Lisa Plumley has a new book coming out this October, Home for the Holidays (Zebra, 7 Oct 08). Read on for a peek under, uh, between, uh, well, inside the covers. dammit – just read…

When Rachel loses her Hollywood dream job, a trip home for Christmas seems like a good idea. But she never expects to find a hunk from her past waiting under the mistletoe…

Red-hot stylist-to-the-stars Rachel Porter has it all. Well, sort of. Her luxury beach house is actually a loaner from her #1 client. And her cute Tesla Roadster? Well, that’s just another job perk…hers to keep, right? But when Rachel catches her #1 client in bed with her boyfriend, she exacts her revenge by tricking her turncoat “frenemy” into committing fashion suicide on the red carpet–and promptly finds herself out of a job. And her house. Her car. Her life. With nowhere to turn, Rachel does the unthinkable: she goes home to Kismet, Michigan.

For Reno Wright, picking up his neighbor’s daughter from the airport for a holiday visit sounds like no big deal. But from the moment he spies Rachel in the airport, Reno knows he’s in over his head. The girl Reno remembers from high school looks nothing like the glammed-out man-killer who walks off the plane. But for all her attitude, Rachel is really just a small-town girl with a heart too big for Hollywood. The temperature may be freezing, but the heat between Rachel and Reno is burning hot. Reno is falling hard fast…but will his holiday romance survive once the calendar turns?

E-X-C-E-R-P-T

from Home for the Holidays by Lisa Plumley

The thing about her life, Rachel Porter realized as she scrambled out of her Malibu beach house with an armload of accessories, a
collapsible rolling wardrobe rack, and a mouthful of chalky “French vanilla” protein bar at the unholy hour of 9:30 A.M. on a
Saturday, was that it never stopped. Never. Ever.

Take now for instance. Most ordinary people would have been lolling in bed. Or making brunch plans. Or maybe—if they were really
ultraambitious—hitting a local coffeehouse for a latte and a copy of the Times. But was she doing any of that? No.
Because she hadn’t gotten to the top of her game by lolling, brunching, or reading the newspaper, Rachel reminded herself as she
took a swig of Dayquil from the bottle she’d carried outside. She’d gotten there by busting her butt for her “team” (aka, her
clients), and she wasn’t about to stop now. Not even on a perfectly clear December day like today, when the sky soared overhead in
pure Tiffany blue, and the sun sparkled off the Pacific, and even the seagulls sounded kind of nice.

Wintertime in L.A. You had to love it.

But if she didn’t get a move on, she was going to lose it. A girl like her lived on borrowed time. In a borrowed house. With a
borrowed car parked outside. Technically speaking, most of what she called her own was either on loan from a client or courtesy of a
celebrity party goody bag. In fact, her whole life was kind of a loaner. Hers for now. But the way things looked, now was going to
last a good, long, fantastic time.

After all, she loved her clients as much as they loved her. She made them look fabulous, and they made her look happy. Er,
successful. There was no reason to believe their lovey-dovey relationship wouldn’t continue. Besides, she’d earned all those
freebies (in a way). Perks were part of the celebrity stylist package. She’d have been an idiot to turn them down (although,
naïvely, she had at first). She might have been a Midwestern girl once, but she was a bona fide California girl now.

Clattering down the drive in her chicest sandals (to the dinging accompaniment of an incoming text message and her spare cell
phone’s ringtone), Rachel deftly rearranged two handbags and a tangle of silk scarves. She snared the wardrobe rack with her foot,
then steered it toward her Tesla Roadster. The wheelie rack sailed to a tidy stop near the passenger side door, allowing her plenty
of time to swallow her first bite of protein bar, glance at the text, then answer cell phone numero dos.

It was Jenn, her new assistant. Thank God. She was already on the job. It hadn’t been easy to find Jenn—fourteen interviews
later—but Rachel desperately needed the help. Ever since styling the cast of Rendezvous for the Emmys, she’d had more work than she
could handle. It hadn’t been easy to turn over the reins (even a few of them) to someone new, but Jenn’s stellar résumé and
outstanding references had helped make the process easier.

It was only smart, Rachel figured, to get solid verification before committing fully to anything. Or anyone.

“Hi, it’s Jenn. I have Tiana on the line for you.”

“No! I can’t talk to Tiana right now.” Rachel felt sure she’d made that clear to Jenn already. She propped the phone on her
shoulder, added the scarves and accessories to the pile already on the convertible’s passenger seat, then started folding up the
wheelie rack. Stuffily and a little hoarsely, Rachel said, “Just tell her I’ll call her later, okay? Because—”

“Oh, good. Here she is!” Jenn announced cheerfully.

Silence. Then a faint click. Damn it. Jenn had weaseled already! She’d sold her out. The sounds of surf came over the line, followed
by the clink of cutlery and a strident voice.

“Rachel! I’ve been trying to reach you since Tuesday.”

Uh-oh. Tiana Zane—with Alayna Panagakos and Melina Carras—was one-third of the superstar girl group, Goddess. Or at least she had
been. When Alayna had gotten “discovered” by the film industry, she’d all but ditched the group to become the latest Hollywood “It”
girl. Rachel respected Alayna’s ambition—and was grateful that Alayna had brought her along for the ride—but her break with Goddess
had left two very problematic side effects.

Namely, Melina and Tiana.

“I know, Tiana.” Another shove brought the collapsible rack into the car, clothes and all. Rachel studied it, then redraped a few
items. “I’m sorry. I’ve been absolutely swamped.”

“Swamped working with Alayna?”

Guiltily, Rachel froze. She glanced at her brand-new car, a gift from…well, guess who? It was all electric, went zero to sixty in
four seconds, and was rumored to cost over one hundred thousand dollars. There was a waiting list to get a Tesla Roadster, even for
celebrities, but Alayna had had enough clout to snag two of them. Rachel’s lit up her driveway in electric blue. Most people opted
for fusion red, but not Alayna.

“Too midlife crisis,” she’d said in dismissal. “Too predictable. We’re anything but predictable, right, Rach?”

Shaking off the memory, Rachel wrenched open her door and got in. Ah. Luxury. “You know I do everything I can for my clients, Tiana.
Did you get the dress I sent over?”

“That’s why I’m calling. I’m not wearing this.”

“It’s from a new designer. A very talented man named—”

“It looks like gold Saran Wrap! You’re kidding right?”

Inhale. Exhale. Neither was easy, given the head cold Rachel was currently battling. “Of course not. Loo is having a Barbarella
moment right now, that’s all. That dress is very inspired.” Rachel had all but promised the designer that she’d get one of his
creations on the red carpet. “It’s avant-garde.”

“It’s tacky, and I hate it.”

“Okay.” Stealthily, Rachel slipped the key in the ignition. The car started in absolute silence. Thank you, electric engine! “I’ll
pull a few more things for you. You’ll love them.”

Tiana breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes. Please.”

“No problem.” Glancing over her shoulder, Rachel hovered at the edge of the PCH, waiting for a break in traffic. Who needed coffee,
when L.A. rush hour could pump up your adrenaline instead? “I’ll just have Jenn drop by to pick it up early. They’re not doing the
Vogue shoot with it until next week, but—”

“Wait a minute. This dress is going to be in Vogue?”

“Mmmm.” Blithely, Rachel swallowed another bite of protein bar. She pushed up her sunglasses. “That’s what I’ve heard.”
A long silence. Then, “Maybe I’ll try it on again.”

“Are you sure? I’ve got a few other things here…”

“I’m sure. Actually, I mostly called to say thanks. For still being there for me. A lot of people in this town pretty much quit
returning my calls, but you… Well, I appreciate it.”

Ugh. Feeling twice as bad for trying to ditch Tiana’s phone call earlier, Rachel let a perfectly good opening in traffic pass her
by. She stared blindly at the Mercedes and Priuses whooshing past, her lungs filled with exhaust and sea air. Her other cell phone
rang. Six text messages had come in too.

“You’re welcome. Anytime, Tiana. Gotta run.”

She hung up and swerved into traffic. Because after all, sentimentality was a luxury she couldn’t afford. She ran a serious
business—in a very cutthroat town—and that was that.

Two and a half minutes later, Rachel pulled her carload of stuff into the busy driveway of the beach house next door—a house much
bigger and more lavish than her own. She sighed. Her commute wasn’t bad, but the on-call hours were killer.

Time to go to work for real.

~ ~ ~

Alayna’s house overflowed with people, from the gardeners laboring over the grass and flowering bougainvillea to the cleaners,
caterers, and delivery personnel coming and going across the imported Italian stone floors. With her cell phone to her ear (and her
other phone bleeping for attention in her tote bag), Rachel studied the scene as she popped her first Pepcid of the day. Chasing the
antacid with a cough drop, she dodged a florist’s van and two window cleaners, then briskly made her way up the steps and through
the open front door.

As always, the interior of the place took her breath away. Starkly modern in design, it boasted an unmatched view of the ocean,
expansive spaces, luxe furnishings, and a media room with an A/V system to rival any professional theater. The house also featured a
chef-grade kitchen (Alayna used it to microwave Lean Pockets and store Diet Dr Pepper), a personal tan-by-mist salon, and two entire
rooms that served as walk-in closets—one for shoes and accessories; one for clothing and jewelry.

Everywhere Rachel looked, things were expensively and expertly decorated. Although less than a month remained until Christmas, there
was no sign of the holiday here.

There wouldn’t be either—not until after Alayna’s birthday today. The pop star refused to acknowledge anything mistletoe-and-holly
related until after her big day. But with Christmas crowding into stores earlier every year, fulfilling Alayna’s request to keep
everything seasonal out of sight until…well, tomorrow—when she’d expect her home to be transformed into a winter wonderland—proved
trickier for Rachel all the time.

In the end, she’d enacted her own Christmas boycott, just to keep herself on the straight and narrow. From Thanksgiving through
early December, Rachel simply pretended the holidays didn’t exist. She didn’t wrap gifts, she didn’t play her guilty-pleasure ‘N
Sync Christmas CD, and she absolutely didn’t wander around with any delicious peppermint mochas in hand.

“Excuse us,” someone said.

She turned. Two uniformed workers glided past her with a floral arrangement between them. It looked big enough to serve as a
centerpiece at an Oscars after party. In a life this grand, the flowers simply had to keep up—and so did Rachel.
Rearranging the evening bags she’d brought, she charged past the foyer. Forty gazillion steps later (the house was just that big),
she stopped to chat with Alayna’s party planner, then with the charming French caterer, Henri. He insisted she try a bite of his
petite gateau; it tasted orgasmic.

He winked. “I’ll save a plate for you at the party.”

“Thanks. I never get a chance to eat anything.”

“You and me too, chérie.”

As though on cue, cell phone numero uno rang. With a smile and a wave to Henri, Rachel answered it. She talked Jenn through some
paperwork and the day’s call list as she navigated past a jumble of charity invitations, an array of busy decorators, and an
extravagant pile of gifts. They’d been arriving for weeks, Rachel knew, from friends and fans and hangers-on alike.
She passed through the great room, looking for her client as she gave yeses or nos for Jenn to relay to the various designers,
celebrities, and sponsors who wanted to meet with her. Alayna was nowhere in sight, but a nearly life-size rendition of the
Acropolis—done in sweet red velvet cake and buttercream—stood in a place of prominence in the dining room.
Yum. People outside the industry probably wouldn’t have understood making such a fuss over someone’s birthday. After all, they’d
have said, despite her Grammy and her acting roles and her number-one CDs, Alayna was just another girl, right?
But that wasn’t right. Not at all. Alayna was special, and Rachel had dedicated three years of her life to making sure the whole
world noticed that. Besides, it wasn’t every day that a superstar turned twenty-five. Rachel had powered past that milestone herself
just five years ago. Sadly, she hadn’t had an enormous artisanal cake and a truckload of gifts to show for it.
In fact, if she remembered correctly, her twenty-fifth birthday had passed by mostly unnoticed, lost in a whirlwind of preparation
for one of her clients’ big events. Succeeding in her business required that kind of focus though. If Rachel didn’t stay on her
toes, another stylist would step in and steal the spotlight—along with her “team”—and then where would she be?
Off the A-list and out of a job, that’s where.

Probably if she’d been with Tyson on her birthday, things would have been different, Rachel mused as she paused to check her
bleary-eyed, red-nosed reflection in the mirror at the bottom of the staircase. Her new boyfriend was thoughtful. Loving. Fun. And
drop-dead sexy too. Tyson would have made sure she had a birthday to remember. He was just that kind of guy.
Which was why she hadn’t mentioned that she had to work this morning. Why put the kibosh on their entire weekend?
Instead, Rachel had left just moments after Tyson had gone for his usual A.M. run on the beach. If she were lucky, she could finish
early with Alayna, then sneak back home before Tyson even realized she’d gone. Before she knew it, she’d be kicking off her weekend
the right way—with a steamy shower, a bunch of frothy, squeaky-clean bubbles, and a whole lot of hot, naked man—her man—to share
them with.

Newly determined, Rachel hung up her phone, ignoring the ring of numero dos. She ascended the stairs as quickly as she could, rising
above the commotion in the rest of the house and stopping twice to blow her nose. She probably should have brought in her Dayquil
for another dose.

At the landing, she spotted Alayna’s housekeeper trotting out of a nearby bathroom with an armful of towels.
“Carol! Hang on a sec.”

The woman paused, then shook her head as she watched Rachel stuff tissues and cough drops in the pocket of her jeans.
“You don’t look so good. Another cold?”

“Just a little one. It’s almost gone.” Shrugging, Rachel rummaged around in her tote bag—huge, handy, and Hermès. She found what she
was looking for. Triumphantly, she pulled it out. “Here. For you.”

Carol’s eyes widened. “Is that a bottle of Femme Fatale?”

“The genuine article. You said you wanted to try it.”

“Try it? I’ve been sneaking test strips out of Alayna’s magazines for months now!” Carol hugged the bottle to her uniformed chest.
“But it’s not even in stores yet, is it?”

Rachel winked. “I’ve got connections.”

She also had two good eyes. She’d seen Carol rapturously sniffing one of those strips instead of dusting a few weeks ago.
The housekeeper shook her head. “This is too much.” She held the bottle at arm’s length. “I can’t keep this.”

“Of course you can. You deserve it.”

Carol eyed the bottle dubiously. “I can’t pay you back.”

“You’re not supposed to! It’s a gift.”

“No.” Eyes closed, Carol shoved it away. “Thank you.”

Rachel exhaled. She’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. “It’s a freebie. From a goody bag,” she lied. “I got two.”

“Oh.” With a wide grin, Carol opened her eyes. “Hurray!”

“Don’t use it all at once,” Rachel warned with a faux-admonishing finger wag. “I’ve heard it’s irresistible.”

They laughed. After a few minutes of chitchat, Rachel headed for her client’s apartment-size bedroom suite at the end of the
expansive hall. She liked Carol—and most of the other employees she met on the job—but business was business.
She lowered her voice. “Alayna?”

No reply. Like Rachel, the pop star typically wasn’t out of bed much before noon. But today, with so much going on for her birthday,
Alayna had asked Rachel to be there early—to oversee the work of her hairstylist and makeup artist and to bring alternate evening
bags to go with whichever dress (of four) she ultimately chose to wear to her party tonight.

As backup, Rachel had three more gowns on the rack in her car, along with the selection she’d brought for other clients she’d be
seeing today. Over the years, she’d learned to expect the unexpected from her biggest client…like not being anywhere near ready at
the time they’d agreed to meet today.

“Alayna? We’ve got to get busy—”

Putting on her most no-nonsense expression, Rachel nudged the door open, then entered Alayna’s sitting room. She strode past a
profusion of happy-birthday floral arrangements, a sleek settee, and a side table piled with well-thumbed tabloids.

Seeing them, Rachel shook her head. Alayna kept obsessive watch on her appearances in the media—a mistake, in Rachel’s opinion.
Stars might live and die by their press, but that was no reason to drive yourself crazy tracking every up, down, and makeup-free, poorly focused, paparazzi horror shot.

“Everyone’s scheduled to be here at ten, so you’d better—”

Alayna was in bed, but she wasn’t asleep.

“—get a move on.”

And she wasn’t alone either.

Rachel glanced up from her watch, still hugging her armful of evening bags, and was confronted with the sight of a rumpled bed, a
tangle of arms and legs, and a set of unmistakably hard-pumping naked male buttocks. During the millisecond that Rachel stood there,
Alayna wrapped her lithe, famous arms around her partner and urged him on with both hands clamped on his rear.
“Yes, yes!” she cried in her unmistakably accented voice.

Oh, for Pete’s sake. Not again.

Torn, Rachel hesitated. This wasn’t the first occasion she’d stumbled upon Alayna in a private moment, but it was the most time sensitive. And the most inconvenient.

Uncharacteristically indecisive, she glanced at the tableau again, trying to gauge how much longer the twosome might be.

Hmmm. If she stayed much longer, her retinas might be permanently scarred. Also, lingering even this long was a pretty major (if accidental) invasion of privacy. On the other hand, if she bolted, Rachel knew, Alayna might be late for her own birthday party.

Failure to properly prepare a client for an important (i.e., photographed) event was grounds for dismissal. Losing her biggest client would be disastrous.

Making up her mind, Rachel averted her eyes. As quietly as she could, she headed back to the sitting room. She’d put the evening bags there, then zip down to the car for the other gowns she’d brought. By the time she hauled them upstairs, more than likely this ménage à deux would be complete, and she could get on with her day. She still had other clients to see, several shops and designers to visit, a lunch at The Ivy….

Just as she reached the doorway, a huge masculine groan ripped through the air. No. No. Tiptoe faster. Faster!

“Yeah, oh yeah. You like that, don’t you, Pookie?”

Instantly, Rachel froze. She craned her neck around.

She knew that butt! And, she realized all at once, she knew the man who went with it too. She whirled around. “Tyson?”

This was posted forever ago, in fact still is. Instead of moving the one that is already up I am reposting it (I can do that   ) cuz I have excerpts for the next two books to go up today.

retro post all from April 13, 2008

Excerpt of Vanquished by Hope Tarr (Medallion, 1 Jul 06) – pretty covers, but some of the model’s poses make me go “ouch!” Have you seen her recent Blaze cover?

CHAPTER ONE

“Your denial of my citizen’s right to vote, is the denial of my right of consent as one of the governed, the denial of my right of representation as one of the taxed, the denial of my right to a trial by a jury of my peers as an offender against the law; therefore the denial of my sacred right to life, liberty, property…”

~ Susan B. Anthony
United States of America v. Susan B. Anthony, 1873

Westminster, London
February 1890

“Votes for Women now. Votes for women NOW!”

The protestors’ voices pitched higher still, shriller still, or so it seemed to Hadrian as he hurried across Westminster Bridge, the wind tearing at his greatcoat and scarf and threatening to rip the bowler from his head. Stepping out onto the crowded street, he tightened his grip on his camera, a German-made Anschütz with a shutter mechanism capable of arresting motion to one-thousandth of a second. He’d put the equipment to good test that afternoon at St. Thomas Hospital photographing a newly discovered medical anomaly. The poor bastard had been born with an enormous scrotum, tumor-mottled skin, and a chronic palsy that would have rendered traditional photographs little better than a blur. Even so, using his talent to turn a fellow human being into little better than a circus freak hadn’t set well with Hadrian, and the subject’s sad-eyed patience in holding any number of humiliating poses had made him feel like the lowest of beasts. Now frozen, footsore and famished, he couldn’t reach his studio soon enough.

But to do so he first had to run the gauntlet of suffragists who’d overtaken Parliament Square. They’d camped out for coming on two days now, creating a bloody nuisance for pedestrians and conveyances alike. Dressed in somber grays and serious blacks, the fifty-odd females picketing beneath the gray wash of winter sky might just as easily pass for a funeral procession as a political rally were it not for the placards the women held aloft and the noise they emitted — especially the noise.

“Miss Caledonia Rivers to speak on the subject of female emancipation… Hallman’s Assembly Rooms… tomorrow evening… seven o’ clock.”

