside the secret cave holding the royal family treasure—a fertility statue, but a cave-in traps them both. Now Darius has to figure out how to save them before he kills her for getting them into this mess in the first place—or gives into their amazing chemistry.

Information:

Title: The Goddess (An Idol Series Book)
Author: Robyn Grady
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Length: 208 pages
Release Date: May 2013
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-62266-115-2
Imprint: Indulgence
 

Praise for The Goddess:

“Robyn Grady creates compelling stories with believable characters you’ll love.” —NYT Bestselling author, Susan Mallery

Excerpt:

© 2013 Robyn Grady

Chapter One

“Watch out beloooow!”

As her cry pierced the air, Helene Masters gripped the ladder’s top rung with one hand and lunged with the other. Her fingertips grazed the handle but the bucket, three-parts filled with paint, continued on like a short-range missile hurtling toward earth.

This secluded island was a sacred place. The architecture was classic and walkways were patterned with sandstone laid millennia before. One such walkway sat directly below. Helene would have a job cleaning up the mess.

But it got much worse than that.

An unsuspecting someone had just rounded the stables’ corner and now stood in the plunging pail’s path. At the same instant she shouted out, the man had glanced up. Espresso-colored hair, a proud aquiline nose, and a passionate mouth that might as easily command as seduce. A particularly regal face, Helene thought in that split second. And one that would soon be doused in robin-egg blue.

At the last moment, the man braced. Dark eyes widened, those imperious shoulders dipped back, and the bucket missed by a whisker. The aluminum pail clanged upon the stone, jettisoning plumes of blue into the air before the shower slapped onto the ground as well as over a pair of casual shoes and an un-tucked button-down shirt.

While the man stood motionless, in shock, Helene cringed to her toes. She was in big trouble, which was the last thing she wanted. The very last thing she needed. She was over and done with feeling like anyone’s accident waiting to happen.

Below her, strong bronzed hands bunched into fists and a dark gaze snaked back up to snare hers. A slash of paint oozed down one cheek while that Hollywood jaw clenched doubly tight. Energy rippled off him in blistering waves, hitting Helene with a smidgeon less intensity than a sonic boom.

Balanced on the ladder, she apologized. “I’m so sorry. It slipped.”

He flicked dripping hands. Dots flew as he squinted up and asked, “Who in the devil are you?”

His voice was deep and smooth. Unaccountably sexy. She loved his accent—rolling r’s, rounded vowels, and a rich tone that soothed like black velvet whispering over a stretch of bare skin.

When he persisted— “You do have a name?”—Helene gathered her thoughts.

“Helene Masters.”

“What are you doing up there?”

“Painting stable gutters.”

“Clearly.”

But now, rather than terse, he sounded intrigued, and a certain glimmer in those dark eyes said that, whoever he was, she might not be thrown into some ancient jail cell just yet.

“Who commissioned you?”

Helene moistened suddenly dry lips. “I choose not to answer on the grounds it might incriminate someone.”

His eyes flashed like black diamonds glittering in late-summer sunshine. Then one corner of that passionate mouth curved up so slightly she might have imagined it.

“You’re concerned for a friend. And if I told you that he has nothing to fear?”

“I’d ask who gave the assurance.”

“Let’s say, a person of authority.”

For an instant, Helene wondered… Could this man be the Prince of Teirenias? But Darius Vasily wasn’t due on this island until next week. She’d seen a portrait. That man and this one shared a likeness in hair color and complexion; then again, so did the majority in these parts. Besides, the person in the portrait was much younger. The jaw wasn’t anywhere near as strong. Ditto the physique. And those eyes…

Peering down into that dark lidded gaze, she felt a frisson of heat spiral through her.

The portrait’s eyes bore a certain innocence, she thought, whereas this was the gaze of a man who knew when, where, and how to please—but only on his terms.

The man stepped back, leaving blue-bordered footprints behind.

“Come down.” Flinching, he rubbed his neck. “I’m getting a crick.”

Whoever he was, Helene decided, it didn’t make sense to carry on a conversation with him down there and her all the way up here. She descended, glanced over—and was greeted by the sexiest lopsided grin ever.

From atop her ladder she’d known this man was built and attractive, but close up, he was devastatingly so. Everything about his confident expression sent her blood pressure soaring and her thoughts dipping into all kinds of interesting places. She’d heard about animal magnetism—the power some people had to hypnotize and draw in their prey. This man smoldered with it.

“Tell me who is behind your being here,” he glanced dubiously skyward, “painting gutters?”

“You’re a local?” she asked.

“I’m…from nearby.”

“Then you’d know.” She straightened her sleeveless t-shirt. “About the prince, I mean.”

His head tilted, and a dark curl fell over his brow, bobbing in the briny breeze as he crossed his arms. “Fill me in.”

“The Royal Prince of Tierenias will soon be crowned. But before he can become king, tradition states he must spend seven days and nights experiencing the nourishing solitude on this island—”

“A sacred place that boasts stories of royals-in-waiting realizing their greatest strengths following their time of meditation and spiritual renewal.”

She grinned. “Right.  I was hired to brighten and tidy up some things before he arrives. But I’m even more excited about that other story. You know? The myth surrounding an ancient goddess and her mysterious powers.”