Dodging traffic to cross to the sidewalk, Hadrian could only shake his head. That any woman fortunate enough to possess a roof and four walls would march about in the bitter air struck him as a sort of perverse self-indulgence, a foolishness on par with going slumming in the stews or touring prison yards to observe the convicts picking oakum. He had no patience for it, none at all and when one bug-eyed female had the audacity to try and stuff a pamphlet in his already full hands, he swallowed an oath worthy of his Covent Garden days and darted inside the park’s gated entrance.

He realized his mistake at once. Apparently not content with clogging the sidewalks, the damnable females had made camp within the park proper. A platform had been erected in the center of the green and several more dark-clad women busied themselves lighting the torches set about its perimeter. Giving them broad berth, he kept his head down and his sights trained on the opposite end of the wrought-iron gate.

The blare of a bobbie’s whistle from outside the park walls instinctively sent him swinging around — and barreling into a female’s soft body. “Ouf!”

Hadrian stared down in horror. The woman he’d knocked off her feet now sprawled at his, feathered hat askew and skirts bunched. On the frost-parched-grass beside her, a leather briefcase crammed with papers stretched wide open.

He went down on his knees beside her. “Madam, are you all right?” Unleashing his grip on the camera, he slid an arm beneath her shoulders.

She jerked at his touch. Behind the netting of veiled hat, her green eyes flashed fire. “It’s miss, actually.” She elbowed her way upright and yanked down her skirts — but not before Hadrian caught sight of a pair of appealingly trim ankles. “And I would be in fine fettle indeed had you but seen fit to mind where you were going.” Broken peacock feather dangling over her one eye, she got to her knees and began collecting her papers.

Courtesy toward women was deeply ingrained, one of the few values Hadrian possessed, and the only claim he could make to being a gentleman by deed if not by birth. And so rather than point out that she had bumped into him as well, he held out his hand to help her up. “Allow me.”

Beneath the weight of that atrocious hat, her head snapped up. “I believe I have had quite enough of your help for one day.”

As if bent on proving her wrong, the demon wind kicked up, scattering vellum sheets to the four winds.

She leapt to her feet. “My papers!” Hiking up her skirts, she gave chase across the park. Over her shoulder, she shouted, “Well, don’t just stand there. Do something!”

Bloody hell. With a muttered prayer that his camera would still be there on his return, Hadrian abandoned it to run after her. Hell bent on cheating the wrangling wind, he plucked one sheet from its skewer of wrought-iron fencepost and another from the foot of the statue of the late Benjamin Disraeli. At the lady’s insistence, he retrieved two more from the upper branches of one very tall, very scratchy oak tree. Breathless, bruised, and sporting a tear in his coat, he shoved the last of the papers in his pocket and climbed down. Dropping to the hard-packed ground, he scanned the square for signs of his erstwhile victim, but she appeared to have vanished.

He was on the verge of giving up and going on his way when he spotted her, down on all fours and buried shoulder-deep in the boxwood hedge. Coming up behind her, he tapped her smartly on the back. “What the devil do you think you’re about?”

From beneath the branches, her muffled voice answered, “Collecting my papers naturally.” She crawled out, feathers hanging at half-mast and a clutch of vellum in one grubby glove.

This time she accepted his hand up without argument. Standing face-to-face, he saw she was tall, nearly a match for his six feet. The novelty of looking a woman directly in the eye had him peering beyond the blur of veil for a closer study. No great beauty, he decided, nor was she any green girl. If he had to make a stab at guessing, he’d peg her at thirty-odd, perhaps a year or two older than himself, and a spinster judging by the “miss” as well as the dreary clothing. And yet the sage-colored eyes beneath the slash of dark brows were both expressive and arresting, and the full mouth and softly squared jaw completed a pleasing enough picture.

Caught up, it took her discreet cough to remind him of the papers bulging from his pocket. Handing them over, he said, “I think this is the lot.”

“Thank you.” She took them from him, her gloved fingertips brushing his, and improbably he felt the warm tingle of her touch shoot straight to his groin. Stuffing the papers inside her case, she spotted the mud and dried leaves festooning the front of her coat. “Oh dear, I’m a mess” she said, swiping at the muck with her soiled glove. “I never can seem to manage the trick of remembering a handkerchief.”

He fumbled in his pocket. “Here, have mine.” He pressed the square into her palm, again experiencing that peculiar surge of heat.

She accepted with a grateful smile and bent to brush away the dirt. “Thank you — again.” Straightening to her full, glorious height, she handed back his handkerchief.

Feeling in better spirits, he shook his head. “Keep it. Really, it’s the least I can do after mowing you down like so much lawn grass.”

She laughed then, a soft airy tinkling that made him think of the wind chimes his landlady insisted on hanging by his backdoor. “All right then… if you’re sure.” She stuffed the wadded ball of linen into her coat pocket and turned to go. Stopping in her tracks, she looked back. “Mind you don’t lose your papers.”

“My papers? Oh… quite.” Good God, he’d left his best camera out in the open and, worse yet, had been on the verge of forgetting it entirely. What the devil was the matter with him? Jogging over to retrieve it, he thought of his flat, empty save for his cat, and realized he was no longer so very eager to reach it — at least not alone. “I’m not always such an oaf, you know,” he called back, wracking his brain for something else to say, some pretense to hold her.

From a few feet away, she cupped a hand to her ear. “Sorry?”

“I said I’m not always such an oaf.”

“Oh.” She paused in mid-step, appearing to consider that. “Well, I’m not usually such a harridan, either except when I’m nervous — or in this case, late.”

“I don’t think you’re a harridan.” Camera in hand, he closed the space separating them in three ridiculously long strides. “It’s these protestors, taking up the whole bloody square as if they own every brick and statue, spewing their rubbish at all hours that have everyone on edge. I only came through the park to avoid them.”

Mouth lifting into a pretty smile of full pink lips and straight white teeth, she nodded to the park beyond them. “It would seem you’ve rather failed in that regard.”

“Yes, I suppose I have.” Looking back over his shoulder, he saw they were the object of a good many whispers and gawking stares. Their mad dash must have made an amusing spectacle indeed. Ordinarily that realization would have set him fuming but rather than care, he found himself saying, “There’s a tea shop just around the corner. Allow me to make amends by buying you a cup?”

She shook her head, looking adorably shy and far younger than she had at first when she’d still been tight-lipped and cross. “That isn’t necessary. And I’ve an… engagement to keep.”

Ah yes, presumably the engagement for which he had made her late already. A decent fellow would accept defeat and send her on her way. And yet the mental image of how splendid she would look freed from all those ghastly clothes and wearing only his bed sheets prompted him to press, “As you’re late already, why not postpone it altogether, at least until you’ve thawed?

She shook her head, causing the broken hat feathers to careen like a torn sail. “I can’t. I really must be going.” The tightening of her mouth told him he’d been too forward, that this time she really did mean to go.

“Ah well, perhaps we’ll bump into one another again sometime.” He fished inside his coat pocket for one of his business cards as a pretense to asking her name.

“Yes, perhaps we shall,” she allowed but there was no hope of it in her eyes. She turned to go and Hadrian knew this time there would be no more keeping her.

Before she could take a step, a squat woman with salt-and-pepper hair and a man’s plaid muffler wrapped about her short neck rushed up to intercept her. “Good Lord, Callie, are you all right? I was outside the gate and only just heard what happened.”

Beneath her veil, the woman — Callie — flushed bright crimson. “Calm yourself, Harriet. I am perfectly fine. I took a bit of a tumble, and my briefcase spilled.” Her shy-eyed gaze shifted to Hadrian. “This gentleman was kind enough to help me.”

From behind horn-rimmed spectacles, Harriet’s beady-eyed gaze dropped to the camera case in Hadrian’s hand. “I don’t know what rag of a newspaper you’re with, sir, but if your scheme is to scare up scandal and rubbish by waylaying Miss Rivers and photographing her in disarray, then you’d best think again.”

Taken off guard, Hadrian started to demur when from the vicinity of the stage, someone with a bullhorn belted out, “Miss Caledonia Rivers to make her address. Five minutes, ladies. Five minutes…”

Callie Rivers. Caledonia Rivers. It was then that the fog inside Hadrian’s head lifted. His mystery woman was one of them, a suffragette! And not just any suffragette but their leader! Seeing her through new eyes, he took in the spinsterish coat, the awful hat, and the leather case containing the oh-so important papers, and asked himself how a piquant smile and a pair of pretty ankles had turned him into such an absolute idiot.

He stared at her, feeling like a biblical figure from whose eyes the scales had just fallen. “Your pressing engagement, I take it?”

She answered with a brusque nod, at once prim and proper and utterly businesslike. “Quite.”

Now that his initial shock was fading, he could at least appreciate the irony of the situation. The first woman to pique his interest in years was the celebrated champion of a cause he’d come to loathe.

“Lest we part as strangers, my name is St. Claire. Hadrian St. Claire.” By this time, he had the sought-after business card in hand and his shock firmly in check. Handing her the card, he said, “I’m not a reporter. I’m a photographer. I have a studio a few blocks from here on Great George. Portraiture is my specialty.”

She tucked his card into her pocket with nary a glance. “I’m afraid I’m not terribly fond of having my photograph taken.”

“Pity. You’d make for a most intriguing subject.” And because he had absolutely nothing to lose — now that he knew who and what she was, what possible interest in her could he have — he looked directly into Caledonia Rivers’ beautiful, mortified eyes and added, “I should have recognized you from the newspaper etchings had they but done you justice. You’re far prettier, and far younger, than I would have supposed.”

Beneath the veil, the stain on her cheeks darkened from pale pink to dusky rose but, to her credit, she didn’t look away. “I think you mock me, sir.”

“On the contrary, miss, if either of us is the subject of mockery, I rather think it is me.” He nodded toward a clutch of young women watching them and giggling behind their gloves.

Harriet skewered him with a sharp look before turning back to the Rivers woman. “Callie, dear, we really must be on our way.” She hooked her plump arm through her friend’s and began leading her away.

“Ladies.” He tipped his bowler to them both, but it was Caledonia Rivers whom he followed with his eyes as she hurried toward the platform, creased and muddied skirts trailing the pavement, broken hat feathers caught up in the fingers of the wind.

So that was Caledonia Rivers, the celebrated suffragette spokeswoman making headlines in all the newspapers. What was it the press was calling her these days? Ah yes, The Maid of Mayfair. Unlike so many of her suffragette sisters whose reputations skirted the fringe of respectability, Caledonia Rivers was said to be so very good and virtuous — and yet not too good or too virtuous to indulge in a bit of a flirt in a public park, the little hypocrite.

He’d only paid her the compliment to torture her, and yet in his roundabout way he’d spoken nothing but the truth. The flesh-and-blood woman with whom he’d passed the last delightful few minutes scarcely resembled the stern-faced Amazon the newspapers made her out to be.

As for the “maid” part, he was deucedly sorry he wouldn’t have the opportunity to test that out for himself.

Or would he?

Western Weddings is an anthology coming from Harlequin Historical in May. It features Rocky Mountain Bride by Jillian Hart, Shotgun Vows by Kate Bridges, and Springville Wife by Charlene Sands, from which we have the following sneak peek. Read on!

Springville Wife by Charlene Sands

Grace Lander returns to Springville to pick up the pieces of her life and become the town’s schoolmarm. Single father Caleb’s Matlock’s kiss may be just what Grace needs to mend her heart and make a home.

Springville, Texas

1888

CHAPTER ONE

Grace Lander dusted off her sapphire blue traveling suit as she stepped down from the stagecoach. She hadn’t journeyed by stage since the horrendous robbery that claimed her husband’s life one year ago. Shivers of the fear she’d lived with during her stage ride from the rail station in Fort Worth, slowly ebbed and she found herself taking her first easy breath. Yet, the painful memory and the guilt she felt over Harrison’s untimely death were always with her.

But she was here in Springville now, her childhood home and hoping to carve out a new life as a schoolmarm to a full brood of eager children.

“You made it, deary!” Her spry rosy-cheeked aunt came rushing forth, a silly violet-feathered hat bobbing on her head.

“Aunt Enid, it’s good to see you.” She embraced the aunt she hadn’t seen since her visit to Boston some six years ago — her favorite aunt, if Grace were being truly honest.

“It’s about time you came back to your only livin’ kin.”

“Only kin? Aunt Enid, you know darn well, Aunt Flo and Auntie Roberta are still alive.”

“Alive, deary, but not livin’.”

Grace chuckled and relief washed over her. She put aside any doubts she’d had about her return to Springville. Her Aunt Enid, who ran the Springville Boardinghouse, would be sure to keep Grace on her toes.

With somber eyes, Aunt Enid grasped her hands and squeezed gently. “Are you ready to start your living again, honey?”

The connection and the love flowing between them warmed her through and through. She gazed down the street to see familiar shops: McKenzie’s Dry Goods, Springville Bank and Trust, Shorty’s Longhorn Saloon, the marshal’s office and Spring’s Diner. Not too much had changed in thirteen years. Grace found great comfort in the small thriving town where she’d grown up. Springville was different than Boston, in ways too abundant to name. Even the May sky seemed clearer, the air crisper and the sunshine brighter.

Was she ready to start living again?

On a shaky breath, Grace nodded. “I think so, Aunt Enid. I’m ready.”

“Good.” She released her hands and looked over at the young depot operator. “Chuckie, send over Miss Lander’s bags to the boardinghouse, as soon as you can, boy. There’ll be a warmed slice of cherry pie waiting for you.

“Yes, ma’am!”

Aunt Enid’s wide smile took twenty years off her aged face. “Ready to settle in?”

“I am, but I’m eager to visit the schoolhouse. To see if it’s how I remembered it. It’s all that’s kept me sane these past few months.”

Her aunt nodded in understanding. “Then go on.” She winked. “You know where it is.”

“Won’t you come along?”

“No, deary. You go revisit those memories by yourself. I think you’ll like what you see.”

Grace kissed her aunt’s cheek. “Thank you, Aunt Enid. I’ll be along soon.”

Grace picked up her silk skirt and walked briskly toward the opposite end of town where the schoolhouse stood, the light brown paint appearing fresh and new, though the white of the window frames were slightly faded. She approached the school slowly, as good memories flooded in. She’d gone to school here until her family moved away when she was twelve, her father’s venture into ranching proved unsuccessful and they’d left town to move in with their family to the east.

But Grace always believed herself a small town girl. And she’d loved learning. School meant getting away from grueling chores at the failing ranch. It meant being acknowledged and encouraged by schoolmaster Mobley for her thirst for knowledge. And presently, she hoped it meant a way to forget the heartache that plagued her daily.

“Oh, Harrison,” she uttered, standing just outside the school gate. “I’m so sorry.”

She entered the schoolyard and closed the gate behind her. Stepping on overgrown bluebonnets lacing the path to the schoolhouse, she made a mental list of work she’d have to do on the grounds. But most importantly, she’d start the school up again. Mr. Mobley’s sudden death had left the town unprepared and the children hadn’t had instruction in over three months.

When she reached the front door, she tried the latch. The door didn’t budge. She walked over to the side window and peered inside, glad to find the desks in order, set up in rows of four just like when she attended school. A side bookshelf contained McGuffey Readers and the potbelly stove that billowed smoke on cold winter days, still claimed the back corner of the room. The black chalkboard centered the front wall and Grace’s mind flooded with all those days she’d stay after class to help Mr. Mobley wipe it clean. One impudent classmate had labeled her “teacher’s pet”, but she’d only held her head up high, proud of the title.

A deep voice from behind the schoolhouse broke into her thoughts. “Tarnation! Damn it! Get away from me, you dang little pests!”

Curious, Grace raced around to the back of the building toward the commotion. She bumped a ladder and brown paint rained down in big clumpy droplets, just missing her head. “Oh!”

She looked up and another “oh” fell silently from her lips. A man stood on the ladder she’d just bumped, his chest bare, broad and bronzed, a black Stetson covering his head as a swarm of bees circled around him. His denims hugged his body below a very trim waist and a narrow line of dark hairs arrowed down beyond his thick leather belt.

Grace squeezed her eyes shut and turned her back on him, but the image remained in her head. Lordy, he was a fine looking man. Her heart pumped hard against her chest at the sight.

Immediate remorse set in. She’d been a widow for a year now, and blamed herself for Harrison’s death. She had no business bearing such lusty thoughts.

“Sorry for the intrusion,” she said softly, opening her eyes. She was the new schoolmarm. She shouldn’t behave like a foolish smitten girl of fifteen.

The man stepped down from the ladder, setting the paint can and brush onto the ground. When he lifted up, she caught another glimpse of his muscled chest. “Suppose I should thank you. I was about to be eaten up by them bees.”

“Those bees,” she corrected automatically. Her face flamed with heat, not so much from the ill-timed correction but by the vision he made.

He studied her for a long moment, his gaze raking her over from head to toe without apology. “By God. You’re Gracie. Little Gracie Greene. Would’ve never guessed except for that uppity tone you take.”

Grace eyed him with caution now. She was certain she’d just been insulted. “Yes, I’m Gracie. I go by Grace Lander now. And you are?”

His quick smirk rekindled a vivid childhood memory. One she’d rather forget. Grace suppressed the urge to crinkle her nose when she recalled her own personal school tormenter. He’d bully her every single day while in class or outside for recess.

They chorused both at the same time.

“Caleb Matlock.”

Caleb cocked a grin her way.

Gracie Greene.

He’d known she’d been hired on in Springville as the new schoolteacher, but he surely hadn’t expected her to look so dang blasted inspiring. The gangly awkward girl he’d teased and tormented in school had grown into a beautiful auburn-haired, amber-eyed woman with pale skin and tiny nose freckles. He assessed her female form and liked what he saw as well. “Gracie, Gracie, green like a frog and just as jumpy.”

She rolled her eyes without granting a smile. Caleb smiled enough for them both recalling his daily taunt.

“I haven’t thought about your silly prose in years.”

Caleb suspected different. She’d been easy to goad and he’d been unmerciful back then. “You never called them prose back then, Gracie.” Caleb reached for his shirt sitting on the fence. He put his arms through the sleeves and began buttoning. “Truth is, you retaliated pretty darn good. Let’s see,” he said, staring deep into her pretty eyes. “As I recall, you called me a big oaf, ugly as a longhorn, smelly as a skunk, stupid as–”

“I don’t recall any such thing,” she hurried out her eyes flitting to his bare chest for a second, before she turned five shades of red when he noticed.

His groin twitched. He hadn’t been so instantly taken by a woman since courting Felicia Holmes eight years back. He’d asked Felicia to marry him and she’d agreed, then she ran away with a traveling tinker the day of their nuptials. Since then, Caleb didn’t have much use for Springville females, Opal, being the exception.

Caleb shrugged off Grace’s denials. “No matter. Just glad you’re here.”

“You are?”

“The school’s been closed for months. Me and some of the others took up getting it ready again.”

She glanced at the work he’d done. The back of the building he’d painted was almost finished. “Thank you for that. Except for cleaning up the yard, it doesn’t look like you’ve left much for me to do.”

“That was the intent,” he said, staring at her. Damn, there wasn’t any one thing about her he didn’t enjoy looking at. Nothing had surprised him more. Little Gracie Greene had developed into a striking woman.

“What?” she asked, her expression filled with question.

“It’s you, Gracie. You’re all grown-up.”

She smiled a little, just enough to shape her mouth prettily. “That’s what happens with time.”

He shook his head. “Usually time only wears on a person. But you, you’ve become a beautiful woman.”

Grace turned away from him. Stark memories of the horrid stagecoach hold-up brought tears to her eyes.

“She’s too beautiful to leave behind, Pa. I’m taking her for myself. And no one’s gonna stop me.”

Grace would never forget her desperate panic that day or the clawing way Gray Bullock held her and groped at her body. She fought him off the best she could, crying for Harrison’s help.

“Get your hands off my wife!”

Her husband rushed toward her armed with only righteous fury and had been gunned down right before her eyes, trying to protect her.

There’d been three other women on that stagecoach, but she’d been the one singled out. She’d been the one widowed that day. The passengers had been saved when a band of gypsy wagons came down the road, scaring off the bandits who’d left her behind and Harrison dead on the ground at her feet.

And since then, there were times when she looked at her image in the mirror and hated the reflection staring back at her. She wasn’t one who wanted undue attention cast upon her, yet since her husband’s death, she’d had three proposals of marriage. All nice men who had promised to care for her, yet she’d seen that same lust in their eyes as that bandit and she knew she wouldn’t marry again. She’d lost her beloved husband that day, but she’d also lost the unborn baby she carried and any chance to be with child every again. So Caleb’s compliment to her beauty meant little to her. It was only a painful reminder of the saddest day in her life.

“Grace?”

She inhaled deep in her chest and blinking tears away, she turned back to him. “I plan on starting classes the first of next week,” she said, straightening her spine. “That’ll give me the rest of the week to work on the weeds.”

“If you need help with that–”

“No,” she cut him off quickly. “I want to do it myself.”

“Okay, I’ll tell Opal.”

“Opal?”

“My niece. She’s my brother’s child. I’ve raised her since she was a babe. Just so you’re not confused, she calls me her Pa.”

“Oh, I see. And Opal wanted to help?”

He grinned. “She’s excited to start school again.”

“I’m glad of that. And you can be sure I’ll give her plenty of chores to do once school commences.”

Caleb nodded. “If you need anything else,” he began, fastening up the last of his shirt buttons “for the school, I mean,” he said with a grin. “I’m three miles out, at the Bar M Ranch.”

“Thank you, but I’ll be just fine on my own.” She tilted her chin up, while she admonished herself for taking that one last glimpse of his chest. “Are you through here?”

Caleb hesitated a moment. Then he closed the paint can and wiped the brush clean. He set them inside a small shed and laid the ladder down next to it. “Seems I am. For today. But, I’ll be back.” He tipped his hat and smiled. His expression brightened in much the same way it had when he spoke of his niece, Opal. “To finish what I started.”

Grace ignored that chest-thumping feeling she got watching Caleb Matlock saunter away in long confident strides.

He was halfway off the grounds when he turned clear around. “You need the key to open the school, you’ll find that at the marshal’s office.”

He kept walking backwards until she acknowledged him. “All … right. Thank … you.”

Then on a nod, he hopped the school fence and was gone.

“Oh my.” Grace put her hand to her chest and leaned her shoulder against the newly painted wall. She shoved away the moment she realized what she’d done.

“Darn you, Caleb Matlock!”

Caleb always managed to get her all jumbled up and now she’d spend her first day home, washing paint stains out of her blue satin riding suit!

“Did you see anything interesting at the school, deary?” Aunt Enid unfolded clothes from Grace’s trunk in the pretty yellow-curtained, nicely furnished room that would now become her new home. Grace worked with her as they put some clothes up in a smooth burl wood armoire and arranged her perfumes and soaps and other such essentials on the dresser before a tall, framed mirror.

“You knew Caleb Matlock would be there, didn’t you?”

Aunt Enid’s eyes crinkled and she smiled. “He’s been working at the school, getting it ready. That man’s been on his own for some years now. Raising little Opal all by himself.”

“That’s commendable.” She offered no other compliment. No need to give Aunt Enid false impressions. Grace had her chance at happiness with a wonderful man. She wasn’t interested in involving herself with anything but her students and their needs. “I’ll look forward to meeting his niece.”

“Caleb’s a good man, Grace.”

Grace scoffed. She had no such thoughts. Why even today, he’d managed to get her flustered enough to nearly destroy her traveling suit.

Aunt Enid hadn’t asked any questions when Grace walked in minutes ago, paint-stained. But she’d insisted Grace change her clothes immediately and her aunt worked on that garment until she got every lick of paint out.

“When I knew him, he was a bully and tormented me no end.” Grace set the silver-handled hairbrush and comb Harrison had given her down onto her small night table, next to a blue-bubbled glass lamp.

“Did he kiss you?”

“Aunt Enid! Of course not! Why would you ask me a thing like that?”

“Paint stains.”

Goodness, her aunt surely was astute. The older woman had an uncanny ability to see far too much. Even though Grace was ashamed of her momentary weakness with Caleb Matlock, she had no intention of ever letting that man close enough to kiss her.

“I just lost my balance, Aunt Enid. And knocked into the painted wall, is all.”

“Pity.” Her aunt’s eyes lit with a faraway look. “If only I was a younger woman.”

“I surely don’t intend to have Caleb or any man, for that matter, ever kiss me. You know where my heart lies.”

“I know how a heart can lie to you. Fool you into thinking you’re through and washed up as a woman.”

“I’ll have a full life in Springville, teaching my students. That’s what I came here for. If I’d wanted a man, I could have remarried back east. But that’s not what I want anymore,” she said softly.

Aunt Enid helped her put the last of her clothes into the armoire then turned to give her a warm smile. Taking her hands in a firm loving grasp, she said with utmost sincerity, “Deary, let me give you a bit of advice. If Caleb Matlock ever wanted to kiss me, I wouldn’t give him my cheek, if you know what I mean.”

Grace tossed her head back and laughed heartily. “Oh, Aunt Enid, I’m so glad I’m here.”

Aunt Enid patted her hands. “I’m glad of it too. Now, you rest up a bit. Dinner is at five every night.”

“I’ll come down to help you.”

“No, not today. You lay your head down and get some sleep. Dream good dreams, Grace.”

And minutes later, Grace laid her head down on the soft goose-down bed and closed her eyes, but instead of her beloved Harrison’s face appearing, as it always had in the past, another face came to mind.

Caleb Matlock.

Grace squeezed her eyes shut even tighter and fought off the image of him, up on that ladder, fighting off bees and looking tastier than honey.

Harlequin Historical is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited. As such all excerpts are copyrighted © and all rights are reserved.

The Darkest Touch by Jaci Burton will be released on 28 October 2008. It is the third in the Demon Hunters series, and follows Surviving Demon Island and Hunting the Demon.

He’s a hunter, a savior, a seducer.
And she just can’t get enough…

THE DARKEST TOUCH

Ryder. The man was just as sexy as she remembered him:
Tall, lean and dangerous, a demon hunter with the body of a god…But archaeologist Angelique Deveraux has little time for lust. She’s been hiding a gleaming black diamond, a prize everyone wants—including Ryder—and now she’s running for her life. Hot on her trail is Ryder, a legendary demon hunter she desires but can’t quite trust, a man with an insatiable need for danger and a few dark secrets of his own…As sparks ignite between the rogue hunter and his latest prey, Angie’s world is rocked again when her twin sister vanishes, stolen away by the same dark forces stalking Angie and the black diamond. With Ryder offering protection— and more —suddenly a woman who’s never trusted anyone is falling for a man who isn’t afraid of anything…except losing his heart. Now, as an all-out demon war erupts and Angie’s family secrets unravel, Ryder’s demon-hunt and Angie’s quest to save her sister are about to collide. And when they do, it’ll send these two wary hearts on the wildest adventure of their lives—and maybe even save humankind in the process…

E*X*C*E*R*P*T*

He slipped out the back door and shut it, filling his lungs with a deep breath of humid night air. The choking sweet smell of gardenias was making him sick, so he moved away from the house, keeping his focus on the surrounding terrain, searching for the signs of anything suspicious.

The night was dead quiet. Not even a ruffle of wind to shatter the silence.

It wasn’t quiet in his head, though. He took a quick glance to the house, spotting Angie through the kitchen window. She was doing dishes, a frown of deep concentration lining her forehead.

He hadn’t given her the answers she’d needed. Not that he’d had them, but he knew he’d walked out on her in the middle of a really important conversation. One she’d wanted to delve deeper into.

One he couldn’t handle. Because she’d started talking about bloodline, and darkness.

And that was a little too close to home for him. His own potential for violence, where it had come from, was a topic he didn’t discuss.

The strange thing was, he’d wanted to. Tonight, with Angie, as soon as she’d expressed concerns about Isabelle, he’d wanted to tell her about his own dark side.

Wouldn’t she have loved to hear some of those stories?

He shook his head. She’d wanted tenderness and understanding, not someone who would tell her that her sister probably was evil, that sometimes you couldn’t hide the darkness inside yourself.

Some were successful, some weren’t.

And some walked a tightrope, striking a careful balance, knowing that at any second they could fall.

Ryder walked the tightrope every damn day. He couldn’t offer Angie any sympathy because it wasn’t in his nature to give it. Maybe he really was just like his dad.

The light went out in the kitchen. He turned away from the window and stared out into the night, letting the darkness envelop him, breathing out a sigh when he heard her footsteps approaching.

“Go inside, Angie.”

She sat next to him, her thigh brushing his. “We almost got somewhere tonight. You pulled back.”

“We didn’t get anywhere. I can’t give you what you need.”

“Because you don’t trust me.”

“Partly.”

“Because you think I don’t trust you?”

He turned to her. “What?”

“I revealed something to you tonight. A fear about my sister. Doesn’t that speak of trust?”

He was glad it was dark. The way she looked at him…he could get so lost in her eyes. He didn’t want to. It made him feel weak and out of control.

“I’d trust you more if you told me where the black diamond was.” Keep it about business. That, he could control.

“I do trust you. As much as I can trust anyone. But my sister’s life is at stake here.”

“Then prove it.” This could be over quickly if she’d just tell him where the black diamond was.

“Ryder.” She leaned in, her breasts pressing against his arm, shocking the hell out of him by nearly climbing into his lap as her lips found his.

Maybe it was surprise that kept him immobile. He should have moved away. But hell, she offered. He took. Her mouth was spicy, hot and inviting. And he wanted in.

With a groan, he dragged her onto his lap and she tangled her fingers into his hair, deepening the kiss. He liked that, liked feeling her touch on him. Her body was soft against everything that was hard about him. And everything about him was damn hard right now. Instant rushes of heat and raw, steely power ignited a fuse that had laid dormant too long. One touch of her lips and he was on fire.

The part of him that knew this was a really bad idea disappeared, vanishing along with his reserves about keeping a professional distance. All he could think about now was getting her naked, touching the silk of her body, tasting her all over. Sinking into her and forgetting the darkness around them both.

Her lips were full, her tongue moist and searching as she entered his mouth, licking against his. She wanted more, and he wanted to give it to her.

But he also remembered trust. And darkness. And violence. And what could happen when you loved someone.

He grasped her arms and with a gentle tug, pushed her away.

She tilted her head, her eyes glazed with passion. A quick glance down her body showed tight, pointed nipples against her thin shirt. He wanted to touch, to taste, to take her over and over again.

Possession. He could feel it boiling up inside him, that overwhelming need to brand her and make her his. The need was almost violent.

Yeah, that had worked so well for his parents, hadn’t it?

He swallowed, his throat dry, his body taut with need. He couldn’t believe what he was about to do.

“Go back inside, Angie.”

She inhaled, then blew it out, nodding, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth. She slid off his lap and without a word, turned away and walked toward the house.

He watched every step, the way her hips swayed, the way she held her head up high. She didn’t turn back to look at him as she opened the door and closed it behind her.

No, it wasn’t that he didn’t trust her.

He didn’t trust himself.

He knew exactly where the darkness lived. It lived inside him.

© Jaci Burton. All rights reserved.

Show me more Shomi, you say? [Hee, I iz funneh]

Razor Girl By Marianne Mancusi

Molly Anderson is not your average twenty-one-year-old. It’s been six years since she and her family escaped into a bunker, led by her conspiracy theorist father and his foreknowledge of a plot to bring about the apocalypse. But her father’s precautions didn’t stop there. Molly is now built to survive.

Yes, Ian Anderson’s favorite book gave him ideas on how to “improve” his daughter. Molly is faster, stronger, and her ocular implants and razor-tipped nails set her apart. Apart, when—venturing alone out of the bunker and into a plague ravaged, monster-ridden wilderness—what Molly needs most is togetherness. Chase Griffin, a friend from her past, is her best bet. But while he and others have miraculously survived, the kind boy has become a tormented man. Together, these remnants of humanity must struggle toward trusting each other and journey to the one place Molly’s father believed all civilization would be reborn: the Magic Kingdom, where everyone knows it’s a small world after all.

The Excerpt:

The zombie turned suddenly, bloodshot eyes zeroing in on where Chase stood in the shadows. Forcing himself to keep his breaths slow and regular, he lifted his rifle, trying not to make any sudden moves that would set her off. His hands shook, making it difficult to line up the female creature’s head. The money shot. The shot he’d need to take her down for good and protect his family with the least risk to himself. How had she gotten so close without him realizing?

The woman let out a muffled moan, hairless, bony arms outstretched like something from an old George Romero movie. But this was no film set. The world in 2036 had become a true horror flick, and Chase was one of its stars. He was the one who’d done the drugs, had sex with the girl and uttered the words, “I’ll be right back.” In other words, he was the one who was about to wind up dead.

It was more than a bit tempting to run. To get as far away as possible from this pus dripping creature formerly known as a human. But she was too close to the campsite where Molly and the children were sleeping. And while Chase had failed before things were different now. For the first time since the plague erupted, there was hope. And no dumb, oozing, post-apocalyptic monster was going to take that away. Not on his watch.

He blew out a breath and steadied his gun, eyes narrowing to slits. Steady as she goes, he told himself. This was a matter of protecting his family: both what was left of it and what he’d rebuilt. It was a matter of doing good, and not the simple rehash of senseless violence that once had been so popular on the silver screen. Shoot-’em-up slasher films… It was so different in reality—tougher to summon the courage to fire, to engage, to set in play the sequence of events that he knew had to follow.

In an instant it happened. The creature lurched forward and Chase fell back a step, squeezing the trigger of his rifle. Its recoil bruised his shoulder. Blood gouted from the woman’s chest—he’d missed. Only a flesh wound. And she was still coming. And two other shadows had appeared behind her. Three…no, four? How much ammunition was left in his gun?

He fired again at the Other, twice more, and her head exploded in a mass of red and grey pulp. At the same time he reached around his neck and pulled free a whistle. Sometimes this worked, as the creatures were sensitive to high-pitched noises. He blew as hard as he could. Sure enough, the shadows that had risen behind the first Other stopped moving. There came a cacophony of inhuman screeches and then the shadows dissipated. The creatures had turned and fled, hands over their ears.

Chase watched them go, breathing heavily. The whistle fell from his bloodless lips. “Yeah, I thought so,” he said, shaking out his arms and trying to regain some composure. “I thought so! Run, cowards!” He nodded to himself and stepped out from the shadows.

Only to find himself thrown backwards.

He crashed hard onto the asphalt of the street, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. His vision blurred and, for a moment, nothing made any sense. Then he looked up and saw what had struck him. An Other towered above, clearly not scared away by his whistle. It was growling and spitting.

It was a huge male, and it lunged forward, hands finding Chase’s neck, encircling and squeezing tight, cutting off his breath. Desperate, Chase kicked out, slammed his foot into the creature’s groin. The monster bellowed but didn’t let go. Chase struggled harder, panic slamming through him as he used one arm to brace himself, fighting to keep away from the monster’s mouth. He reached for his boot with his free hand, feeling for the knife he always kept there. It took what seemed forever to wrap his fingers around the hilt. The creature’s grip tightened, and Chase saw blackness swimming toward him. Pain seared through his shoulder. Then, in his final moment of consciousness, he managed to yank the knife free and drive it into the creature’s heart.

The zombie recoiled then fell on top of him, crushing Chase with his weight. But the fingers loosened and Chase was able to breathe. He sucked in a huge breath and pushed the creature off. It rolled back onto the pavement, staring up at the sky and whimpering. The heart was always a weak spot.

Chase surged to his feet, stared down at the monster. It looked a lot more human lying there now, vulnerable and bleeding. This was something he always hated. He wondered who it had been before the change. A doctor? A lawyer? Maybe a humanitarian who built houses for poor people.

It didn’t matter. It was none of those things now, he reminded himself. Just a monster. A monster that needed to be put out of its misery.

He grabbed his rifle and pressed the barrel to the zombie’s head. Closing his eyes, he pulled the trigger. The shot shook his arm and echoed in his ears. He let the sound fade away before looking. The body was twitching, the head disintegrated.

He forced himself to look away but as he did a piercing pain found his right shoulder. Startled, he glanced down, his mouth falling open as he saw where his leather jacket had come open, where the shirt below was ripped and bloody. Teeth marks. He’d been bitten. He’d been bitten.

“Chase! Chase, are you okay?”

He looked up. Molly. She was running toward him, her face white.

“Chase?”

“I’m okay,” he said, turning at an angle so she couldn’t see his wound. “I got him.”

She stopped a few feet away, looking down at the remains of the two dead zombies. “God, what happened?” she asked.

“One got the jump on me. No big deal. It’s all fine,” he lied. The pain gripped his shoulder like a vise and it was all he could do not to fall to his knees. But if he fell, she’d know. He couldn’t let her know.

She took a step forward but he held out a hand. “I’m all slimy,” he said. “Zombie gook. You know. I’m going to go find a fountain or something to wash off.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked, peering at him, confusion and worry warring on her face.

He felt sick to his stomach but nodded. The last thing he wanted was to lie to her. But what choice did he have? He had to think of her and the kids. She was too weak to get where she needed to go on her own now. Wonderful Molly. Tough Molly. His beloved. She needed his help to find her father. To complete her pilgrimage. To save the world. And who knew how her priorities would change once she learned the truth?

Well, he had two weeks. Two weeks before the virus could work its way fully through his system, mutating his cells, destroying his brain and turning him into one of them: a diseased, merciless monster with an appetite for human flesh. An Other. He had two weeks to get Molly where she had to go. Then he’d use his rifle one last time—to put a bullet in his own head.

© Marianne Mancusi. All rights reserved.

What Happens In Vegas by Jodi Lynn Copeland, Lauren Dane, Kit Tunstall, and Anya Bast

Did you know once upon a time a long time ago (so long ago they have prolly forgotten) Anya, Lauren and Megan Hart (not in this antho but a super coolio author who I am sure is sending us excerpts ::cough::) did a guest review for us. We (at the time it was just I) had a feature called ‘ebuzz’ and they were kind enough to share one of their fave ebooks. Check it out if you missed it.

This excerpt is from Lauren Dane’s Stripped. The more I look at SPICE, the more I think they need a spotlight. Since they aren’t a ‘category line’ maybe we should do a SPICE week. What cha think?

Sorry but first! The excerpt! And Mz Dane is giving away a prize as well. It will be winners pick… either What Happens in Vegas or any book from her available titles. To enter leave a comment… good luck!

Read the summary for What Happens in Vegas and an excerpt from The Deal here. 

Excerpt from Stripped by Lauren Dane
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The low, sensual beat brought her onto the stage like a siren. One gloved arm wove through the slit in the curtain and then the other, parting them as she stood, framed for a long moment. Her dark hair was piled up on her head artfully. Long, fake lashes framed big brown eyes. A deep blue satin dress hugged every curve lovingly, her breasts pushed up and out of the scooped neckline and as she walked, the slit on each side of the dress would show her legs to the upper thigh.

She let the music grab her senses and her rhythm as she slowly sauntered out onto the narrow stage. Dancer’s heels, still very high, led her through the beginning of her routine as she carefully maneuvered the long feather boa to keep from tripping.

Caught in the music, Dahlia’s muscles burned as she did a high kick leading into a round kick swiveling her body away from the audience all in a seamless set of movements.

A feather from the boa stuck to the sweat on her neck as she slowly rotated her hips in time with the horns in the jazz band. Her hands rose, slowly taking the boa to wind around her body. Down it went until she finally stepped out of it as it lay at her feet, kicking it to the side.

Giving her back to the audience, she raised one hand into the air as she turned her head, winking over her shoulder.

Knocking her hips from side to side to the smoky jazz beat, she brought the tips of her gloved fingers to her mouth to grab the material and pull it off slowly.