His expression sharpened, darkened. “Yes. I know about her.”

“Story goes she can mesmerize and seduce any mortal of her choosing. They say that power is greatest here on this island.”

Helene took in her surroundings: a centuries-old stone villa crouched on a bluff, verdant slopes decorated with wild olive trees and prickly pear, the scent of crystal-clear water and coo of gentle doves. Hidden somewhere in this secluded paradise, that mysterious goddess was reputed to wait.

“This island is so beautiful.” When her gaze dropped to the blue-splashed sandstone, she exhaled. “And I’ve trashed it.”

He persisted. “I need to know who left you here.”

She didn’t want to get her friend into hot water. But records could be checked. Alexio’s name would show up eventually.

“Alexio owns a taverna on the main island,”  she began,  “but he also oversees the upkeep here. He does a lot of the work himself.” She brightened. “But Alexio became a grandfather yesterday, so he offered me the job of finishing the final tidy before the prince’s arrival. Three days work. He dropped me off yesterday.”

The man’s brow remained furrowed and his arms, knotted over that impressive chest, stayed crossed. “And you?” he asked.

“As soon as I got my degree, I was off, backpacking and loving it.” She’d swooned over Mad King Ludwig’s castle in Germany. She’d been blown away by the gothic splendor of Notre Dame. In Italy at the Fontana di Trevi, she’d tossed a coin and promised, no matter what, she would return. Then she’d hopped aboard a sailboat destined for that little known Aegean kingdom steeped in legend, the twin islands of Tierenias. She’d heard that a distant relative had come from these parts. Helene was even named after her.

“Now, can I ask you a question?” He considered before nodding once. “Who, or what, are you?” she asked. “Some kind of guard or secret service type?”

“Not quite.”

“Are you alone?”

“Absolutely.”

She shrugged. “I give up.”

As his chin tipped higher, a ripple of awareness stirred in her stomach, and all the fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. But she’d already ruled out that possibility. The prince was much younger. The planes of his face less angled. His body less…mature. He wasn’t due here until next week.

“You’re not—” She cut herself off with a short laugh. “You couldn’t be… Could you?”

The man thrust back his paint-splattered shoulders.

“I am Darius Vasily, Royal Prince of Tierenias,” he said. “And what we have here, Ms. Masters, is a problem.”

…

Darius Vasily had enjoyed many extraordinary experiences in his life: competing with the world’s leading sportsmen, trading with the world’s richest countries, dealing with the world’s wealthiest tycoons. This coming week, however, was meant to be the most meaningful of his entire thirty years. Seven days—and nights—spent in isolation to prepare for the role to which he had been born. Since childhood, he’d vowed to be a good and responsible king. He was different from his father, but just as determined to succeed.

Although many would view this situation as the worst possible start.

Had his father stood here now, this trespasser would be marched off and, unwitting or not, dealt with promptly.

Darius’s first thought had been “reporter.” While Ms. Masters appeared to have genuinely paled when she realized who he was, media hounds used every trick in the book. When he returned to the villa, he would have her story checked out and arrange to have her taken away.

“I’ve seen a formal portrait,” she was saying. “The prince—he looks…”

“Younger.” She was right. “That official shot will be updated after the coronation.”

“You weren’t supposed to be here this early.”

A last minute change of plans. “News will have been released that my confinement here begins today.”

“Then Alexio will know now, too.” When she studied the horizon, he noticed how her eyes mimicked the color of the island’s sunlit shallows. “He’ll come collect me,” she said.

“Not unless I give the order. The penalty is ninety days in chains.” He thought to add, “Not that chains have been used for that purpose for a hundred years, give or take.”

Her throat bobbed on a deep swallow. “That’s good to know. But you’ll contact Alexio? I have his number.”

If her story panned out, palace administration would have that man’s details in the system. Still, he was not pleased that security had missed her during their sweep of the island, even given his abrupt change of plans and miniscule notice, which must have translated into cutting of some corners.

“You only need to collect your things,” he said. When she nodded and headed for the stables, his brows shot up. “You slept in a stall?”

Wasn’t there a groundsman’s cabin nearby?

“There’s a clean cot in the tack room.” Both hands slotted in the back pockets of her shorts. “It all adds to the adventure.”

Helene was in her early twenties and radiated energy and effervescence. She had apparent innocence as well as burgeoning sex appeal. Useful qualities for a female reporter who wished to sneak an interview with an isolated prince.

“So, you like adventure, Ms. Masters?”

“What’s life without risks?”

Darius would like to concur, but these days his life had little room for anything other than duty. Finding a suitable wife sat at the top of the list: a woman who would understand his duty and bear their children. Even twenty-first century kings must see to succession, a necessity when considering the peaceful transition from anointment to the eventual passing on of title and claim to the throne.

Clearly, Helene Masters was not for him. Nevertheless, she was intriguing. He couldn’t help but wonder… How would those lips taste beneath his? As sweet as they looked? Possibly sweeter.

He’d looked forward to a glass of retsina and a simple lunch on the cool of the balcony. Perhaps Ms. Masters was looking forward to a break, too. But although he was tempted, he wouldn’t ask her to join him. Rather he would make that call to verify who she was and why she was here. And then…

Well then, of course, he would take the steps necessary to have his unauthorized company escorted away.

Mayson McBride never thought she’d see her partner in one night of passion again. Little does she know Holt’s not going anywhere and is looking to keep Mayson to himself. But when Mayson’s family connections put them both in contact with an old-school businessman Holt’s been wooing for years, she impulsively implies a fake engagement between them to help him seal the deal.

It’s only when she discovers she’s pregnant that the ruse begins to seem all too real. They need to decide if this is one deal worth making a lifetime commitment for.

Information:

Title: Merger to Marriage (Boardrooms and Billionaires series)
Author: Addison Fox
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Length: 166 PAGES
Release Date: MAY 2013
EBbook ISBN: 978-1-62266-091-9
Imprint: Indulgence
 

 
 
 

Praise for Merger to Marriage:

“Addison Fox will tempt you with passion and win your heart.” —Heidi Betts, USA Today Bestselling Author

Excerpt:

© 2013 Addison Fox

Prologue

Eight years ago

Mayson McBride watched the hordes of Las Vegas tourists stream through the convention hall and gave herself a mental high-five.

They’d done it.

A heady streak of pride ran through her.

Another glance toward all the smiling faces marching up and down rows of food, wine, appliances and home décor only reinforced that feeling.

“I’m still not sure why you and your sisters bothered with this.” Andrew McBride sidled up to her, and she couldn’t hold back her surprise at her father’s sudden arrival, as if she’d conjured him up from her recalcitrant thoughts.

She gave him a hug and not for the first time wondered, what it would be like to be happy to see him. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

“Changed my mind. Wanted to get in on a poker tournament down at the Mirage.”

“How’d you do?”

He lifted up his hands, his arms held wide and a lopsided smile playing around his mouth. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Of course he was. Her father wasn’t known for his gambling savvy. Or his business savvy. Likely because he managed both with the same wild streak of inconsistency, simply seeking some sort of gambler’s high as opposed to doing any real work or using any measure of strategy.

“How’s attendance?”

Mayson couldn’t hold back a smile of her own. “Beyond expectations. We already have signed letters of intent from forty exhibitors waiting to get in on next year.”

“Wow. Your sisters were working it.”

She brushed off the flare of annoyance that skittered down her back. “We were all working it.”

“Sure, sweetie. I know a lot of set up went into the layout and design.”

She gritted her teeth. “I designed the layout for the entire hall. Ensured each booth had a specific look and feel. And I helped close on the sales.”

His smile fell. “Mayse, you’re always so prickly. I wasn’t trying to insult you.”

“What did you mean, then?” Because I sure as hell wouldn’t classify it as a pep talk.

“You’ve got your mother’s eye for design. At least you’ve figured out a way to make something of it.”

“Unlike Mom, who sat on her ass and did nothing?”

“Again, you’re misinterpreting my words.” He patted her on the back, his discomfort at being called out evident in the way he’d begun to glance around the hall, seeking an out. “It looks great. Everything looks great. But we’ll see. The proof is in the receipts.”

“You don’t think Keira, Camryn and I did it?”

Keira’s challenge to their father had been simple and direct. If they turned a profit on the home show, he’d give them the entire Home and Family asset to run. Magazine. Website. Trade show. Cookware extensions. All of it.

“Like I said, the proof will be in the final tally.”

“Get ready to turn over the keys, Daddy. We not only did it, we blew the doors off.”

“Our deal was two years. Two years to turn a profit.” He held up two fingers to punctuate his point, but he couldn’t hide the slight tremble that gripped his limbs.

“I can guarantee we just did it in one.”

“We’ll see when Camryn runs the financials.”

“Aren’t you seeing what I’m seeing?” Mayson did a swift turn around the hall, the throng of people like a cocoon around them.

Her father gave the room an impatient glance. “Yes. Lots of pretty booths. We’ll let Cam do the final tally and then decide what comes next.”

Mayson knew exactly what came next. She’d known it for months, as she and her sisters worked tirelessly to make something of their lives and their legacy. They all had gifts—Keira for management, Camryn for finance, and her with her eye for design—and they were going to bring McBride Media back from the brink of disaster.

Her father had underestimated their determination to make something of themselves and their sheer fortitude to bring it to fruition. It was a trait he’d never understood or appreciated in his children. But it was about to have consequences for his role as head of McBride Media.

Chapter One

New York City, Present Day

Mayson McBride stared at the lovely red wine stain that spread across the front of her champagne-colored bridesmaid gown and wondered why the hell it couldn’t have been the other way around.

“Why did it have to be that delicious Bordeaux?” she muttered to herself as she slipped out of her ruined dress. The guests at her sister’s wedding reception had already lined up at the bar for glasses of the thousand-dollar treasure, and she was going to miss whatever was left in the time it took to change her clothes in her hotel room five floors up.

With a quick shimmy out of the now-ruined slip that bore the same stain as the bridesmaid dress, she suited up in the silk sheath she’d thought to stow in her bag. The designer had given her the dress after she covered his photo shoot the previous month and she’d been in love with it ever since. The simple lines of the dark indigo dress belied the real genius in the design. The silk clung to her figure like a lover, yet hid any areas she’d prefer the eye skimmed over.