The first glove went over her shoulder, into the bar pit the stage encircled. The second glove came off as she stood in front of the trumpet player and pulled it off around his body.

A bump and grind circling the band and she lay down on the side of the stage near where the bottle service tables were. Throwing a foot into the air, she gave them all a lot of leg to look at as the dress slid back. Rolling up onto her knees, she unzipped the front of the dress and shimmied out of it. Then she turned, cleverly giving them her back and a pair of boyshort bottoms with a winking kitty on the ass.

The dress dropped as her forearms came up to cover her breasts and she bent, looking at them all upside down through the vee of her legs.

The cheers and applause bolstered her confidence. Up there she was beautiful and desired and that was okay. More than okay, it felt marvelous.

Still facing the band she reached out quickly, grabbing the hat off Timmy’s head. The trumpet player widened his eyes in a choreographed move and she spun, clutching the prop hat just so to cover herself.

Sensual smoke and mirrors. Dahlia didn’t show the audience any more than she’d show at the beach. They wouldn’t see her nipples and her panties would stay right on her booty with the fishnets below that.

Playing coy, she waved with one hand, pretending to almost drop the hat as she took the first step back up to the dressing room. And another step and two more. Once her body was in the doorway she turned and tossed the hat back to Timmy. With a hand over her mouth stifling a pretend giggle, she kicked up her leg and was gone behind the curtain.

Her robe hung just inside the doorway and she grabbed it, putting it on as she made her way back to her dressing area. She smiled as the music started for Roseanne, the dancer who shared the ten p.m. time slot.

Tapping her foot to the notes of Viva Las Vegas, Dahlia took off her stage makeup and got changed. She usually tried to hang out twice a week or so to watch her friends dance and also have a few drinks. She’d met a lot of interesting people and oddly enough, gained a following of sorts.

The Dollhouse was a burlesque lounge. The women did not strip totally nude and Dahlia thought of the show as an elaborate celebration of women’s sensuality. The women there always reminded Dahlia of the Elvgren pin-up girl art her grandpa used to have in his garage. Dahlia loved the coy, sex kitten she embodied on stage. It often felt like that Dahlia was her other half. The part of her she could only release up there for those minutes she was performing. The half she put away when she turned back into a pumpkin. Or more precisely a graduate student.

The club had been open for six months and already had a hip, young following with lines outside every night. The lounge itself was small and intimate, it didn’t hold more than seventy-five people. The interior was subtly sexy with lush fabrics and deep-colored leather. A nice place to hang out and have a drink with her friends that she’d never have been able to afford were it not for the fact they worked there.

Emerging from the back of the club and walking into the lounge area, she searched for her friends’ table. Catching sight of them, she also noticed her boss at his usual table. William Emery was a very sexy man. High powered, really charismatic and extraordinarily successful. He’d broken ground on the first retro style burlesque club in Vegas and now others copied him. He seemed to constantly be in motion, working twelve to fifteen hour days. She admired that even if he did come off like a cold asshole sometimes.

He certainly liked a wide variety of women. Although she’d give it to him, he seemed to keep a professional wall between himself and his dancers. He flirted, but he didn’t prey on them. He paid her well and didn’t hit on her, she was down with that. Smiling, she sent him a wave and a wink as she made her way past.

The kind of woman they didn’t make anymore. All coy and smoking hot all at once. Suddenly, he felt a little less jaded and a lot more interested.

He leaned into his brother. “Who is that?”

William’s eyes quickly raked over the woman before turning back to Nash. “That’s Dahlia. No shit, that’s her real name. From some hick town, college student. She’s one of the favorites here. Not too often you see a package like that, even here in Vegas. Hot, isn’t she?”

“Hot isn’t a word that does her justice,” Nash murmured as he extricated himself from the knot of people at the table and moved to intercept her.

She hadn’t been paying attention and ended up bumping into him, her hand moving to his chest to keep from falling. That small touch sent electric warmth through him.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t see you there.” Big brown eyes met his and damned if his cock didn’t jump. Her voice, like smoke and whiskey, low and sexy, stroked over his skin.

The scent of her perfume just beneath the smell of cigarettes, alcohol and sweat in the club tickled his senses. Reaching out, he put his hand at her waist. The abundance of her body and the incredible beauty of her face knocked him out. Damn, he couldn’t recall being so excited by and interested in a woman in a very long time.

“No need to apologize, honey. I’m Nash. Why don’t you come and join us?”

One perfectly shaped eyebrow rose slowly. Imperiously. She took a step back, out of his grasp. “That’s all right. I have friends waiting.”

He reached and took her forearm, caught sight of the cherries on her dress, the red fingernails and toenails through the open toes of her very high heels. The woman was a fucking sex bomb and he wanted to detonate her right then and there.

“Wait. Can I give you a call? I’ve got a very nice penthouse here on The Strip. What do you say we go there? Drink some champagne while I scrub your back in the bathtub. You can show me what was under the hat. You know, be my private dancer.” He laughed, teasing her.

Her lip curled in a sneer as she pulled out of his grip. “Private dancer? Like a whore? Oh, sure. Give me your number and I’ll just show up, blow you and be on my merry way. Because that’s what all showgirls do, right?”

He put his hands up in defense. “I…uh, I didn’t mean for you to be offended.”

Her hands went to her hips like an angry Amazon. “What the hell else would I be? You don’t know me from Adam and you’re propositioning me thirty seconds after you bump into me? Didn’t your mother raise you with any manners?”

Holy shit was this going badly. He’d really fucked this one up. It’d been a long damned time since a woman had turned him down, about as long as it’d been since he’d misjudged one so severely.

“You’re right. I apologize. It was rude of me. In my defense, you’re so beautiful I sort of lost my mind. I do hope you won’t hold my terrible behavior against me in the future.” He bowed. “Can we start over? I’m Nash Emery and I really was raised with manners, I swear to you.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that. That was the fakest apology I’ve heard since, well since the last rich asshole hit on me.”

Nash might have been offended but he couldn’t help but like her fire and he had been an asshole. Cocky was a fallback position for him. Women usually dug it. Not this one. A smile crept back onto his face.

“You’re a hard woman. I’m sorry. I was a jerk. But I meant it when I said you were beautiful. And you do knock me out. Can we start over?”

He held out a hand, cocking her head and hesitating a moment, she took it. “Emery huh? I suppose you’re the playboy brother I’ve heard all about. Although frankly, I’d expect some more original lines from someone of your reputation. Private dancer, gee, I’ve never heard that one before. I’m Dahlia Baker and I am not a roundheeled tart. I’m getting my MBA at UNLV.”

He laughed, chagrined. Okay, okay, so he’d made some snap judgments. He’d taken one look at the eye-popping body and face and added it to the fact that she danced in a burlesque show and made some assumptions.

“I don’t know if I’d say I was a playboy and I’d love to know what you’ve heard about me. Can I buy you a drink, Dahlia? I promise to be on my best behavior.” He sent her his most charming smile.

“I bet you would.” One dimple at the right corner of her mouth showed as she fought a smile. Nash wanted to lean in and lick it. Until she continued speaking. “No, thank you, Nash. I don’t have drinks with patrons and my friends are waiting for me.”

“Oh. Well all right. Have a nice night, Dahlia. Again, I apologize for offending you.” He wanted to argue that he wasn’t a patron but he’d done enough damage for one night. Dahlia Baker tickled his fancy and Nash Emery wasn’t a quitter. He’d be back to wear her down until she went out with him. He just needed to come at it better.

She shrugged. “Just behave yourself.” With a wave, she moved to sit with her friends and he went back to his table.

© Lauren Dane Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

What Happens In Vegas by Jodi Lynn Copeland, Lauren Dane, Kit Tunstall, and Anya Bast

The Deal is the only story I have read in WHIV (so far I am going to get to Dane’s soon as I have an excerpt for it too and, oh yes, need to review this *g*).

Anya has long been one of my favorite eBook to print authors and this will be my first read of the other two (not Dane, read her before ). Great book to pick up for those two alone. And hey you get a chance here to not only get a sneak look at Anya Bast THE DEAL but to win a copy.

Woot!

Book Summary:

     Winning it big.

     That’s the name of the game at Las Vegas’s Liege Hotel and Casino, where the hottest fantasies hinge on the roll of the dice and the tantalizing knowledge that anything could happen before sunrise.

     Cocktail waitress Carinna wants a man to tie her up, not tie her down. Little does she know that her most willing partner yet has something else planned for this fiery Latina bombshell.

     Dahlia is a burlesque dancer with a brain for business and a bod for sin. Her latest admirer may be a sweet talking Casanova, but despite what he thinks she’s not giving anything away for free.

     Meanwhile Amy has the perfect plan to rob the Liege Casino blind…until the intimidating owner catches her red-handed. Now she knows she’s going to pay with both pleasure and pain.

     Professional shill Cassidy is ready to experience a breathless rendezvous with her “friend with benefits.” But when he proposes five delicious nights of sexy blackjack, the stakes have never been so high

Excerpt from The Deal by Anya Bast
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“We could be more than friends.”

She glanced away. He glimpsed shadows in her eyes before she turned her head. Bad. Shadows were very, very bad. She licked her lips nervously.

“We could be friends with benefits,” he amended, backpedaling. Judging by her body language, he needed to take this slow. He was losing her fast. James had always suspected another relationship might make her scared, even something as casual as the one he was proposing. Guess he’d been right.

All he knew was that he wanted her, in whatever capacity she would allow. James would always want more of her, whatever amount she was willing to give. For the time being, friendship with benefits sounded damn good to him.

“Cassidy?” he murmured, sliding his hand to her waist. She felt so warm, so perfect. “Listen to me.”

She looked back at him and her breath hitched in her throat. Her eyes were dark, heavily-lidded, and her lips were parted a little. She looked interested…turned on.

Good. That was very, very good. He’d always wondered if she was attracted to him. Guess she was.

“I’ve been attracted to you since you were with Damian,” he continued. “I’ve wanted you in a bad way for a long time, Cassidy girl. I don’t want to be just friends with you; I want you in my bed.” He paused. “I want to have a very skin-on-skin kind of relationship with you.”

Cassidy looked stunned. His heart pounding, fearing he was about to crash and burn and lose a friend in the process, he let his face drift closer to hers. She didn’t move away.

“I’ve been attracted to you too, James. I always thought it was against the rules, you know?” she murmured practically against his lips. “Since we’re friends.”

“Let’s make new rules.”

Their breath mingled, lips brushed, and then he kissed her.

Her lips felt wooden beneath his for a moment, and then she melted and kissed him back. Every nerve in his body shot to life with hunger.

She twisted, leaning into him so he could feel her breasts against his chest, and eased her hands slowly up his arms and over his shoulders.

James let his hands find her waist, then slanted his mouth over hers and flicked his tongue against her lips. Damn it. He wanted to pull her over onto his lap. He wanted to undress her, set her up on this bar and fuck her senseless.

She opened for him and he slipped his tongue inside. He could taste whiskey in the hot, soft interior of her mouth, but that wasn’t what made him feel drunk.

They broke the kiss, both breathing heavy. “Cassidy, come home with me,” he murmured against her lips.

“But…” She bit her lower lip for a moment. “How do I know you’re any good in bed?” she asked with a little teasing grin playing around her lips.

He groaned and eased a hand between her knees. “What, you want a demonstration?” he murmured. He didn’t wait for her answer; he just eased his hand up her inner thigh, underneath the hem of her skirt. His actions were hidden from anyone’s view by the overhanging ledge of the bar and the dim light.

His fingers found the edge of her thigh high stockings. Oh, hell. His brain was going to melt. Thigh high stockings. This was the outer limits of heaven itself.

His cock was rock hard now. James raised an eyebrow in question at her as he rubbed his index finger over the bare skin at the top of her stocking.

“They’re more comfortable than the other kind,” she answered breathlessly in explanation, a blush faintly tingeing her cheeks.

“Lucky for me you think so,” he purred into her ear. He hooked her hair behind her ear with his free hand and whispered, “Spread your legs for me, baby. I need to touch you.”

She shifted on the stool, giving him room to move. He traveled up further and soon felt the heat of her pussy against his hand. Yes, he’d reached the gates of heaven. She’d spread her thighs as much as her skirt would allow. It was enough. He eased his fingers over her sweet, plump little clit through the cotton of her panties. He wanted to feel it against his tongue.

Cassidy inhaled sharp and fast as he stroked her, teasing her clit into a swollen, needy thing. He brushed his lips against hers, then kissed her again, sliding his tongue in between her lips, while he pushed the panel of her panties to the side and touched her bare pussy.

Around them people talked and laughed, and ignored them. That was good because he had every intention of making Cassidy orgasm right here and now.

© Anya Bast Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Anya is giving away one copy of What Happens In Vegas to a random commenter. Good Luck .

If you are over erotic romance or haven’t found one or a GOOD one you need to pick up The Art of Desire by Cherie Feather in June. It is a Berkley Heat and is a contemporary erotic romance with a historical twist. And it fucking rocks.

The book is amazing. You NEED to read this book. Trust me. Cherie will be here to guest in June and we will have more of an excerpt later but here is the trailer, which I liked and a small taste…

The Art of Desire… write it down… you can thank me later…

Museum director Mandy Cooper has always been obsessed with nineteenth-century artist Catherine Burke—and the artist’s erotically charged relationship with Atacar, her enthralling American Indian lover. But Mandy’s link to the legendary couple runs deeper than she knows. She’s having a heated affair herself—with Jared Cabrillo, Atacar’s perilously handsome great-great nephew. And the consuming passion Atacar once used to seduce Catherine is now being engaged by Jared. He knows precisely what it takes to move a woman…

He’s in possession of Catherine’s wildly explicit journal. He knows every intimate detail of what she wanted and needed. But he also knows how desperately Catherine had loved Atacar and how dangerously he’d loved her. The journal is timeless and tragic, and the secrets contained within its pages can bring Mandy and Jared together, or just as surely destroy them both—desire by shocking desire.

Was this my punishment for dozing in the sun? Or my reward? I’d gone to that location to work, to sketch the scenery.

I longed to draw him instead. But I couldn’t find the will to move, to do more than stare. Curiously handsome, his bluish-black, cheekbone-length hair framed the hollowed angles and mysterious shadows that sculpted his face. Muscled ridges and flat planes defined his body, with wide shoulders and a powerful chest. His thighs, I decided, had been built for striding the horse that grazed nearby. A stolen mount, no doubt. A prize that went with his rifle.

Taking a swift breath, I centered my gaze, filling my vision with his penis. I measured the length and fullness, but I imagined how it would look fully erect, with his testes drawn tight, his foreskin pushed back and the sensitive head exposed.

Queen Victoria shame me.

In my own country, I was a rumored bohemian, London-borne, Paris schooled, an artist seceding from conventionality, an upper-class girl who’d cast her morals to the wind, who’d stroked many a cock with her hands, even with her ruby-red mouth.

But the gossip wasn’t true. Not completely. I fantasized about those carnal acts, but the only cocks I dared stroke were with a collection of Asiatic marten brushes.

The hawk flew away, abandoning its circling post. The Indian snapped out of his trance and continued his bath. My heart pounded like the drums of his people. I knew who he was. He was an Apache prisoner of war who’d escaped from a military fort in Oklahoma Territory. Last week U.S. Army soldiers had scoured this area in search of him. They’d ridden into town with a photograph, asking if anyone had seen him. They’d gone to ranches and farms, too. When they’d come to my house, I’d gazed curiously at his picture.

And now here he was.

I should have remained motionless until he went away. But somewhere in the peril of my soul, I found the strength to sit upright, to lift a piece of charcoal from my ready-made paintbox. The paper clamped to my stretching board was cold-pressed, better suited for rough effects than a detailed portrait of a bared man. But I was willing to compromise. Desire burned like a hot-wick candle beneath the folds of my skirt.

I had moved to America to study its ethnic, geographic, and religious diversity, to paint its fading frontier. So why not study him? Make him my secret project?

“Atacar,” I whispered his name. It was of Spanish origin, and in English it meant, “to attack.”

Suddenly he went still, his dark gaze shooting through the trees like an obsidian-tipped arrow. He couldn’t have heard his barely audible name on my lips, yet he’d found me out.

The charcoal slipped from my fingers; my paper remained blank.

Our eyes met, and he reacted like a hound on the heels of a fox. Before I could blink, he grabbed the rifle, jammed it against his water-damp shoulder and aimed it at me.

I did the unthinkable. I looked at his penis again, challenging the air between us. His face remained an indiscernible mask, devoid of emotion, of any kind of lust. But in his fire-ready stance, his stomach muscles jumped, giving him away, making his cock stir.

From there, neither of us moved.

Finally he motioned with his chin, ordering me out into the open. I didn’t hesitate. I lifted my arms in surrender and walked toward him.

Praying he would take me.

CHAPTER ONE

Dirty sex with a dirty boy.

That was all Mandy Cooper, the proper, professional, highly organized director of the Santa Fe Women’s Art Museum, could think about.

She was addicted to Jared Cabrillo, Atacar’s great-great nephew, a man who sizzled in the art scene, who was notorious for having public liaisons, who wielded his celebrity like the party-on-the-edge charmer he was.

Mandy could feel him watching her from across the museum. She and her staff were hosting a summer reception and he’d crashed the event.

She tried to avoid him, but she couldn’t. His gaze was too strong, too persistent. She gave up the fight and looked at him, too.

Their eyes met, and he lifted his wine and toasted her before he put the glass to his lips and drank the blood-red liquid.

She gripped the silver chain on her evening bag, locking it around her wrist like a handcuff. He was drop-dead, imprison-a-woman gorgeous. There was no other way to describe him. He walked toward her, and her panties stuck to her skin, making her want to rub her thighs together.

“Nice party,” he said, as they came face to face.

“It’s going well.” She’d been sleeping with him for almost a month, yet she couldn’t stop herself from staring.

He sported a retro-style, black western shirt, decorated with white piping and tucked into crisp jeans. His face, diamond-blade dazzling and stone-quarry tough, mirrored his heritage. Both ears showcased tiny silver hoops. He had an intimate body piercing and tribal tattoos, too.

He was everything she shouldn’t want. At thirty-eight, she was supposed to know better. He was ten years younger than she was, but he wasn’t her boy toy. He controlled their affair, enticing her into carnal situations.

He set his empty glass on a nearby table. “You look beautiful, Mandy.”

“Thank you.” Her black dress scooped modestly in front and the delicate silver-and-turquoise cross around her neck offered a hint of adornment.

Aside from their naked urges, they didn’t know each other very well. They didn’t have meaningful conversations. But at least she knew he wasn’t seeing anyone else. He didn’t cheat on his lovers. Of course that didn’t change who and what he was. He treated monogamy like a courtesy, not a commitment.

Needing a diversion, Mandy turned toward a famous portrait of Jared’s ancestor. They were standing in front of Atacar’s exhibit.

He was the museum’s most prized possession, a Catherine Burke treasure, a portrait remarkable for its depth and passion, for its stunning realism. But Atacar was more than Catherine’s greatest work. So much more. The nineteenth century artist was rumored to have loved him, just as he was rumored to have loved her.

But no one knew for sure.

Catherine had abandoned her Texas home, never to be heard from again, and soon after she’d disappeared, Atacar had been shot and killed by a trio of soldiers.

As Mandy looked into his eyes, an air-conditioned chill blasted from the ceiling, sending goose bumps along her arms.

He was an imposing figure, his head cocked just so, his expression dark and serious. Positioned in a straight-back chair, he gripped the barrel of a Winchester rifle. She tried to imagine him sitting for Catherine while the daring girl painted his image. His clothes consisted of Anglo gear, reminiscent of ranchers and farmers, but he was Chiricahua Apache, an enlisted army scout who’d become a prisoner of war.

Mandy blinked, but Atacar’s gaze remained constant. The museum had acquired his portrait nearly forty years ago. Prior to that, it had been hidden inside the walls of the farmhouse where Catherine had lived.