She glanced in the mirror to confirm her chignon was still in place with its iron-clad application of hairspray and then she was on her way. Maybe she’d still get a glass of the Bordeaux if she hurried.

The sounds of the wedding got louder as she stepped off the elevator and clicked down the marble hallway in her heels. Her sister, Keira, had already declared she wasn’t doing anything as traditional as a bouquet toss, but Mayson was looking forward to the distribution of roses that every woman would get after the cake was cut, and she hoped she hadn’t missed it.

As if on cue, the doors flung wide as she approached. A harried florist, his arms full of blooms, let out a string of curses that would quell even the most well-spoken sailor. Mayson stumbled backward to keep her footing and avoid getting slammed with the heavy ballroom door.

Her maneuver had almost worked when her second foot came down hard on the marble and her ankle twisted, shooting the spiky heel out from underneath her. A string of curses of her own came barreling out of her mouth, her arms flapping while she tried to catch her balance. The loud oomph that hit her ears was the last thing she expected as a hard chest pressed against her back and a tuxedo-clad sleeve wrapped around her.

“You okay?” The heavy voice floated over her, the tones distinctly cultured and cold.

“I’m fine.”

Her racing pulse didn’t slow, nor did the arm wrapped around her body release her. A slight warmth flooded her belly, the opposite of what she should be feeling locked in a stranger’s embrace. She struggled to get some distance. The effort was to no avail, her heels clicking against the floor as she attempted to right herself.

“You’re fine?” The words were lower than the last spoken, and she caught another distinct note layered over the cool refinement.

Laughter.

“You think this is funny?” She stilled, that slight edge of humor stopping her more effectively than anything could have.

“I think you’re moving like there’s a fire somewhere and now you’re paying for it.”

“I wanted to get back to the wedding.”

“So you thought it made sense to run through the lobby on those stilts? Not that I can argue with their effect on your legs.”

“I didn’t want to miss the Bordeaux. And why else would I bother wearing them?”

“So Nathan went ahead with it.”

She puzzled at the rapid change of pace and the loss of warmth as the arm that banded her loosened. Mayson turned the moment she was free, and the impression of strength and quiet attractiveness she’d glimpsed from the edge of his profile hit her with a harder punch.

Oh, he was more than attractive, with a ready smile and hazel eyes that were an unexpected and intriguing contrast to his lighter hair. The broad chest she’d felt layered against her back boasted an even broader set of shoulders above it, and every inch of his tuxedo-clad frame had an aura of power and confidence, the exact opposite of what she usually went for.

And how’s that working out for ya, McBride? Her conscience piped up, clearly displeased with her mental attempt to brush off her quick attraction.

“I stand corrected. I’d rush for that wine, too. I’m not sure I’d have left the ballroom.”

“So what are you doing out here?”

“I had a meeting that ran over.” A hint of merriment hit those hazel eyes, morphing them to an enticing shade of green as he stood there with his hands behind his back, rocking slightly on his heels. The move was impish and all-together too appealing. “And I’m late for the wedding.”

“Business meeting on a Saturday? How many kinds of jerk is your boss?”

“I can be an incredible jerk, but today’s meeting was, unfortunately, necessary.”

…

Holt Turner tried to douse the interest that had gripped him the moment this luscious package of adorable fell into his arms, and knew he was about to fail miserably. Who was this woman? Since she was at the wedding, she was a part of Nathan and Keira’s social circle. How had he never met her before?

Her eyes widened at the realization of her insult, and a light blush crept up her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

“You can apologize by having a drink with me.” He moved his hands from behind his back, producing a bottle of the luscious Bordeaux she’d been rushing back to the ballroom for. “Maybe this will change your mind?”

Her mouth dropped. “Where did you get that?”

“I have my ways.”

“You stole it?”

“No, I didn’t steal it.” He was surprised at how quickly the words chaffed and tamped down on the annoyance that nearly spilled forth to ruin the moment. She’d made a joke, nothing more. And he hadn’t needed to steal for a long time.

“Where’d you get it?”

“Since I’m the one who gave it to Nathan and Keira as a wedding present, Nathan thought it only fitting some was kept aside for my enjoyment.”

He saw her eyes widen and marveled at the innocence there. Most women—certainly the ones who knew the value of the Bordeaux as she obviously did—would have begun seeing dollar signs. Instead, a warm glow lit up her face, from her dark, expressive eyes to her broad smile. “That’s an incredibly lovely and generous gift.”

“I’m happy for them, and it was my pleasure.” The large lobby had various seating options, many hidden away in private spaces for quiet conversations. Holt gestured toward one of them and enjoyed watching the light sway of her hips as she moved toward a plush seat.

“Do I at least get a name?”

“I’m not sure. I’m still a bit wounded by your snap judgment of me and my heels.” A light veneer of amusement flickered across her features. “Maybe when I know you better.”

“Isn’t a name part of the process of getting to know someone better?”

“Share that bottle and I’ll consider it.”

Holt snagged the attention of a bellman and requested glasses and his services to open the wine. As they waited, he took the opportunity to really look at her.

“Are you here with anyone?”

“Do you mean like a date?”

“The question was a bit more general than that, but yes. A date, or anyone else for that matter. A friend? A sibling?”

“I’m here with my family.”

“Aren’t they going to wonder where you got to?”

“They’ll be fine.”

When that line of questioning turned up no further information, he took a new angle, curious to know more about her. “So you clearly have a low opinion of business meetings.”

“They’re a necessary evil.”

“Which either means you sit through a lot of them or deliberately chose a profession without any.”

“A lot. Definitely a lot.”

“Ah.” He pointed toward her feet. “That explains your speed on those heels.”

He didn’t miss the wry tilt to her lips when she spoke again. “The speed is a side benefit of a frenetic personality. The quality of the heels, however, is a side benefit of all those meetings I hate going to.”

“You’re a career woman?”

The smile vanished, her features darkening, and it was obvious he’d hit a nerve. “I don’t like categories like that. It diminishes someone’s value. Puts them in a box.”

Holt couldn’t argue with her assessment, but he was curious to know why she thought so. “We’re bombarded with messages and images all day long. Categories help us put things in their place. Figure out our world. It’s not a bad thing.”

“No, but it’s not the easiest way to get to know someone.”

“So we are going to get to know each other?”

The question hung between them as the bellhop returned with their wine. Holt took the glasses and open bottle from the man, and gave him a quick tip. The bellhop’s jaunty step as he walked away ensured he’d give them their privacy, yet keep an eye should they need anything else. Just the way Holt preferred it.

He poured two glasses of the rich red and handed one to the woman as he swirled his own glass. She did the same, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

“What’s that for?”

“The wine. It’s so simple. So easy.”

“I’d say it’s incredibly complex.”

“Exactly!” She held up her glass, swirling it once more. “It is deeply complex, yet what you see is what you get. It’s a rich promise that never disappoints. People can be the same way.”

Holt leaned forward and clinked his glass against hers. “To simple complexity.” Before she could offer her own toast, he added to the toast. “And sharing a complex yet simple glass of wine with an exquisitely beautiful woman.”

She was unexpected. Rare. And his interest raised another notch, deepening in the light of her dark gaze.

“We were interrupted. Why don’t you like categories?”

That dark gaze dropped, and Holt couldn’t help thinking she hid secrets behind those eyes. But it was when she looked up again that he was charmed by the intensity he saw reflected back at him.

“I think the human experience is far richer than people often give it credit for. And those boxes we like to drop people into? Well, they’re boxes of our own making, not a true reflection of that other person.”

“No one can really know everything about another person.”

“Which is why we shouldn’t categorize them or assume we really know them. We don’t. We know what we think we know about them.”

“You feel quite passionately about this?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Let’s say a lifetime of being put in a box of someone else’s making grew rather tight and restrictive.”

The prim set of her shoulders and the long legs delicately crossed at the ankles drew him, the proverbial moth to flame. There was depth here, and far more than a pretty face. While he’d never spent much time analyzing or worrying over his dates, the fact that he was now faced with a woman who had layers and thoughts and opinions had him immediately intrigued. And interested far more quickly than he normally would be.

“I have no interest in putting a label on you, but I do have an interest in getting to know you better.”

“I’d like that.”

“Perhaps we can start with a name?”

She hesitated for the briefest moment before she spoke. “Elizabeth.”

“Lovely to meet you, Elizabeth.” He extended his hand. “I’m Holt.”

“You, too. Holt.” His name hovered on her lips as she slid her hand into his, her voice husky and deep from the wine.

He held her hand a moment longer than necessary before releasing it and picking up his glass. “We’ve spent a lot of time talking about work. Or dancing around it. What do you do for fun?”

Light flooded her features, filling her gaze with delight. “I have a charity I’m involved in that I love.”

“What do you do for them?”

“I work with special-needs children at a camp upstate. It’s called Hands, Hearts and Hugs.”

“What sort of work is it?”

“The program is about creating opportunity. Many of these children haven’t been given much chance in life, either due to poverty issues or abandonment. The organization provides housing and healthcare services where needed, along with programs to educate and help these children find work as they grow into adulthood.”

She knew the quality of the wine, and she was attending one of the weddings of the year, so she clearly knew her way around wealth and privilege. But her excitement about the children she worked for displayed a quality he hadn’t seen in many women of his acquaintance.

“It sounds pretty amazing.”

“It is.” She smiled, obviously warming to her subject. “The engagement these kids have with the world is incredible. They don’t see labels. They see the person inside.”

“How long have you worked with them?”

“About three years now. We’re trying to get their facility expanded and have hit a bit of a snag, but we’ll find a way around it.”

“I think I’m starting to get a picture of you.”

“Oh?” She cocked her head, a mischievous smile playing around her eyes and lips. “Have I put you off the career-woman-with-attitude impression?”

“I think career woman is far too simple a description. You’re like this wine.” He held up his glass but kept his gaze firmly locked on hers. “Beautifully complex. You’re also full of bright, vivid colors. You embrace the world, pulling it in close and putting your own personal stamp on it.”

“That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“I mean every word.” He leaned forward, unable to tear his gaze from her. Sexual awareness sparked between them like a live wire. He felt it—reveled in it—even as he realized there was something more.

Respect.

He certainly didn’t disrespect the women of his acquaintance—and all knew full-well where he stood on anything permanent—but no one he’d met before inspired such an immediate wash of interest and need. Yes, she was attractive. Devastatingly so, but it was something more.