Upon its discovery, their romantic legacy had begun. Rumors spawned that they’d been lovers. That she’d disappeared because of him. That their desperate hearts would remain forever entwined.

But once again, no one knew for sure.

The only ray of hope was that Catherine had kept a secret journal, writings that had never been found.

By now, most of the art world thought the journal was a myth. But Mandy chose to believe otherwise. She had the museum historian searching for it.

Suddenly Jared moved closer, close enough to invade Mandy’s space, to attack her senses. She could smell the spicy notes of his cologne. She turned to face him, his ancestor fading into the background.

“Why did you come here tonight?” she asked.

He smoothed the front of his hair. He wore it plaited into a single braid, leaving the hardened angles of his face unframed. “To fuck you.”

Her addiction jabbed her hard and quick, like a needle to a starving vein. “I’m working, Jared.”

“That’s what makes it so fun.” Fun or not, he didn’t smile. He just looked at her with the same driven expression as when he’d toasted her with his merlot or cabernet or whatever he’d been drinking. “Like when we do it at my work.”

She didn’t respond. He was a highly successful breeder, trainer, and showman who managed his own horse farm. Banging each other’s brains out in his barn wasn’t the same as getting naked at the museum.

His gaze turned darker, more intense. “You could take me to your office. You could make me do things to you.”

Hedonic chills vibrated her spine. By now, they were just inches apart. He kept moving closer, drawing her into his seductive sphere, doing what he always did.

“What things?” she asked.

“You could take off your panties, order me to my knees and lift your dress in front of my face. You could make me taste how sweet you are.”

The room started to spin. She wanted his mouth between her legs. But envisioning herself standing in front of him, making him do it was almost more than she could bear.

“Does that excite you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What else turns you on? What other games do you want to play?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice shook. “I honestly don’t know.” At the moment she just wanted to crawl all over him, to fall like a sugared gumdrop at his feet.

“I’ll bet she did it,” Jared said.

“What? Who?”

“Catherine.” Jared moistened his lips. “I’ll bet she lifted her skirts in front of Atacar’s face. I’ll bet she came all over him.” His voice was soft and low, dangerously demanding. “Do it, Mandy. Be bad for me.”

I think this is one of my favorite covers of the year. It is just awesome. After the cut you will find a great excerpt and a bigger version for your viewing pleasure.

Fallen will fall onto the shelves on the 29h of April and is the second in Erin’s Seven Deadly Sins series.

Forever cursed.

Forever FALLEN.

New Orleans, 1840s. Sent to watch over the decadent city, the angel Gabriel loses himself in the liquid pleasure of absinthe. So when his mistress, Anne, is murdered—and all evidence points to him—a foggy Gabriel cannot be sure he didn’t do it. His penance: to be forever denied love. Then in modern-day New Orleans he meets forensic scientist Sara Michaels…

New Orleans, 1849

Gabriel St. John knew that he was fallen. From angel to demon, favorite to disdained, he embraced the change, welcomed the passion, wallowed in the ecstasy he found day after day in the bottom of the bottle, and night after night in the arms of his favorite whore. In the two years of his tenure walking the earth as a Watcher, he had absorbed the stench and pain of human misery surrounding him until he could no longer suffer the helplessness and hopelessness they brought upon him. Their sad, desperate, begging eyes were a much easier burden to bear when his over-heightened angelic senses were dulled from vast quantities of whiskey, opium, and the beautiful green fairy of absinthe he had come to adore. It was a drink he had come to worship, to crave with every ounce of his preternatural essence. His absinthe was his clarity, his respite, his one true love.

“Good evenin,’ Mr. Thiroux,” a stout woman in full-blown scarlet silk said to him.

Gabriel stepped inside the parlor, such as it was, of The House of Rest For Weary Men. The name of the two-bit bordello never failed to amuse him, the irony even more prominent in his case, given that while he was weary, he was not a man, and in either case, rest was never what a man sought at this particular address. Escape. Fleshly pleasure. A bawdy good time. Oblivion. They were all sought at various times by various men for mere pennies passed to Madame’s hand. Gabriel was never bawdy, but he longed most vigorously for escape, for a contentment that eluded him, for the respite the grandiose name promised.

“Good evening, Madame Conti, you’re looking well.” In fact, Madame was looking rather ill at ease, standing in front of him, blocking his way to the creaky, slanted stairs that led him up to Anne, where his glass and spoon would be waiting. Perhaps he’d forgotten to pay. He wasn’t really sure when he’d last fronted Madame money for his nightly sojourns, but several months prior he had sold a painting for a significant amount, and had settled his affairs far enough into the future that he had lost awareness of the time.

“You’re early tonight,” she commented, fanning her heavy bosom vigorously with a faded lace fan.

“Impatient.” He gave her a smile and took a step forward, assuming she would move. The dryness in his mouth was irritating, the shake in his hands increasing.

Madame Conti didn’t move, which annoyed him. Moreover, she placed one fleshy hand on his chest and stopped any progress he might have made. “Anne isn’t ready for you yet, Mr. Thiroux.”

Gabriel despised the use of his false name. But he disliked being made to wait even more. Staying away for twelve hours of daylight was becoming more and more of a struggle for him. “I do not care. Whatever she is doing can be done in my presence.”

“In all certainty. But I’m guessin’ you don’t want to see it.”

Gabriel stared at Madame Conti, nee Ginny Black, and narrowed his eyes. A former prostitute who had invested wisely, Madame was a shrewd businesswoman, with a mixed vocabulary, acute intelligence, and a devious mind. She didn’t miss an opportunity to make money.

“What might I see?” Though he already had a suspicion, and it did not please him.

“Her toilette.”

It was an innocuous remark, but Madame tipped her hand by shifting slightly in front of him again. Rage lit through him, clashing with the craving for his drink and pipe, and sent heat rushing into his face. “She’s with another man, isn’t she?”

There was no response, which was as telling as an admission. Gabriel brushed past her and pounded up the steps, down the hall, and shoved open the door to Anne’s room. What he saw made his stomach twist in an unpleasant knot. Anne was beneath a man, her slim pale legs spread. A broad shouldered man with black hair was mounting her with noisy enthusiasm. Gabriel couldn’t see Anne’s face, but she was giving encouraging mewling sounds. His sounds. They belonged to him.

Madame slid to a stop behind him. “It’s just business,” she said. “No sense letting her laze around all day.”

“Dispense with him or I will,” Gabriel told her. He wasn’t exactly sure why he was so angry, but Anne was his. She and his opium and absinthe were all intertwined in his mind, and he loved his pipe and his drink, loved the pleasure she gave him while his mind sharpened and his body floated, while he stretched and strained to achieve an escape from mortality.

Stepping into the hall, Gabriel wiped at the cold sweat on his forehead, struggling to ignore the pervasive nausea clawing at his innards. He knew his human body was addicted to the alcohol, the opium, and the absinthe, and he felt no remorse for that, just merely resented the inconvenient symptoms of withdrawal. Leaning against the wall, he waited. It was a mere jaw-locking, bile-producing three minutes later that a man brushed past him, cursing while Madame offered him three girls in compensation for the one he’d lost.

Gabriel didn’t even glance at the man, that irritated, whining voice familiar, yet not enough for him to care, to look up, to connect the pieces that floated around his agonized, sloshing brain. He was amazed that Madame had carried out his demand to get rid of Anne’s unexpected client, but then again, Gabriel spent an obscene amount of money in her establishment monthly. He was a preferred client.

Anne appeared at the door, clad in a dressing gown, rich auburn hair spilling over her shoulders, green eyes wide and full of tears. “Are you angry with me?” she asked, voice trembling, anxiety palpable. “Madame said it was what you wanted, that you wished to watch, but I didn’t know it was…”

Anger was a pale description for the depth of what he felt, but he found it wasn’t directed at Anne. She was a simple woman, and she had always aspired to please him. Madame was manipulative, and Anne not bright enough to see her obvious lies. It startled him to recognize he retained such a well of compassion.

Yet he still was disgusted at what he had seen, so he cut her off by saying roughly, “Just get my drink.” He pushed past her, stripping off his coat and tossing it on the chair at her vanity table.

The sight of the rumpled bedcovers increased his fury. The night was ruined, tainted, the idea of stepping in and escaping gone, replaced by the ugly and brutal reality that escape was ever elusive. He had thought perhaps tonight he’d sketch after he drank, was feeling a pleasing tug of creativity, but it was all shattered by the sheets, soft and yellow with age, disheveled and stained.

Reaching over, he tore the sheets completely off, and tossed them in the corner of the room. Mouth dry, he undid his shirt collar, and sat in his chair, sighing. He felt tired all the time, his human body protesting the abuse he rendered it. His tray was next to him- pipe, glass, spoon all waiting. The bottle. Gabriel unstopped it, poured it into the tumbler until it was half full, and reached for his spoon, the sugar already carefully resting in its well. The shaking in his hands had stopped, and he focused with total clarity on the task, body tingling with anticipation, heart beating faster. When he poured water over the spoon, the liquid in the glass below kicked up a deliciously beautiful cloud, and he watched it, appreciating the swirls and ebb and flow as the absinthe turned a milky white. While it stirred and mixed and mesmerized, he struck a match and lit his pipe. The opium took him down into a relaxing languor, the absinthe pulled him back up into sparkling awareness. Together the two gave him a shade shy of bliss. Between draws on his pipe, the first glass went back smoothly, settling into his limbs and easing the ache. The second he drank just as fast, and by the time he was pouring and stirring the third, a cloud of smoke rising around him, blurring his vision and his brain, he remembered Anne, and beckoned her to him.

She went on to her knees in front of him, undoing his trousers, and stroking his bare flesh as he relaxed back, eyes closed, glass in hand. He sipped and reached, seeking the sharpness of mind, the sense of confidence, of clarity, the absinthe brought. It was ironic that escape could be achieved by such pure and clear thinking. Gabriel felt more intelligent when he was in the bottle, more rational, more decisive. Perhaps the night could satisfy him after all.

Anne was caressing him with her hands, the tip of her tongue, the moist inside of her mouth, and the pleasure was acute, bright and crystallized, right. Opium, absinthe, and Anne, and he was almost out of his mortality, could almost reach the pinnacle of perfection that he had known as an angel.

Except that he was not in heaven, nor in the presence of God, but sitting in a rickety chair in a dingy room on Dauphine Street, one of the many such rooms around New Orleans, where sex was bought, and hungers of all sort satisfied for a mere sixteen cents. He should have been ashamed that he had descended into such depths of depravity, but he no longer cared. All that mattered was that medicinal ecstasy rushing through his veins, that pulsing in his head, that throbbing intensity that Anne’s tongue and fingers drew out from his groin as she licked and sucked on his flesh.

All that pleasure, all that shattering desire coalescing into rigidity, an acute sense of self, and the need to take, to own, to feel everything, yet nothing, to be utterly in control, yet surrender, surged up in Gabriel, and he accepted the physical release. His human body let go of its messy brand of satisfaction into Anne’s mouth, and he closed his eyes, sank back, went up, then down, embracing the darkness, the incoherency, the oblivion.

When he pried his lids back open, he had no idea how much time had passed, but the candle on the night stand had burned out, the bottle was empty, and Anne was sleeping in her bed. His mouth was dry and he reached for his glass and tossed back whatever drops of diluted absinthe were still clinging to the bottom of the cloudy glass. There was a sour smell in the room, but Gabriel ignored it, knowing a foul odor was not out of place in The House of Rest.

He was relaxed, still floating, his vision sharp and clear, tumbling over the familiar hulks of furniture in the room despite the dark, and he enjoyed the vision of Anne lying in bed, one arm above her head, the other carelessly abandoned at her side. Most of her figure was in shadow, but the free arm was milky white, caught in a pool of moonlight bursting through the slats of the broken shutters on the window. That elegant limb beckoned to Gabriel, made him struggle to reach the paper and pencil he kept next to his chair, at the ready in case he felt the urge to sketch. He hadn’t, not in months, but Anne At Rest spoke to him, and he moved his pencil quickly, capturing the bed, the hidden figure, the beautiful, illuminated arm.

Standing up, he stretched his stiff, weak body, ignoring that all too familiar nausea, and walked towards his lover. She was a good girl, Anne, with none of the brashness of many common whores, and she did a fine job of tolerating him. Some nights he even suspected she felt love, such as she was capable of, for him. He read it in her anxiety, her eagerness, that desperate desire to please. In return he felt something like gratitude. Now he simply wanted to capture her features, her expression, see and appreciate how her lovely worrisome face relaxed into innocence in her sleep.

Still two feet from the bed, Gabriel’s boot heel slipped on the floor and he cursed, nearly going down before grabbing the bedpost for balance. Glancing to see what had halted his progress, he saw a dark spot on the floor, raised like a puddle. Unsure what it was, he shifted forward, his hand sliding along the side of the mattress as he leaned for a better look. There was dampness beneath his fingers, and he realized the puddle appeared to be originating from the bed, a stained trail descending from the sheet to drip upon the floor.

Head snapping up, mouth hot, room spinning from the alcohol, Gabriel rushed his gaze past Anne’s perfect arm and hand, to her face.

Or where her face should have been.

Unrecognizable, covered in blood, Anne was lacerated from hairline to waist with multiple stab wounds, a bowie knife placed mockingly in her other hand, her chemise and huge areas of her flesh shredded.

She was dead.

Bile rose in his throat, and he turned and spilled the contents of his stomach on the floor beside that dark circular stain of her life’s blood, his heart racing, his mind registering a rapid succession of shock, horror, regret, fear. Anne had just been alive, warm and anxiously eager to please him. Now she was irrefutably and grotesquely dead.

Slashed to bloody bits while he floated in a pleasure cloud of drugs.

While he could never die, she had viciously been yanked from this mortal coil, and for him there would be no escape.

Ever.

A Lady’s Secret by Jo Beverley

Jo Beverley keeps a blog of interesting historical facts she finds while doing her research. Tres nifty… you should check it out. In fact her whole website is worth checking out, interesting stuff, and I have to admit this is my first book to read by the author (the summary will explain ).

Although I have kept Lovers and Ladies out since it showed up for review a few weeks ago.

She is getting much love from the coverfairy…

The nun on the run and the rake on the make!

     When Robin Fitzvitry, the fun-loving Earl of Huntersdown, encounters a cursing nun in a French inn, he can’t resist the mystery. He offers to help Sister Immaculata reach England, expecting only amusement on the tedious journey home from Versailles. Petra d’Averio is not exactly a nun, though she has spent years in an Italian convent with her widowed mother. Her mother’s death has left her in danger and she must find the only person who might protect her—her true father, an English lord who does not even know she exists. This gorgeous young aristocrat will be a dangerous ally, but she’s glimpsed her pursuers and must race to the coast. She will resist him, use him, and eventually escape him with virtue and secrets intact. She hopes….

It isn’t often a man hears a cursing nun.

Robin Fitzvitry, Earl of Huntersdown was finishing his meal at a table by the window and thus had an excellent view of the woman out in the coach yard. There could be no doubt. She was muttering curses and she was a nun.

She was standing beneath the outside gallery that gave access to the bedrooms upstairs, so her gray clothing blended with the shadows, but her clothing was a nun’s habit or he was a mother superior. Her plain gown was belted with rope, and a dark headcloth hung down her back. There was even a long wooden rosary hanging from the belt and perhaps sandals on her feet. She had her back turned, but he thought she might be young.

“Maledizione!” she exploded. Italian?

The frivolity of fur known as Coquette finally proved useful. The Papillon dog wriggled to put her front paws on the windowsill, to see what had made that noise. Her plumy tail swept Robin’s chin, giving him an excuse to lean to the right.

Yes, certainly a nun. What, Robin wondered with growing delight, was an Italian nun doing in Northern France, beseeching the devil, no less?

“So, sir, do we go on?”

Robin turned back to Powick, his middle-aged English manservant, who was sitting across their dining table beside Fontaine, his young French valet. Powick was square and weathered; Fontaine was slender and pale. They were as dissimilar in nature as in appearance, but each suited Robin in his own way.
Go on? Ah yes, they’d been discussing whether to take rooms here for the night, or push on toward Boulogne and England.

“I’m not sure,” Robin said.

“‘Tis not much past three, sir,” Powick argued. “Plenty of traveling light this time of year.”

“But a storm, she would turn the roads to pottage!” Fontaine exclaimed. “We could be stuck in the middle of nowhere.”

He was probably correct, but he also wanted to linger in France as long as possible. Robin had tempted the valet to leave the service of a prince with high pay and many privileges, but even after three years, Fontaine shuddered at each return to England. Powick, who’d served Robin for twenty years, grumbled all the time they were in France.

“Think on that lot ‘as just arrived,” Powick said, playing a very strong card.

An overloaded Berlin carriage had recently swayed into the inn yard and disgorged howling children harried by a screeching mother. The party had pounded up the outside stairs and now some possessions were being unloaded. They were staying for the night, and above, the children still howled and the mother still screeched.

In English. An English party might want to strike up an acquaintance with him. Robin was a gregarious fellow, but he chose his company. A crash and shriek of rage should have settled it, but he glanced outside again. His mother often predicted that curiosity would be the death of him, but what would you? It was his nature.

“You agree, don’t you?” Robin said to Coquette, who twitched her enormous ears and wagged her plumy tail.

“Agree we should leave?” asked Powick.

“Agree we should stay?” asked Fontaine.

“Agree we should investigate outside,” Robin said, picking up the dog and rising. “I’ll get a better look at the weather, and ask advice of the local people.”

With that, he strolled outside, tucking Coquette into his large coat pocket, which she seemed to enjoy. It was as well he liked to dress casually for travel for the current fashion was for close-fitting coats with no useful pockets at all.

He approached the now silent figure considering what language to use. His Italian was only passable, but his French was perfect, and they were in France.

“May I aid you, Sister?” he asked in that language.

She turned sharply, and his breath caught.

He was looking at a stunning face. It was oval, but the tight, white cap she wore beneath the gray veil was made with a widow’s peak that came down almost to her brow. The narrow frill continued all the way to the tie beneath her chin, forming a heart shape that seemed designed to emphasize large, dark eyes and full, soft lips that needed no emphasis at all. What demented bishop had thought up that cap? For a certainty, no mother superior would have done so.

Her complexion was pale, which he supposed common enough in the cloister, but it glowed with health, as perfect as the creamy rose petal tumbling over a nearby wall. Her nose was straight, with tiny dimples just above the nostrils, and those lips…

Robin inhaled. Such lips were made for kisses not confessionals. And she was young. She could not be much over twenty.

She disciplined those lips into a firm line. “Thank you, monsieur, but I need no help,” she said and turned away.

Good French, but not that of a native speaker and people generally swore in their native tongue. Italian, for sure. What the devil was an Italian nun doing in Northern France, alone?

He moved into her line of sight, plying his most disarming smile. “Sister, I have no ill-intentions, but I can hardly ignore a lady in distress, especially a Bride of Christ.”

She made as if to turn away again, but then stilled and studied him in a remarkably direct way. Robin hid a smile. Put that with the cursing and what he had here was not a true nun, but an adventuress in disguise.

And to think he’d been bored.

“Permit me to introduce myself, Sister,” he said, bowing. “Mr. Bonchurch, English gentleman, very much at your service.” He felt a little uncomfortable at such a direct lie, but he always used a false name when traveling in France. His true name and title caused fuss and sometimes people would even alert the local dignitaries and he’d be plagued with visits and invitations. And this, after all, was a mere amusement en route.

The nun continued to study him, as if making calculations. Before she decided whether to give her name, hard footsteps rattled the wooden gallery above and that strident voice yelled, “Sister Immaculata! Sister Immaculata! Where the deuce are you?”

“Sister Immaculata, I assume,” Robin said with a smile.

She looked up balefully. “How many stray nuns can there be here?”

“And you arrived in the Berlin-”

“Sister Immaculata!”

She muttered something, but said, “I must go.”

He moved to block her. “You are the children’s nurse? My condolences.”