Something richer.

“Why don’t you ask me to accompany you upstairs, Holt?” Her voice was just like that live wire he’d thought of, and it sparked through his bloodstream like a fire.

“What’s upstairs?” He wanted her, wanted the invitation implied in her words, but needed to give her a final opportunity to say no.

“A more private place to continue our conversation.”

…

The ride in the elevator had been quiet, but anticipation hummed between them with a loud, nearly-audible throb. He felt it in his veins, and knew Elizabeth’s pulse pounded as heavy as his. Could feel it where he ran a thumb over her wrist, just beneath their joined hands. Need pounded, dark and heavy in his veins, the anticipation of what would come almost painful in its intensity. God, how he wanted this woman.

She stepped off the elevator before him, and again he was captivated by the gentle sway of her hips as she strode toward her door.

“Don’t you live in New York?”

“I do.” She glanced back over her shoulder as she keyed in her room card. “But I thought it would be easier to get a room for the evening and enjoy the party as late as I wanted to.”

“Very smart.”

“Practical.”

“Here’s to practicality.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her neck, the soft spot beneath her hairline beckoning him like a lodestone. A light sigh drifted up from her lips and Holt reached around her to open the door as the unlock light blinked green. “After you.”

She drifted through the doorway and turned toward him, her arms reaching for his neck. Holt pulled her close as the heavy door swung closed behind them. His fingers found purchase in the soft silk at her waist and he moved one hand to settle along the slim column of her spine. “Are you sure about this?”

“Mm, yes, very sure,” she whispered before pressing her lips to his. When she showed no concern about taking things further between them, he relaxed, pulling her close.

He deepened the kiss, more than encouraged by her eager response. Seeking a moment of clarity, he lifted his head while locking his gaze with hers. He ran soft fingers over the exposed skin of her upper arms and wondered at the subtle sense of panic, throbbing in counter-point to his aching body.

“Holt?” Questions filled her eyes and, unwilling to let them take the form of words, he leaned forward and captured her lips once more, ignoring whatever warning bells his subconscious was intent on ringing.

He ran his hands over her long, slender form, reveling in the subtle strength of her. Long and lean, her body was a graceful mix of athletic curves and feminine beauty.

“Make love to me,” she whispered against his ear. Her warm breath shot sparks straight to his groin and his already-hard body tightened painfully.

“How can I resist?”

He felt her lush lips curve into a smile as she pressed them to his mouth. “You can’t.”

With movements designed to prove her point, the arms she’d wrapped around his waist loosened and her hands came around to the front of his slacks. He felt her fingers on the enclosure and drew in a hard breath as they darted below the waistband, brushing against his erection. Her hand slid lower until her fingers wrapped around the hard length.

“I think I’m very glad you caught me in the lobby.”

He ground his body against her hand.

“And I’m glad you were standing in the lobby, waiting to get caught.”

With gentle movements, he reached for her hand, drawing it from his waistband and into his own. “There will be time for that in a bit. First, I think you’re wearing far too much.”

He walked her backward toward the bed while his hands roamed around the edge of her dress. Once he had a grip on the delicate material, he stripped the long column of silk from her form, exposing her bra and panties. Her nipples had already pebbled under the pale lace of her bra and he reached for her breasts, palming both in his hands, intoxicated by her beautiful curves. Those tight points hardened and her eyelids dropped to a sultry half-mast as he worked her flesh. Her back arched, bringing her breasts in closer contact with his hands, and pure male satisfaction beat through his veins at the heavy breaths that escaped between her lips.

Before he could reach for the clasp himself, her hands were at the back of her bra. “Touch me. I want to feel your hands on me,” she whispered as the garment fell away, exposing the full measure of her breasts.

The heavy weight of them filled his palms, and he again reached for the bright pink nipples. While he continued to ply her with one hand, he leaned forward, grasping her waist to draw her close so he could take a nipple into his mouth. The hard bead of her nipple rested on his tongue and he tightened his arm on her back, pulling her even closer, the need to give her pleasure at the forefront of his thoughts.

Moment after moment spun out in an erotic give and take as her fingers twisted in his hair. He used his free hand to drag one of her legs up toward him and pressed himself against the apex of her thighs. The wet heat of her scorched him through his slacks, and he pressed himself against her, desperate for the promise of her body.

“I need to feel you,” she moaned against his ear before taking the lobe with a quick nip of teeth. “And I want to see you.”

Her fingers dragged his dress shirt from his slacks and he stepped back to allow her access. With nimble fingers, she undid the buttons in rapid succession, drawing the shirt off, then reaching for his T-shirt. That followed in quick succession, and once he was free of the garments, he felt her hands as they smoothed over his shoulders, then around to his back.

“Wow. Who knew businessmen could have a set of shoulders like these.”

“I’m entitled to a few secrets.”

“As long as you let me in on them.”

Her words registered in the back of his mind. He did have secrets. Things he shared with no one.

“Holt?” Her question balanced delicately in the moment. “Are you all right?”

Unwilling to ruin the moment with useless history, he pasted on a broad smile. “I’m fine, baby. Just fine.”

Before she could reply or call him on his bluff, he walked her backward across the room until they fell onto the large king-sized bed. “Let me show you just how fine.”