“I am not.” She punctuated it with a sharp hand gesture that was emphatically Italian. “But the nurse, she contracted an ague in Amiens and milady’s maid abandoned her in Dijon. Now there is only me.”

“Sister! Sister! Come here immediately!”

“No wonder you were swearing at fate.” Robin gestured toward a nearby arch. “If we were to go through there, we would be out of sight and could discuss your liberation from durance vile.”

“There is nothing to discuss.”

Again she moved to leave.

Again he blocked the way. “It will not hurt to talk.”

She frowned at him, but thoughtfully rather than angrily. At another yell, she threw up her eloquent hands and hurried through the arch. Robin followed, admiring her brisk, light movements. She was so deliciously vigorous, perhaps more strikingly so for being veiled in shapeless gray.

Her gray veil brushed a fading rose, scattering petals but collecting one. When he plucked it off she whirled to challenge him, hand raised to point or hit. He exhibited the evidence. She simmered down, but he began to heat. There’d been a frisson of awareness at his lightest touch, and now pink touched her cheeks. This was no nun.

He crushed the petal and invited her to enjoy the perfume, but Coquette, the jealous minx, yipped.

Sister Immaculata flinched, then stared. “What is that?

“A Coquette,” he said, for in French it meant `a little nothing.’ “Ignore it.”

Instead she put out a hand to stroke the tiny head. Robin was familiar with the effect. After all, he’d acquired Coquette to seduce a lady in Versailles, where the breed was all the rage. He took the dog out, willing to use any tool.

“So pretty!”

“Allow me to give her to you as a gift.”

She drew back, frowning. “How heartless you are.”

“It is my mission in life to fulfill all ladies’ desires.” He smiled into her eyes. “Come into the inn, Sister Immaculata, and tell me yours.”

She hissed in a breath. Had he gone too far, too fast? But another screech from her employer made her turn and hurry through the arch. It took them to a small garden from which another door opened into the inn’s entrance hall.

“Too public,” he said, touching her arm to steer her into what looked like an empty parlor. She moved sharply ahead to outpace his touch. He followed, but didn’t close the door. Yet. There was an old story about a princess and a pea. He generally found that such sensitivity to his touch indicated a woman was primed for pleasure.

“Now, Sister,” he said gently, “your desires?”

“Stop saying such things. You show no respect for my habit.”

“It’s such a dismal garment. But,” he added, raising his free hand to signal peace, “I merely meant your wishes about your situation. The lady’s maid left. The nursemaid left. You are the screeching lady’s only servant…”

As he’d predicted, hard-heeled footsteps beat a tattoo down the steps to the inn yard and the demands started up again there.

“Her name?” he asked.

“Lady Sodworth.” The English words spoken with a fluid Italian accent sounded like another curse.

Robin didn’t recognize the title Sodworth, and the haut vollée of Britain was his world. Another imposter? Could this be some strange plot?

“What exactly is your position with the lady?” he asked, studying her.

“Companion. But now, she expects me to do everything.”

“And you’ve endured the lady all the way from…?”

“Milan.”

“Why?”

The simple question seemed to challenge her.

“I had reason to travel to England and needed female companionship.”

Through the open window, he could hear the lady haranguing an ostler in atrocious French.

“The price seems high.”

“She’s is under great strain.”

“Which I suspect is entirely of her own creation. The voice alone would drive off angels.”

Another flip of fine-fingered hands. “I have no choice. I must go and pacify her.” She headed for the door.

“Your destination is England?”

“Yes.”

“Then may I take you there?”

She turned to face him. “Of course not.”

“Why not?”

“You’re a man.”

“A very safe one.”

She gave a snort of disbelief. But she didn’t continue on her way.

“Truly, Sister Immaculata, a man like me can’t afford to add cuckolding God to his sins. But perhaps rescuing one of his brides would wipe away some years in Purgatory?”

“You think me an idiot, sir? You are not a man any woman should trust.”

“On the contrary, it’s the hungry beast that is dangerous. You behold me, Sister, exhausted by the ladies of Versailles.”

The pink that flooded her cheeks made him dizzy, but her eyes remained steady. “Are you staying here tonight?”

He knew the necessary answer. “No.”

Lady Sodworth was inside the inn now, her demanding voice cutting the air like a saw. Upstairs, something shattered, perhaps even a window.

The errant nun moved to hide behind the door. “Do you travel swiftly?” she whispered.

“As swiftly as roads and horses permit.”

“Do you give me your word, sir, at peril of your immortal soul, that you will deliver me safe to London?”

Safe was a slippery term. Robin defined it to suit himself and said, “I do.” Then he grinned. “How very matrimonial, to be sure.”

Her expression turned wry. “You are beautiful and wicked, Mr. Bonchurch, and used to women falling into your hands like ripe fruit, but I assure you it won’t happen with me. I want no complaints when we arrive in London with your lust unsatisfied.”

“Not a one,” he promised, drowning in delight. “But you do realize that constitutes a challenge?”

“One I’m bound to win. As you said, you can’t afford to cuckold God. You have a carriage?”

“A chaise. I need only order horses put to.”

“Excellent. But even better if I get into your chaise now, don’t you think?”

“You’re a conspirator after my own heart, Sister, and you’re right. Your Lady Sodworth’s next step will be to have the whole inn searched.”

As if to confirm his thought, the harassed innkeeper popped his head into the room. Robin pulled out a gold coin; the man saw it, nodded, and hurried on. Robin opened the casement window and looked out at a lane alongside the inn. “All’s clear.” He moved a chair beneath it.

She hesitated, but then hurried over and climbed nimbly out, showing him sandals and bare ankles. He replaced the chair and followed, grinning. “This way,” he said, gesturing toward the back of the inn.

They entered the yard close to Robin’s post-chaise, which sat axle-down, awaiting a new team of horses. He hurried his adventuress to it and handed her inside. Another touch, another frisson. Her position was awkward in the slanted coach, but she managed.

“I’ll order the horses.”

But she suddenly clasped her hands and raised them her lips. “No, I can’t. I need my possessions, my traveling trunk.”

“I will buy you anything you need.”

“I will not be so indebted to you.”

He shrugged. “Where is your trunk?”

“It was in the boot of the coach, but it might have been carried inside.”

Robin turned to study the Berlin. Baggage was piled on top of the big, four-wheeled coach, but that was not being disturbed. The boot was open and already half-empty. As he watched, a man came out of the inn, grabbed two bundles, and carried them inside. Bedding? Robin could have told Lady Sodworth that the sheets at the Tête de Boeuf were clean and aired, but from the sounds of her, she wouldn’t listen.

“What does your trunk look like?” he asked.

“Plain wood with black straps. A brass plate with a cross and SMI.”

“I’ll see to it. Stay out of sight.”

He lowered the blind on the inside of the chaise window and began to close the door, but realized he still had Coquette. He put her on his nun’s knee. “Discuss desire,” he said and shut the door. He scanned the area, but saw no danger so he strolled over to the Berlin. There inside was the Sister’s small trunk.

Two men came out and unloaded a fancier, leather-covered trunk, carrying it between them. Robin decided he needed his men anyway and went into the inn to beckon them. When they came over, he explained the situation and gave them their orders.

Fontaine — sighing because they were leaving — lurked to distract any porters, while Powick, sighing at Robin’s new game, pulled out the small chest, hoisted it on his shoulder, and carried it over to the chaise.

A nun or not a nun, that was the question. That was a very plain, nun-like box, but even if Sister Immaculata was genuine, she was still up to something odd. In two days travel he should be able to uncover all her secrets.

Powick was making room in the boot for the box. Robin turned to tell Fontaine all was clear.

“You there!”

He turned to face a furious woman. It had to be Lady Sodworth, but she didn’t match her harsh voice, being petite, beribboned, and even pretty in a bad-tempered way.

“Have you seen a nun here?” she demanded in her bad French, not seeming to recognize that he was a gentleman, never mind an Englishman.

Robin looked around in puzzlement. “Here, madame?”

“Anywhere here, you fool!”

He gave a mischievously Gallic shrug. “If you need a nun, madame, you should perhaps go to a convent?”

“Dolt!” she spat in English and rushed off in her chaotic search. Another Coquette, and with a worse temperament. Robin wondered at any man marrying her, despite her looks. He searched his memory again for a Lord Sodworth, but felt certain there was none. So, a knight or baronet, and probably of recent creation. Excellent. That made it unlikely he’d meet Lady Sodworth again.

He collected Fontaine and headed for his chaise, where ostlers were putting horses to under Powick’s scrutiny. He’d been a groom in his youth, and knew the trade.

Powick had put Robin on his first pony, and then become his tutor in riding, hunting, fishing, and other country lore. Eventually he’d become a kind of manservant-companion of endless usefulness. Having steered Robin into adulthood, however, he still thought he held the reins. Even Robin becoming earl a year ago hadn’t convinced the man that he was able to manage his own affairs.

“The nun’s coming with us, sir?” he asked in a forbidding tone.

“A damsel in distress. What would you?”

“I, sir, would return her to her mistress.”

“As would I,” said Fontaine. “The chaise, it will not fit three.”

“Therefore,” Robin said, “you will ride.”

The valet normally traveled in the coach. “Impossible. It might rain.”

“Think of it as a favor you are doing me in thanks for all the times I’ve ridden and you’ve had the chaise to yourself.”

“Not in the rain, sir,” Fontaine protested.

“Sir-” Powick protested for other reasons.

“I’m all innocence,” Robin insisted. “The holy lady needs to reach England, and do you really want me to abandon her to that harpy?”

“We could be days on the road if the weather turns. Days and nights.”

“And she will have a room to herself, I promise.”

“The weather….” Fontaine tried again.

Robin held onto his patience. “We need only go as far as the next stage. What is it — Montreuil?”

“Nouvion,” Powick said.

“Whatever. As long as we’re away from all things Sodworthy. Let’s be off.”

In the end his word was law, so soon Fontaine and Powick were mounted. A postilion took his seat on the leader of the chaise horses and Robin took delivery of the basket of food and wine he’d ordered earlier. He opened the door, winked at the shadowy nun, and placed the basket on the carriage floor. Coquette leaped out to relieve herself.

Once the dog was ready, Robin glanced around, saw no problems, and put the dog in the chaise. Coquette leaped right onto Sister Immaculata’s lap.

“If you think to make me jealous,” Robin said to the dog as he sat beside the nun on the one seat, “prettier ladies than you have failed.”

The nun stroked and the damned dog seemed to smirk. The chaise rolled out onto the Boulogne Road, leaving screeching and howling behind.

“Welcome to tranquility,” Robin said.

“Can you promise that?”

“If it’s what you truly desire.” Her reaction to the word desire seemed to be a weary sigh. Very well, she wasn’t ready for the game.

“I must confess,” he said, “that I’ve suffered tranquility for days. I was hoping you would remedy that. But not in any naughty way, Sister. See, I’ve even provided female companionship.”

She glanced down. “She’s a bitch?”

“With a name like Coquette, she’d better be.”

“Why don’t you like her?”

He shrugged. “I can tolerate tiny, frivolous women, but not tiny frivolous dogs.”

“Then why own her, poor thing?”

“With a collar of gold and pearls, there’s nothing poor about her.”

She looked down at the collar. “It’s real? Why?”

“You tell me your stories and I’ll tell you mine.”

She gave him a scathing look and turned away, as if fascinated by the outskirts of Abbeville. So, she did have secrets, and some must relate to why she’d accepted his invitation. There was time. To increase her comfort, he angled into his own corner and stretched his legs, widening the space between them on the seat.

“You can still change your mind, Sister. We can return you to Lady Sodworth.”

She clearly thought about it before saying, “No, thank you.”

“Then perhaps you would like to return to your convent.”

She turned, frowning. “You would take me to Milan?”

“I’m a wealthy man. It would not discomfort me.”

“You’re a mad man!”

“What a shame you’ve cast your lot with me, then.”

Her reaction seemed to be irritation rather than fear. “You don’t appear rich.”

“I’m modest, and don’t flaunt it.”

“If you truly are rich, you could arrange for me to travel to London in a more respectable way.”

“But how would that benefit me?”

“How does this benefit you?”

“It amuses me.”

Perhaps she tightened her hand, for Coquette jumped down with an affronted twitch. The dog considered Robin, but then circled and settled onto her pink velvet pad.

“I’m your amusement?” Sister Immaculata demanded.

“Of course. Would you really wish me to pay strangers to escort you to England?”

“You are a stranger.”

It startled a laugh out of Robin. “So I am. But I’ve taken charge of you, you see, so now my honor requires that I personally see you safe.”

That created an intriguing, wary silence.

“So where, Sister Immaculata does your safety dwell?”

“In England.”

“Any specific place?”

“None that need concern you, sir.”

“I am to deliver you to Dover and abandon you? I think not. Do you even speak English?”

She smiled and answered in that language. “Perfectly.”

As best he could tell from one word, that was the truth. Yet more dazzling twists to his puzzle.

He asked his next question in English. “Where do you plan to go in England?”

“London. At least to begin with.”

Ah, now he heard the accent, but perhaps only one of extra precision which gave it an almost liquid charm.

“And after?”

“Again, sir, that need not concern you.”

He didn’t argue at this point, but she’d not shake him off so easily. He’d acquired a mysterious adventuress, who had not, he suspected, joined him merely out of temper. He perceived urgency and some fear. Of what? He really should be more worried about that, but he was entranced.

He had mysteries to solve, wits to challenge, and a companion so beautiful that simply looking at her enriched his day. Her every action and reaction thus far promised more. She had courage, spirit, and a spicy temper. Given a few days on the road, he’d explore all her secrets, including those only discovered in a passionate bed.

© Jo Beverley Publications

Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

**E-X-C-E-R-P-T**

Mac watched a flush creep up Tommi’s neck, bloom in her cheeks, and waited for her to deny his brother’s feelings, make light of them.“Hugh and I had that out years ago,” she said.“And?”

“We agreed to be friends. I love your brother. Just . . . not that way. We’re friends. Nothing more. And that works for both of us.”

“And this Reid character, what do you feel for him?”

She put her coffee down. “Why this sudden interest in my relationships.”

“Answer my question, and I’ll answer yours.”

“I thought I did answer it. Last night.”

“I’d like to hear it again. In daylight.” He wanted to be sure, because he never messed with another man’s woman.

She knit her brows, gave him a wary look. “Reid’s a thief, probably a violent one. The more distance I keep between him and me, the happier I’ll be.” She tilted her head. “So, why the questions?”

Mac had boxed himself in. He owed her an answer; he just wasn’t sure she was ready for it. Hell, he wasn’t sure he was. What he did know was that he wasn’t going to let his dick—untrustworthy at the best of times—make a fool of him. If he was going to have this woman, it would be on his terms. “Why don’t you put on some clothes? We’ll take a walk. The rain’s let up,” he gestured to the gray day outside the kitchen window, ”temporarily at least.”

“You didn’t answer me.”

“I’m not sure you’re ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“To talk about sex . . . with me.”

Her eyes widened, but she didn’t play the shocked ingénue. She simply rose and walked to the window, looked out for several seconds before she turned to again look at him. “You’re to the point, I’ll give you that.”

He shrugged, tried to look easier with this conversation than he was. “We’ve got some time to kill. And I want you.” He paused. “But I guess you’ve heard that a few hundred times.”

“Not with quite the cold-blooded approach you’ve taken.”

Mac went to stand in front of her. With one finger he touched her chin, lifted her face to his, wanting to see the depths of her eyes. “Trust me on this, sweetheart. There’s nothing cold-blooded about it.” He bent, brushed his mouth over hers. A charge shot through him, a blue-hot thousand volt charge—and the damn floor dropped out from under his feet. He pulled back, saw the kiss in her eyes, the dark expectant hunger of it.

She wanted more.

He wanted more.

But not yet.

“How about that walk?” He ran his knuckles over the cream of her skin, down the line of her throat. “You’re tight as a drum.” And he knew exactly how to loosen her up.

She blinked, one of those slow, where-am-I kind of blinks, then slipped sideways, pulling the sash on her robe tight. He could span her waist with his hands. “I’ll be right back.” She headed quick time to the stairs leading to the second floor. On the landing she stopped, frowned. “My staying here? It isn’t dependent on going to bed with you, is it?”

“No.” Why he felt insulted she’d ask, he had no idea.

“Good,” she said. “Because I’ve done a few less than admirable things in my life, but I’ve never exchanged sex for favors. I don’t intend to start now.” With that she headed up the stairs and disappeared from view.

Mac stared after her. The woman was no slouch in the straight-talking category herself. He liked that.

If he didn’t watch it, he’d start liking her.

Which wouldn’t be smart, and if he was anything, he was smart, and careful, and determined to be detached—especially when it came to his current housemate. Getting in deep—on anything but the physical level—with Tommi Smith would be nothing but trouble. When he decided to settle down with a woman, which he would sometime in the distant future, he didn’t want to worry about her having one eye on him and the other on the lookout for her next conquest.

© EC Sheedy. All rights reserved

Medieval Alert! Master of Surrender by Karin Tabke is set to hit the shelves on 24 Jun 08.

C’mon…  You know you want it! 

Read on for the blurb and an excerpt.  Just for you.

The Blood Sword Legacy

Bound by a brotherhood forged in the hell of a Saracen prison,
eight Blood Swords — mercenary knights for William the
Conqueror — set out to claim their legacies the only way they can:
by right of arms, by right of victory, by right of conquest.

For Sir Rohan du Luc, known as the Black Sword, enemies fall easily beneath his assault…until he comes face-to-face with a foe more worthy than any battle-hardened knight. Bold and courageous though she is, Saxon maiden Isabel of Alethorpe cannot stop Rohan de Luc from seizing Alethorpe and its people in the name of William the Conqueror. Then Rohan demands not just the manor, but Isabel herself. She vows that her heart will remain her own, even if she is forced to allow him to lay claim to her body. But while the lady’s lips say no, Isabel’s traitorous body is awakened to desire by the seductive attentions of this potent invader. Can she remain true to her Saxon heritage and her hopes that her brother may have survived the battlefield, or will Sir Rohan’s skilled touch capture her unwilling heart as surely as his prowess with his sword captured her father’s lands?

**E-x-c-e-r-p-t**

“Prepare for entry!” Rohan called to his men. “The timber gives!”

Thorin, Ioan, Wulfson and Rorick hurled the thick oak trunk for the death blow. Rhys, Stefan and Warner wielded its twin. In unison, the two battering rams slammed into the door, and the timber gave way, opening with a sickening screech. Rohan spurred Mordred forward, and crashed through the crippled remnants of the Saxon’s defense.

Shield raised and sword at the ready, he maneuvered the huge destrier with his legs into the wide open space of the hall. His body tensed in preparation of a full out assault. Instead the sight that greeted him shocked him.

A lone maid, the one who had so brashly challenged him from the tower, stood in the middle of the great hall. A broadsword at her feet, a dagger clutched tightly to her breast. His eyes instantly moved past her to the wide stairway leading to the chambers above. His men fanned out behind him on foot. Rohan urged his horse past the girl and up the wide stairway, the shod hooves making a sharp clicking sound on the stone. He moved down the narrow hallway, certain to find the villagers laying in wait to war against him. Instead, eerie silence met him. Aye, the cowards hid behind the bolted doors allowing a mere maid to see to their rescue. Rohan sneered contemptuously.

He pulled back on the reins, and Morderd backed up. Rohan allowed the black to move at his own pace down the treacherous stone steps. The woman stood tall and proud before him.

He stopped several strides from her. If she moved, Mordred’s spiked leg armor would shred her in half. His blood ran hot in his veins, and it occurred to him, to waste such beauty would be a tragedy. She was no taller than a young lad. Long golden-colored hair hung wildly around her face and shoulders, reaching down to the full swell of her hips. Eyes the uncommon color of heather in first bloom, framed by thick black lashes stared defiantly up at him. Her skin was the color of fresh churned cream. Her cheeks rosy from the chill in the air and, he guessed, from his unwelcome visit. His eyes scanned lower to a full bosom that heaved in her anger. He could already feel the full swell of it beneath his hands, and the soft thrust of her hips as they met his with passion. The spoils of war were gracious this day. He would enjoy her whilst he could. For tomorrow may find him riding the horizon at his liege’s call. He nodded acknowledging her.

“Bow to your new master,” he commanded in French.

“I will never bow to you,” she hotly replied.

Rohan nodded and looked to his men, who flanked the walls swords at the ready. They waited only for his word to go deeper into the hall and ferret out the hiding Saxons.

Slowly Rohan dismounted.

Isabel’s breath caught high in her throat as the devil himself strode toward her. All sound stopped, the world grinded to a halt. Tawny gold eyes glittered from behind the black metal helmet. The nose guard split his face in two, making his look all the more menacing. A crescent shaped scar marred his chin. He was huge. Larger than any man she had come across in her nearly two score years. His shoulders were as wide as one half the width of the double oak portal. Legs thick as oak supported a wide chest bearing black mail and black surcoat. She stared at the marking emblazoned on his chest. The black sword plunging through a skull, crimson drops of blood hung from the sword tip. His shield bore no coat of arms. The fate of his kind. The rumors called him bastard nephew to William’s mother.

The French called him la lame noir, the English the black sword.

Her blood ran cold, turning her skin frosty. It was true. The black knight and his death squad behind him were notorious for their skill at killing. Isabel dared look past him to the equally notorious knights, in search of the ebony giant who it was rumored could slay a dozen men with one swipe of his sword.

The black sword’s lips twisted into a deadly smile. She felt as helpless as a mouse in the jaws of a stable cat. Yet she stood firm, refusing to back down.

Superb and Sexy (Sky High Air, Book 3) by Jill Shalvis, will be released 27 May 08 by Brava. This is the third in a trilogy of sexy, funny Romantic Suspense about a trio of pilots. The other books in the series are Smart and Sexy and Strong and Sexy (see Sybil’s review).

We have TWO ARC’s to give away… and we will on Thursday 4/24/08 at noon CST. Tell us why we should pick you. And yes you have to review it… don’t you think?

You can read the first excerpt we put up here. And there is an exclusive excerpt below… enjoy!

**E-X-C-L-U-S-I-V-E**E-X-C-E-R-P-T**

“Brody.”

“Maddie,” he replied with shocking calm. A furious calm if she wasn’t mistaken, but still.

“I’m on leave of absence,” she reminded him, not telling him that it looked like it might be permanent. Hell, she could hardly think it, much less say it out loud. “As in I’m not currently working for you. So what’s happening in my life is none of your business.”

“That might have been true a few minutes ago. But now we’re apparently married, so—“

“Stop it.”

“No, you stop it.” Yes, definitely fury. “What the hell is this all about, Maddie? Who was that asshole on the phone?”

She wasn’t moved by much, but him standing there in that tall, muscled package, wrapped by all that raw and dangerous male beauty made her swallow hard. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

Try him? That had been her greatest fantasy, up until Leena had shown up and Maddie’s entire world of glass had shattered. Before that, she’d wanted to try him every which way possible, but that was going to be just a fantasy now, a remote one. She reached for the front door, but before she could open it, he placed his hand on the wood, effortlessly holding it closed above her head.

Facing the door, she eyeballed his arm, taut with strength. The fingers of his hand were spread wide. He had long fingers, scarred from all the planes he’d rebuilt. They were capable fingers, always warm, and the clincher . . . they knew how to touch. He’d held her face that time she’d kissed him, and if she closed her eyes she could still feel them on her jaw. She’d spent a lifetime schooling herself against feeling too much, against giving away too much of herself, especially to men. But the men she’d been with didn’t make her nerves sing and her pulse jump by just looking at them.

Brody did.

“Maddie.”

“It was nice of you to visit. But as you can see, now’s not a good time.”

He lifted his hand and traced a finger over the exit wound on the back of her shoulder. “Are you feeling okay?”

She loved his touch. Way too much. “Yes.” Unfortunately, the man was a virtual mule when he wanted to be, unmovable, staunch in his opinions. On her best day she might have gone toe to toe with him no problem, using that voice of honey she’d perfected, her smile of ice and the argumentative skills she’d honed well over the years. She was every bit as stubborn as he, and she would have won, she’d have seen to it.

But this wasn’t her best day, not by far. In fact, it was quickly gearing up to be one of her top three worst ever. “Don’t make me kick your ass out of here.”

“I think I can take you.”

With a sigh, she dropped her forehead to the door and just breathed. Not easy with well over six feet of solid warm muscle encroaching the personal space behind her.

And he was encroaching.

Not that her body minded. Nope, it had apparently disengaged from her brain and was making a break for freedom.

© Jill Shavis Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

A Rake’s Guide to Seduction by Caroline Linden will be released 3 June 2008 by Zebra Books.

We have an excerpt! We have an excerpt! We have an excerpt! (said in a sing-songy voice, much like ‘nanny nanny boo boo’)

Anthony Hamilton is the most scandalous man in London, a gambler, a fortune hunter, an infamous rake. Celia Reece is sure he’s never had one thought of her, except as his friend David’s younger sister. Who would ever guess she’s the only woman he’s ever loved…and can never have…

( Oooh, I love plots where the hero has secretly loved the heroine for years. )

Chapter One (which isn’t even on my website yet. Hmm…)
[As if you needed more evidence of Sybil's black magic]

Anthony Hamilton was born scandalous, and his reputation did not improve as he grew.

He was the only son of the earl of Lynley, but it was almost a proven fact that he was not Lynley’s own child. Lady Lynley, a much younger woman than her husband, had not borne a child in the first ten years of her marriage, and then, out of the blue, gave birth to a strapping, handsome lad who didn’t look a thing like Lord Lynley, nor any of the Hamiltons for that matter. Lynley had not repudiated his wife or the child, but the fact that Lady Lynley and her son spent most of their time away from Lynley Court seemed proof of…something.

Mr. Hamilton had been a thoroughly wild boy as well. He was asked to leave no fewer than three schools-mostly for fighting, but once for cheating a professor at cards. He had finished his education at Oxford in record time, then set himself up in London to begin a life that could only be called, in hushed tones, depraved and immoral. That was when he had stopped using his courtesy title as well; he no longer allowed people to call him Viscount Langford, as befitted the Lynley heir, but insisted on being plain Mr. Hamilton. That, combined with his regular appearances at high stakes gaming tables and the steady stream of wealthy widows and matrons he kept company with, painted him blacker than black, utterly irredeemable, and absolutely, deliciously, fascinating to the ton.

There was the time he wagered everything he owned, including the clothing he was wearing at the time, at the hazard table, and somehow walked away with a small fortune. There was his infamous, but vague, wager with Lady Nicols-no one quite seemed to know the precise details-which ended with Lady Nicols handing him her priceless rubies in the midst of a ball at Carleton House. There was the time Sir Henry Milton accused him of siring the child Lady Milton carried at the time; Mr. Hamilton simply smiled, murmured a few words in Sir Henry’s ear, and within an hour the two men were sharing a bottle of wine, for all the world as if they were bosom friends. He was reputed to be on the verge of being taken to the Fleet one night, and as rich as Croesus the next. He was a complete contradiction, and he only inflamed the gossips’ interest by being utterly discreet. For such a wicked man, he was remarkably guarded.

Celia Reece heard all the stories about him. Despite her mother’s admonitions, Celia had developed a fondness for gossip in her first Season in London, and all the best bits seemed to involve him in one way or another. While Anthony Hamilton might not be-quite-the most scandalous person in London, he was the most scandalous person she knew, and as such she found his exploits hugely entertaining.

He had been friends with her brother David for as long as Celia could remember, and had often come to Ainsley Park, the Reece family estate, for school holidays. As he had grown more and more disreputable, he had stopped visiting-Celia suspected her mother banned him from coming-but she still remembered him fondly, almost as an extra brother. He had tied her fishing lines and helped launch her kites, and it gave her no end of amusement that he was now so wicked, young ladies were afraid to walk past him alone.

Naturally, his reputation meant that she was never to speak to him again. Celia’s mother, Rosalind, had drummed it into her daughter’s head that proper young ladies did not associate with wicked gentlemen. Celia had restrained herself from pointing out that her own brother was every bit as wild as Mr. Hamilton, but she had obeyed her mother for the most part. She was having a grand time in her first Season, and didn’t want to do anything to spoil it, particularly not anything that would get her sent back to Ainsley Park in disgrace for associating with wicked gentlemen.

Fortunately, there were so many other gentlemen to choose from. As the daughter and now sister of the duke of Exeter, Celia was a very eligible young lady. The earl of Cumberland sent her lilies every week. Sir Henry Avenall sent her roses. The duke of Ware had asked her to dance more than once, Viscount Graves had taken her driving in the Park, and Lord Andrew Bertram wrote sonnets to her. It was nothing less than exhilarating, being courted by so many gentlemen.

Tonight, for instance, Lord Euston was being very attentive. The handsome young earl was a prime catch, with an estate in Derbyshire and a respectable fortune. He was also a wonderful dancer, and Celia loved to dance. When he approached her for the third time, she smiled at him.

“Lady Celia, I should like to have this dance.” He bowed very smartly. He had handsome manners, too.

Celia blushed. He must know she couldn’t possibly dance with him again. “Indeed, sir, I think I must refuse.”

He didn’t look surprised or disappointed. “I think you must as well. Would you consent to take a turn on the terrace with me instead?”

A turn on the terrace-alone with a gentleman! She darted a glance at her mother, several feet away. Rosalind was watching, and gave a tiny nod of permission, with an approving look at Lord Euston. Her stomach jumped. She had never taken a private stroll with a gentleman. She excused herself from her friends, all of whom watched enviously, and put her hand on Lord Euston’s arm.

“I am honored you would walk with me,” he said as they skirted the edge of the ballroom.

“It is my pleasure, sir.” She smiled at him, but he merely nodded and didn’t speak again. They stepped through the open doors, into the wonderfully fresh and cool night air. Instead of remaining near the doors, though, Lord Euston kept walking, leading her toward the far end of the terrace, where it was darker and less crowded. Far less crowded; almost deserted, really. Celia’s heart skipped a beat. What did he intend? None of her other admirers had kissed her. Lord Euston wasn’t quite her favorite among them, but it would be immensely flattering if he tried to kiss her. And shouldn’t she have some practice at kissing?

Celia’s curiosity flared to life, and she stole a glance at her companion. He was a little handsomer in the moonlight, she thought, trying to imagine what his lips would feel like. Would it be pleasant, or awkward? Should she be modest and retiring, or more forward? Should she even allow him the liberty at all? Should-?

“There is something I must say to you.” Celia wet her lips, preparing herself, still trying to decide if she would allow it. But he made no move toward her. “Lady Celia,” he began, laying one hand on his heart, “I must tell you how passionately I adore you.”

She hadn’t quite expected that. “Oh. Er… Oh, indeed?”

“Since the moment I first saw you, I have thought of nothing but you,” he went on with growing fervor. “My will is overruled by fate. To deliberate would demean my love, which blossomed at first sight.” He took her hand, looking at her expectantly.

“I-I am flattered, sir,” she said after a pregnant pause.

“And do you adore me?” he prompted. Celia’s eyes widened in confusion.

“I-Well, that is…I…” She cleared her throat. “What?”

“Do you adore me?” he repeated with unnerving intensity.

No. Of course she didn’t. He was handsome and a wonderful dancer, and she probably would have let him steal a chaste kiss on the cheek, but adore him? No. She wished she hadn’t let him lead her all the way out here. What on earth was she to do now? “Lord Euston, I don’t think this is a proper thing to discuss.”

He resisted her gentle attempts to pull free of his grasp. “If it is maidenly reserve that prevents you saying it, I understand. If it is fear of your family’s disapproval, I understand. You have but to say one word, and I will wait a thousand years for you.”

“Oh, please don’t.” She pulled a little harder, and he squeezed her hand a little tighter.

“Or you might say another word, and we could go to His Grace tonight. We could be married before the end of the Season, my dearest Lady Celia.”

“Ah, but-but my brother’s away from town,” she said, edging backward. Euston followed, pulling her toward him, now gripping her one hand in his two.

“I shall call on him the moment he returns.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Celia whispered.

“Your modesty enthralls me.” He crowded nearer, his eyes feverish.

“Oh dear…”

“Sweet Celia, make me immortal with a kiss!” Celia grimaced, and turned her face aside from his. She was never going to dance with Lord Euston again. What a wretched first kiss this would be.

“Good evening,” said an affable new voice just then.

Lord Euston released her at once, recoiling a step as he spun around toward the intruder. Celia put her freed hands behind her, suddenly horrified at what she had done. Goodness-she was alone, in the dark, with an unmarried gentleman-if they were discovered here, she could be ruined.

“Lovely evening, isn’t it?” said Anthony Hamilton as he strolled up, a glass of champagne in each hand.

“Yes,” said Euston stiffly. Celia closed her eyes, relief flooding her as she recognized her savior. Surely he, of all people, would understand and not cause trouble for her.

“Lady Celia. A pleasure to see you again.” He gave her a secretive smile, as if he knew very well what he had interrupted and found it highly amusing.

“Mr. Hamilton,” she murmured, bobbing a curtsey. For a moment everyone stood in awkward silence.

“We should return to the ball.” Lord Euston extended his hand to her, pointedly not looking at the other man.

“No!” Celia exclaimed without thinking. Euston froze, startled. She flushed. “I shall return in a moment, sir,” she said more politely, grasping for any excuse not to go with him. “The air is so fresh and cool.”

“Yes,” said Euston grimly. He didn’t look nearly so handsome anymore. “Yes. I see. Good evening, Lady Celia.”

Celia murmured a reply, willing him to leave. “Good evening, Euston,” added Mr. Hamilton.

Lord Euston jerked, darting a suspicious glance at Mr. Hamilton. “Good evening, sir.” He hesitated, gave Celia a deeply disappointed look, then walked away.

Celia swung around, bracing her hands on the balustrade that encircled the terrace. Good heavens. That had not turned out at all the way she had expected. Why had her mother approved of him?

“That,” said Mr. Hamilton, leaning against the balustrade beside her, “may be the worst marriage proposal I have ever heard.”

She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. It didn’t work. The giggles bubbled up inside her, and finally burst free. She pressed one hand to her mouth. “I suppose you heard everything he said?”

“I suppose,” he agreed. “Including the part he stole from Marlowe.”

“No! Really?” Celia gasped. He just smiled, and she groaned. “You mustn’t repeat it to anyone.”

“Of course not,” he said in mild affront. “I should be ashamed to say such things aloud. It would quite ruin my reputation.” Celia laughed again, and he smiled. “Would you care for some champagne?”

“Thank you.” She took the glass he offered, and sipped gratefully.

He set the other glass on the balustrade and leaned on his elbows, surveying the dark gardens in front of them. “So you weren’t trying to bring Euston up to scratch?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She snorted, then remembered she wasn’t supposed to do that. “I would never have walked out with him if I’d thought he meant to propose.”

“Why did you, then?” He glanced at her, his expression open and relaxed, inviting confidence. Celia sighed, sipping more champagne.

“He’s a wonderful dancer,” she said.

“And a dreadful bore,” he said in the same regretful tone. Celia looked at him in shock, then burst out laughing.

“That’s dreadful of you to say, but-but-well, perhaps he is.”

“Perhaps,” he murmured.

“And now he is probably telling my mother.” She sighed. Walking out with Lord Euston, with her mother’s permission, was one thing; lingering in the darkness with a man-let alone a notorious rake her mother strenuously disapproved of-was another. “I really should return.”

“Did you want him to kiss you, then?”

She stopped in the act of turning to go. He was still facing the gardens, away from her, but after a moment had passed and she said nothing, he glanced at her. “Did you?” he asked again, his voice a shade deeper.

Celia drew closer. He turned, now leaning on one elbow, his full attention fixed on her. She didn’t know another gentleman who could appear so approachable. She had forgotten how easy he was to talk to. “You mustn’t laugh at me, Anthony,” she warned, unconsciously using his Christian name as she had done for years. “I-I’ve never been kissed before, and it seemed like the perfect night for it, and…well, until he started demanding to know if I adored him, it was quite romantic. It was,” she protested as his mouth curved. “We can’t all be disreputable, with all sorts of scandalous adventures.”

His smile stiffened. “Nor should you be.”

“But you should?” She grinned, glad to be teasing him instead of the other way around. “Every gossip in London adores you, you know.”

He sighed, shaking his head. “I’m neither so daring nor so foolish as they like to think. Perhaps you, as a pillar of propriety, can tell me how to escape their pernicious notice.”

“Why, that is easy,” she said with a wave of one hand. “Find a girl, fall desperately in love with her, and settle down to have six children and raise dogs. No one will say a word about you then.”

Anthony chuckled. “Ah, there’s the rub. What you suggest is more easily said than done, miss.”

“Have you ever tried?”

He shrugged. “No.”

“Then how can you say it’s so difficult?” she exclaimed. “There are dozens of young ladies looking for a husband, you must simply ask one-”

He gave a soft tsk. “I couldn’t possibly.”

“You could.”

“I couldn’t.”

Celia’s eyes lit. “That sounds almost like a challenge.”

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, then grinned. “It’s not. Don’t try your matchmaking on me. I’m a hopeless case.”

“Of course you’re not,” she said stoutly. “Why, any lady in London-”

“Would not suit me, nor I her.”

“Miss Weatherby,” said Celia.

“Too thin.”

“Lady Jane Cranston.”

“Too tall.”

“Miss Alcomb.”

“Too…” He paused, his gaze sharpening on her as he thought, and Celia opened her mouth, ready to exclaim in delight that he could find no fault with Lucinda Alcomb, who was a very nice girl. “Too merry,” he said at last.

“Who would please you, then?” she burst out, laughing at his pleasant obstinacy.

He shifted, his eyes skipping across the garden again. “No one, perhaps.”

“You aren’t even trying to be fair. I know so many nice young ladies-”

Anthony gave a sharp huff. “This is quite a dull topic of conversation. We’ve had very fine weather this spring, don’t you think?”

“Anyone who took the trouble to know you would accept you,” Celia insisted, ignoring his efforts to turn the subject.

“You’ve gone and ruled out every woman in England.” He leaned over the railing, squinting into the darkness.

“Except myself,” Celia declared, and then she stopped. Good heavens, what had she just said?

Anthony seemed shocked as well. His head whipped around, and he stared at her with raised eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

Heat rushed to her face. “I-I meant that I know you, and know you’re not half so bad as you pretend to be.”

His gaze was riveted on her, so dark and intense Celia scarcely recognized him for a moment. Goodness, it was just Anthony, but for a moment, he was looking at her almost like…

“Not half so bad,” he murmured speculatively. “A rare compliment, if I do say so myself.”

She burst out laughing again, relieved that he was merely teasing her. That expression on his face-rather like a wolf’s before he sprang-unsettled her; it had made her think, for one mad moment, that he might, in fact, spring on her. And even worse, Celia realized that a small, naughty part of her was somewhat curious. No, rampantly curious. She might have let Lord Euston kiss her, but only for the satisfaction of being able to say she had been kissed. She had never expected to be swept away with passion by Lord Euston, who was, as Anthony had said, a dreadful bore. But a kiss from one of the most talked-about rakes in London…now, that would be something else altogether.

“You know what I meant,” she said, shaking off that curiosity as shocking and obviously forbidden. “I know you’ve quite a soft heart, although you hide it very well. As proof, I must point out that you’ve stood out here with me for some time now, trying to make me feel better after receiving the most appalling marriage proposal of all time. David would have laughed until he couldn’t stand upright, and then retold the tale to everyone he met.”

“Ah, but I am not your brother,” he replied, smiling easily although his gaze lingered on her face.