…

Mayson breathed a small sigh of relief as he stretched over her. He’d made quick work of his slacks and briefs, and she had a sense her eyes were glazing over at his impressive form. She fought to keep the moment light, but couldn’t quite banish the memory of his bleak gaze. What had intruded on their moment? Was it the mention of secrets?

A small kernel of guilt lodged under her skin and she fought to ignore it. They barely knew each other. If he had a few secrets of his own, he was entitled to them. Assuming he didn’t have a wife or girlfriend.

Wait…

“Are you married?”

“Am I what?”

He levered up onto his forearms at her words, his back going stiff.

“Are you married? Or in a relationship?”

“No on both counts.”

“Good.”

Now that the moment had broken, his gaze sharpened, the haze of pleasure rapidly fading. “What prompted that question?”

“You got all squinty and weirdly quiet a few moments ago.”

“Squinty?”

“Yes.” She tried to shift from underneath him, but he held her immobile with his body. “Just like you are now.”

“Maybe I was thinking about where I put the condoms. And then I thought about if you’d be mad I had them with me.”

“Oh.”

“Or maybe I wanted to make sure you weren’t regretting this.”

“Am I acting like I regret this?”

“You might.”

She ran one finger over the thick muscles of his shoulder. “I won’t.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. Now where are those condoms?”

He glanced toward the floor. “In my wallet.”

“Then I suggest you get them.”

His mouth came down on hers. “In a minute. I’m not quite finished with what I was working on.” The soft pressure of his lips gave way to his tongue as he explored the interior of her mouth.

Mayson allowed him entrance and gloried in the firm slide of his tongue against hers, the erotic in-and-out pressure that mimicked what was to come.

God, had she ever been kissed so thoroughly?

She wrapped her arms around his back, tracing her fingers up and down the long length of his spinal cord before moving over the hard globes of his ass. Her half-whispered joke from earlier, questioning where he got such a great body, was just that—half a joke.

He was beautiful.

Long, tight ropes of muscle played under his skin, and each exploration of her hands took her breath away.

To think that, for tonight, he was hers.

Nothing could interfere in the moment and nothing could take this away. For the first time in a long time, Mayson took what she wanted for herself. The feeling was heady and glorious and she exulted in the sensation, taking simple joy from the moment. And if guilt edged the joy slightly, well, she’d have to live with it. Telling Holt her real name would have changed the tone of the evening. Instead of flirtation and innuendo, she’d have been a McBride sister and the new sister-in-law of one of New York’s most powerful men.

Instead, she was here, with Holt, and more than happy to simply be another guest at the wedding.

With renewed fervor, she pressed her lips to his, pleased when he responded in kind. After another seductive, drugging kiss, Holt lifted his head and smiled down at her. “You are exquisite.”

“Holt—”

Before she could even think to say anything else, he moved to stretch out on his side and ran a hand down the length of her body. His fingers played briefly over her breasts before coming to rest at her core. Her thighs fell open at his touch and she watched his eyes turn a smoky green as he slid a finger against the seam of her body.

“You’re wet.”

“For you.”

“I certainly hope so.” A flush of embarrassment crept up her neck, the heat spreading to her cheeks, before his smile softened. “I meant that to tease you. Don’t be embarrassed by your pleasure. Ever.”

As if to punctuate his words, he slid his finger into the tight, warm sheath of her body. When he added a second finger, his smile vanished completely, to be replaced by a dark look that spoke of the extreme self-control he was working hard to maintain.

With seeking hands of her own, she reached for the thick length of his erection that strained against her hip. With deft movements, she made a circle with finger and thumb, and ran the tight circle from the base of his penis to the tip. He gritted his teeth and she felt his sensual retaliation as his fingers moved against her clitoris. A hard, low moan escaped from her chest and she tightened the pressure of her hands as he continued the exquisite torture against her flesh.

Despite her insistence on teasing him as he did her, she quickly found herself losing the battle as Holt worked her body with his lover’s touch. Hot need coiled low in her belly and she felt the hard trembling of her body as the pressure of his fingers quickened, the pleasure nearly unbearable.

“Holt,” she moaned, and he quickly caught it with his lips, using his tongue against hers with the same rapid pace of his fingers. The moment was exquisite and she gave in to the needs of her body and rode the wave of pleasure he was so determined to provide.

He lifted his lips from hers as another harsh moan escaped her, long, languid arcs of pleasure emanating through her body in heavy waves of release. With soft movements, he disengaged his fingers from her body and leaned down to press his lips to hers once more. “You are amazing.”

Her eyelids shot open. “Don’t think you’re getting off that easy.”

“I’m not sure getting off is the best choice of words in this circumstance.”

Even though the pleasure still pulsed from her core in hot bursts, she refused to enjoy this moment alone. With a devious smile, she pointed toward his discarded slacks. “Can you reach those?”

One long arm snaked over the side of the bed and grabbed the fine black wool. “Got it.”

“Good. Hand me the condoms.” At his arched eyebrow, she added a sultry, “please.”

When she finally had the small foil packet in hand, she offered him one more smile. “Holt?”

“Yes.”

“You can thank me later.”

It was long moments later, long after she sheathed his hard erection in the condom and long after she rose up above him, fitting her body to his, that he let out a hard sigh of pleasure.

“Can I thank you now?”

“Not yet.” She tilted her hips, rising up above him before falling back down and taking him to the hilt. His hands gripped her hips, helping her maintain the rhythm that was driving them both to the edge and beyond.

“Now?”

“I don’t think so.” Mayson marveled that the words were her own, that she was the sultry temptress who spoke them.

She rose up once more and then once more again, each movement over his body harder than the one before. She watched with satisfaction as his hooded eyes grew even darker with need. Felt it as his large body tightened under hers and she knew he reached for his pleasure, even as hers was within striking distance.

“Now?”

His body stiffened and she cried out in ecstasy as he pressed upward, his body tight and fitted to hers. “Now.”

The rush of want and need, passion and pleasure, gripped them both. And as Mayson rode the pleasure, she knew she’d never regret this night.

Brynn McAdams isn’t the awkward drama geek she was in high school—she’s grown up and confident, or at least she likes to think so. But when her old crush, the impossibly handsome and impossibly unattainable Sawyer Raines, comes back to town to direct her community play, Brynn finds herself determined to be someone other than the girl he doesn’t even recognize. Good thing she’s an excellent actress.

After his bad breakup in NYC, the last thing Sawyer wants is to get involved with another actress. But the glamorous and beautiful Brynn draws him in, even though as her director, he knows she’s off-limits. There’s just something about the woman that feels…familiar. Like home.

As Brynn’s lies start to snowball, she struggles to stop acting and come clean. But what if Sawyer is already falling for the fake Brynn, not the Brynn she truly is?

Information:

Title: Act Like You Love Me (Accidentally in Love, #2)
Author: Cindi Madsen
Genre: Contemporary romance
Length: 242 pages
Release Date: June 2013
Ebook ISBN: 978-162266-0-896
Imprint: Bliss
 

 
 
 

Praise for Act Like You Love Me :

A charming friends-to-lovers romance…delightful.” –RT Book Reviews, Top Pick on Falling for Her Fiance

Eve Doucette finally almost has it all. She’s free from her mistake of an ex-husband and just landed her dream job: project manager for a new City Hall and drafter of the final design. That is, until a handsome architect sweeps into town to commandeer her blueprints.

Famous architect Matt Brison is unsatisfied with his mundane life in Toronto. So when the mayor of Halifax asks him to spearhead his City Hall project, Matt jumps at the opportunity. There’s just one problem: the feisty and beautiful project lead, Eve, who isn’t exactly thrilled about her new “coworker” hijacking her design.

But when the sparks begin to fly, they both find themselves falling for the colleague they shouldn’t want. And before they know it, their already shaky foundation might come crumbling down…

Information:

Title: Desire by Design
Author: Paula Altenburg
Genre: Contemporary romance
Length: 192 pages
Release Date: May 2013
ISBN: 978-162266-1-008
Imprint: Bliss
 

 
 
 

Praise for Desire by Design:

“A funny, sexy book with great characters who are entertaining to watch as they fall in love.” –Cindi Madsen, bestselling author of Falling For Her Fiance

Betsy Harris has always known Jace Macnamara was off-limits. Not only is he a close friend, he also happens to be her boss—making him doubly forbidden. Betsy’s too timid to ever admit her crush, nor ‘fess up to the fact that she’s secretly drowning in her mother’s medical bills.

Jace just found out he needs a wife and needs one now. His childhood home—the last reminder he has of his deceased parents—can only become his if he gets married, but Jace, ever the playboy, never dreamed of settling down for real. Neither Betsy nor Jace wants to ruin their friendship when their fake marriage inevitably ends, so they vow to keep things light, professional, easy. But as Betsy comes out of her shell, Jace begins to see his “wife” for the beautiful, caring woman she is. Can he risk their past for a future together?

Information:

Title: Just My Luck (Shamrock Falls, #3)
Author: Kelley Vitollo
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Length: 185 pages
Release Date: June 2013
Ebook ISBN: 978-162266-0-865
Imprint: Bliss
 

 
 
 

Praise for Just My Luck:

This is my new favorite series!” –The Sweet Bookshelf blog

Sela Sullivan is resolved to be the best maid of honor ever, even if it means tolerating the best man. Insufferable, too-handsome Luke Watters is not only the guy who humiliated her at a kissing booth in high school, but he also happens to be her best friend’s older brother. Positive he’s the same arrogant jock, Sela vows to focus on her duties and steer clear of the frustrating—and frustratingly tempting—Luke.

As a world-renowned extreme-sports photographer, Luke is used to undertaking life-risking adventures. But risking his heart for the beautiful Sela Sullivan, who clearly still hates him for his rejection all those years ago? He didn’t see that coming. Sela inspires a passion he’s never known, and the more time they spend together, the more he craves her. But can he prove to the maid of honor he’s become a man of honor?

Information:

Title: Kissing the Maid of Honor (Secret Wishes, #1)
Author: Robin Bielman
Genre: Contemporary romance
Length: 230 pages
Release Date: May 2013
ISBN: 978-162266-0-889
Imprint: Bliss
 

 
 

Praise for Kissing the Maid of Honor:

“The perfect blend of sweet, sexy and heartwarming. Pure Bliss!” –Samantha Beck, author of Lover Undercover