She was glad he couldn’t see her blush. “No, indeed! But because you are not”-she took the last sip of champagne from her glass before setting it on the balustrade-”I must return to the ballroom. I suppose you’ll continue to skulk in the shadows out here, and be appropriately wicked?”

“You know me too well.”

Celia laughed once more. “Good night, Anthony. And thank you.” She flashed him a parting smile, and hurried away. Perhaps if she could make her mother see the humor, and idiocy, in Lord Euston’s proposal, Mama wouldn’t ask too many questions about where she’d been ever since.

# # #

Anthony listened to her rapid footsteps die away, counting every one. Seventeen steps, and then she was gone. He folded his arms on the balustrade once again, taking a deep breath. The faint scent of lemons lingered in the air. He wondered why she smelled of lemons and not rosewater or something other ladies wore.

“You gave away my champagne, I see,” said a voice behind him.

Anthony smiled and held out the untouched glass sitting next to his elbow. “No. I gave away mine.”

Fanny, Lady Drummond, took it with a coy look. “Indeed.” She turned, looking back at the house. “A bit young for your taste.”

“An old friend,” he said evenly. “The younger sister of a friend. Euston was giving her a spot of trouble.”

“Better and better,” exclaimed Fanny. “You are a knight in shining armor.”

Anthony shrugged. “Hardly.”

“Now, darling, I wouldn’t blame you.” She ran her fingers down his arm. “She’s the catch of the season. Rumor holds her marriage portion is two hundred thousand pounds.”

“How do the gossips ferret out such information?”

“Persistent spying, I believe. Fouché’s agents would have been put to shame by the matrons of London.” Fanny rested the tip of her fan next to her mouth, studying him. “For a moment, I thought you had spotted your chance.”

Anthony tightened his lips and said nothing. The less said on this topic, the better. The scent of lemons was gone, banished by Fanny’s heavier perfume. “Have you?” pressed Fanny as the silence lengthened. She moved closer, her face lighting up with interest. “Good Lord. The greatest lover in London, pining for a girl?”

He turned to her. “She’s just a girl,” he said. “I’ve known her since she was practically a babe, and yes, I am fond of her. Fanny, you would understand if you’d heard what Euston was saying to her. I spoke as much to close his mouth as anything else.”

“And yet, there was something else,” she replied archly. He sighed in exasperation. She laughed, laying her hand on his. “Admit it, you’ve thought of it. She would solve all your problems, wouldn’t she? Money, connection, respectability…”

He pulled his hand free. “Yes, all I would have to do is persuade the duke of Exeter to give his consent, overcome the dowager duchess’s extreme dislike of me, and then ask the lady herself to choose me above all her respectable, eligible suitors. I don’t take odds that long, Fanny.”

She smirked. “She was a girl a moment ago. Now she’s a lady.” Anthony looked at her in undisguised irritation. Fanny moved closer, so close her breath warmed his ear. “I wouldn’t fault you for trying, darling,” she murmured. “It needn’t alter our relationship in any way…in fact, why don’t you call on me tonight…later…and we can continue that relationship.”

“You’ll want to hear the news from Cornwall, I expect.”

Fanny pouted at his deliberate change of subject, but she let it go. “I don’t believe I would have let you seduce me if I’d known you simply wanted me to invest in some mining venture.” He cocked a brow at her. “All right,” she gave in with a knowing smile. “I would have still let you seduce me, but I would have asked for better terms.”

“I like to think we shall always be on the best of terms with each other.” He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist. Fanny’s expression softened even more.

“I suppose we shall. Interest terms…and other terms.”

Anthony smiled, ruthlessly forcing his moment of gallantry from his mind, along with everything else related to Celia Reece. Fanny might make light of it, but he needed every farthing she would invest, and Anthony knew how to work to protect that.

He related the report from the mine manager, knowing Fanny, unlike many woman, truly wanted to know how her money was faring. She had a sharp mind for business, and they shared a profitable relationship. Their other relationship was almost as valuable to him-Fanny lived in the present, and didn’t dwell on the past, especially not his past. That mattered a great deal to Anthony.

But when Fanny had gone back to the ball, Anthony found his mind wandering. Although Fanny was nearly fifteen years older than he, she was still a very handsome woman, with a tart wit and a marvelous sense of humor. She had a sophistication no young lady just making her debut could claim, and Anthony genuinely liked her. He liked the way her money made his financial schemes successful. He liked her acceptance of their intermittent affair with no recriminations or demands. But she didn’t smell of lemons.

He pushed away from the balustrade, restless and tired at the same time. His plans for the evening had included some time in the card room, where he hoped to win a few months’ rent, but he suspected he couldn’t concentrate on his cards now. Damn lemons.

With a deep sigh, Anthony turned back toward the house. He repeated in his mind what he had told Fanny: Celia was just a girl; he spoke to her out of mere kindness. He tried not to hear the echo of Celia’s words, that she was the only woman in England who thought him…how had she put it…’not half so bad as he pretended.’

He slipped into the overheated ballroom, lingering near the door. Without meaning to, he saw her. She was dancing with another young buck like Euston. Her pink gown swirled around her as her partner turned her, her golden curls gleaming in the candlelight. Anthony’s gaze lingered on her back, where her partner’s hand was spread in a wide, proprietary grip. The young man was delighted to be dancing with her-and why shouldn’t he be? She beamed up at him, smiling at whatever he’d said to her, and Anthony realized, with a small shock of alarm, that she was breathtaking. No longer a child or a young girl, but a beautiful young woman who would walk out with a gentleman in hopes of a kiss and end up fending off a marriage proposal.

He turned away from the dancers, continuing on his way without another glance back. He wound his way through the crowd, out through the hall, pausing only to collect his things, then down the steps into the night. He kept going, past the lines of waiting carriages, strolling along at an unhurried pace through the streets of London. The early spring air was fresh and crisp; it was a lovely night to walk, but Anthony didn’t walk to enjoy the weather.

At last he reached his lodging, a rented flat in a house just clinging to the edge of respectability. Up the stairs he climbed to his plain, simply furnished rooms. Since sinking most of his funds into the tin mines, he had had to cut his expenses to the bone. There was little of luxury or comfort in his rooms, certainly nothing to tempt a duke’s daughter. His lip curled derisively at his own thoughts as he shrugged off his jacket and unwound his cravat. There was little of anything in his life to tempt any lady.

And yet…

Except me, rang Celia’s words in his mind. No lady in London would accept him…except me, whispered her voice. He unbuttoned his waistcoat and tossed it on a nearby chair. Everyone saw him as a wastrel and a hedonist…except me, whispered her voice. Anthony pulled open his collar and yanked the shirt over his head. His skin felt hot and prickly. “She’s your friend’s younger sister,” he told himself out loud. “Practically your own sister.” But it did no good.

He could still close his eyes and see Celia as a red-cheeked little girl, handing him the last scone from tea wrapped in a handkerchief. He could still hear her angry tears when her brother had insisted she stay behind while they went fishing. And he could still see the glimpse of ankle as she danced, the curve of bosom as she curtsied to her partner, and the gleam of moonlight on her blonde curls.

Anthony had liked Celia Reece very much as a girl, but he had never allowed himself to think of her as a woman. Ladies like Celia were not for him. And so long as she remained fixed in his mind as just a girl, everything had been fine. Tonight, though, he found with alarm that he could think of her as nothing but a woman-a young woman, to be certain, but a woman all the same. She had wanted to be kissed tonight, and Anthony knew just how easily he could have been the man to do it. Except me, echoed her voice again, and he remembered how her face changed when he looked at her then. She hadn’t meant it that way when she said it, but he had seen the flush of awareness on her cheeks and the spark of interest in her eyes. And that awareness, to say nothing of the interest, just might have sealed his fate, forever ending any brotherly feelings he had for her.

He splashed cold water from the ewer on his face, letting it run down his neck and chest. Even if Celia would accept him, her family would never allow it. Surely not…except that the duke of Exeter had made a rather odd marriage himself last year, to a penniless widow from a country village. And Celia’s other brother had married even lower. Lady David, Anthony knew, had been a common pickpocket at one time.

If the Reeces could overlook the lack of fortune, family, standing, and even respectability, perhaps…just perhaps…they could accept him as well.

Anthony Hamilton, widely regarded as the most scandalous rogue in London, lay down on his narrow bed alone, and contemplated having six children and raising dogs.

We have a number of Lynne Connolly fangirls around here, so I know they are pleased to hear about Icefire, releasing from Ellora’s Cave 3rd May 2008. This is the second in the Pure Wildfire series. Read about Sunfire here (reviewed by Nikki), then read on for a sneak peek at the sequel.

     Ryan Hawthorne, brother of Aidan, the hero of Sunfire, is in New York with the band, promoting the release of their second studio album. While he’s there, he plans to uncover the person who killed his lost love Maria, five years ago. The death was attributed to a drugs overdose, but Ryan’s always had his doubts.

     He meets Maria’s stepsister Gia (Angelina) who has always hated the band for corrupting and ultimately killing her sister. However she is forced to rethink her assumptions when she meets Ryan. Together they try to uncover the PHR cell that is still persecuting the band Pure Wildfire, but in doing so they discover a lot more.

**E-x-c-e-r-p-t**

Gina is at a Pure Wildfire concert, the guest of an old childhood friend, Sonny, who now roadies for the band. Ryan Hawthorne was with Gina’s stepsister Maria when she died and Gina has always blamed him for introducing her to the drugs that killed her.

When lead guitarist Splinter let himself ease into the music, his concentration was so intense she could almost feel it.

He closed his eyes and spread his legs in the typical rock god stance but Gina felt the rightness of it. He wasn’t posing for anyone, not at this moment, he didn’t want to lose his balance while he played. With his wife Corinne on the other side of the stage, buoying and supporting him with carefully balanced and timed chords and notes, Splinter exploded.

The torrent of notes, carefully chosen, as carefully as the spaces in between, flowed from him, his guitar as much a part of him as his arms or legs, as integral a part of his expression. Sweat poured off his body, drenching the t-shirt that was all he wore on his upper body and it wasn’t from overheating, it was from sheer concentration. Three bars in, he closed his eyes and the lighting darkened to a spot, pure blue, illuminating him, leaving the rest of the band in shadow. Unlike many other bands, they didn’t take the opportunity to take a drink or towel off. Each member of the band stood still, unless they were adding accents to Splinter’s solo and she knew the admiration on their faces wasn’t in any way faked.

The intensity wasn’t something she expected in a rock concert. Energy yes, noise, yes but not this concentrated onslaught of emotion.

As the spotlight widened, taking in other members of the band and they began to drift back in to the music, she opened her eyes wide, then closed them hard, a trick she’d learned long ago to stop inconvenient tears falling.

And opened them, right on to the speculative, sharp gaze of Ryan Hawthorne. He wouldn’t be able to see her, not really, she assured herself.

She looked away but she’d felt the contact and it couldn’t be undone. She felt naked, open, just for a moment. That was why she avoided meeting eyes unless she had shielded herself, prepared for the encounter. Whoever said eyes were windows on the soul was right. She looked deep inside Ryan Hawthorne and caught an amazed, vulnerable, open soul for a second, or perhaps even less. Then he turned away, his whole body pivoting in the other direction and took his microphone from a roadie. Just an illusion. It had to be.

Unnerved, Gina watched the rest of the concert with a stillness and concentration she hadn’t been able to muster before. Every note struck something deep inside her, something she hadn’t even been aware of before tonight, or something she had willfully ignored. She wasn’t sure.

An hour and a half into the set, Splinter and Ryan took stools at the front of the stage but before they began, Ryan looked straight at her. Or seemed to.

Ramps were set around the stage and across the boarded-over orchestra pit for the band to use and while the rest of the band had occupied the one close to her seat and one time or another, Ryan had avoided it, or not used it. Now he didn’t.

He walked slowly up the ramp, Splinter playing a gentle riff that announced the tune and to her horror, Gina recognized it as the song Ryan had written for Maria, Tearing Me Apart.

Ryan held out his hand to her. She swallowed and looked up at him.

His expression now was completely controlled, the deeper emotions masked, a query in his eyes. She could refuse him but that would be the act of a coward. And besides, something inside her urged her to go to him, as he evidently wanted.

Behind him, Splinter played on. Taking a deep breath, she leaned up and took his hand. “Come up,” he said softly, so softly she couldn’t hear him, only follow the shape of his sensual mouth.

One of the security staff lifted her and she scrambled over the low barrier separating them, sliding from the edge into his arms.

He released her as soon as she’d steadied but not before she felt his astonishing steely strength. Who would have imagined such a slender-seeming man would be so strong? When she looked closer, she saw muscles bunch as he turned away, his hand in hers, to lead her to the stools.

Time slowed, as he seated her next to the guitarist, then began the song. She knew many bands did this, drew a member of the audience into a song and her seat was conveniently close. But however much she told herself This is a gimmick, a device, she couldn’t separate her professional self from the vulnerable woman underneath.

She tried not to listen, tried to keep the smile fixed on her face, the blank expression in her eyes. But she couldn’t. Ryan had evoked Maria perfectly in the song—her fragility, her gentleness, her touching naïveté. Her image—slight, blonde, ethereally pretty—swam before Gina’s eyes.

Damn, when had she started to cry? Tears spilled over her eyes and ran down her cheeks, two big, fat tears the spotlight would only emphasize. The man taking video shots for the band knelt in front of them and she knew the camera would magnify her distress tenfold. She couldn’t use her trick of squeezing her eyes tightly closed, because anyone watching the video would see it and know. So she forced her sight past the tears misting her eyes and gazed at Ryan. Right into his eyes.

Shock lanced between them and although she didn’t jerk with the impact, it was a close-run thing. Constantly aware that thousands of strangers watched her, she used Ryan as a focus, a way of keeping her eyes dry and her expression bland.

Except he seemed emotional too. He’d sung this song many times, how could he keep the emotion so raw, so new? But he did. She saw it. The psychic ability she preferred to ignore connected them in a way she’d never meant. Her ability amounted to a sensitivity, strong intuition, that was all but sometimes it focused itself more than she wanted. Useful sometimes in her work, mostly it was just a fucking nuisance.

Like now. She wanted to hate Ryan Hawthorne for the life he led, that had led Maria into losing her life but she knew it must go both ways. She doubted Ryan held Maria down and shot that poison into her veins. Maria took that decision all by herself. She didn’t want to know that. This was what she had been afraid of when her father gave her the job, her emotions coming back, the agony she felt at the time returning to haunt her.

Now she saw something worse in Ryan. The agony had never left him. He felt it still, the pain fresh in his eyes.

He sang to her, her alone and while she ached for him, she recognized his gift, rare in the music world, of shrinking a huge theater to the size of Ryan Hawthorne and one other. Every woman in that theater knew for sure that person was herself.

“I’ll love you always and forever

Until the pain in me subsides.”

When he stopped, she heard it, the sound more awesome than the roaring of approval, or the applause of thousands of people.

Silence, absolute and complete. For the duration of one second, maybe two. She’d heard it before and it was always the indication of something great, something so deeply moving that people needed to regain their senses and remember they were individuals and not a single entity.

Then the applause came. A great roar, until Gina thought her ears would ring for evermore. Ryan held out his hand, like some old-world gentleman and she let him help her off the stool. He took her to the side of the stage where Sonny stood grinning like a loon, holding a towel and a bottle of beer.

Ryan leaned towards her, pitching his voice below the decibels. She heard him perfectly. “It might seem like a gimmick but I need to sing that song to one person, if I’m going to get it right. And you—you remind me of someone I once knew.” Gina’s heart sank. She knew who. “Look,” Ryan said, “It sounds like a line but it isn’t. Will you come backstage afterward? I’d like to talk to you.”

She opened her mouth but couldn’t get any words out. She closed it again and nodded. Oh yes, she’d be there all right but as his publicist, not a groupie or a quick fuck.

She turned to Sonny and glared, daring him to say anything. Sonny winked. Ryan glanced at him and then did the oddest thing. He lifted her hand to his mouth and deposited a gentle kiss on the palm. And Gina felt as if he’d reached into her soul. With that simple touch he’d contacted a part of her she was barely aware of, a place she had no name for and no way of explaining. Such an old-fashioned gesture from a wild child!

Ryan walked back on to the stage. The stage he owned, at least for tonight.

Sonny touched her shoulder waking her from her reverie and she let him take her away from the noise, back to a small corridor. “Hey, I can’t wait to see Ryan’s face when he realizes who you are!” He sniggered.

“Don’t you dare tell him, Sonny. I want to tell him myself.”

She wanted to spare Ryan any ridicule or shock, feeling she owed him that, at least, for the connection to a woman they had both loved, in very different ways. The woman, she reminded herself, who Ryan had seduced and led into a life totally unsuited to her.

The woman he’d killed.

Roxanne St. Claire is so generous to the duckies! An extra (and extra hot) excerpt of First You Run. Make sure to read Part One and Part Two first, then read on for some Jungle Boogie…

BONUS Excerpt: Bungle in the Jungle

Maybe the shaman was as fake as Canopy itself, or maybe she was as real as the dawn, but something had happened to Miranda in that crypt. She felt bathed in energy, in a high voltage arc of desire that made her whole body vibrate with need. Holding tight to Adrien as he maneuvered them through branches and palm fronds, her body warred with her head.

Her body wanted to pull him to her for a long, heated kiss the minute they were outside. Or maybe that was just relief and gratitude.

Her head wanted to know what the hell just happened back in that crypt.

He stopped to let her get her breath, his hands squeezing shoulders. “Don’t ever disappear like that again,” he growled. “I mean it.”

“Kiss me.” The words were out before she even realized she’d spoken. “Kiss me.” She yanked him closer. “Now.”

He refused. “What is wrong with you?”

“I don’t know.” It was the God’s truth. “I just…She just…” How could she explain that the force of her desire for him rocked her? She didn’t want the friendship or protection he’d offered. She wanted sex. Now.

The kind that shook a woman to her core. The kind that made you dizzy and desperate. The kind she’d never had in her life. The kind she knew she’d have with him.

She took his hand and tried to pull him, but he didn’t move. “Where are you going?” he demanded.

“I don’t care where. Somewhere private. Somewhere…” She grabbed his neck and pulled him into her, then kissed him.

Craving and hunger and need mixed with blood-boiling desire, jolting fiery impulses through Miranda’s body, melting her brain, frying her flesh, hardening her breasts, and oozing sweet feminine moisture between her legs.

All she could hear was the insane drumbeat of her blood and heart, and the edgy, desperate, strangled breaths she managed to take in the milliseconds between kisses. Refusing to break the shimmer of contact, she pushed him deeper into the jungle.

With a low moan of surrender he blissfully, deliciously took control of the kiss, buried her breast in the palm of his hand and pulled her into an erection so shockingly hard that it could easily burst seams and zippers with its own strength.

Which was exactly what she wanted it to do.

She sucked the tongue he offered, locking one arm around his neck to control the position of his head and using her other hand to explore the incredible planes of muscle and sinew on his chest. She smelled wet earth mixed with hot man and reason evaporated.

Desperate, she stabbed her hand into his pants and grasped him, pulling a helpless hiss from his mouth and surging her with the thrill of power.

“Miranda. You’re possessed.”

“I am. And if you stop,” she warned in a rasp, “I’ll die.”

She licked the tuft of hair under his lips, stabbing her tongue in the course triangle while rolling her palm over the hard plum of arousal that strained his pants as they tumbled to the warm, wet ground. As she settled into the dirt, he pushed her skirt to her waist.

Grabbing his other hand, she guided his fingers between her legs, pressing his palm against her mound. She opened her mouth to release a tiny howl of pleasure, but he took another fierce kiss, turning her shriek into a soundless moan, sliding his fingers expertly over thin, wet panties, letting her ride and roll and ache, all the while sucking and stroking his delicious tongue.

He broke the kiss, but not the precious contact.

Tearing her panties to the side, he thrust a finger in her, then two, pushing and prodding and pulsing her flesh at precisely the right place. Three fingers plunged inside and his thumb pressed the hood of her clitoris, circling, cajoling, teasing.

At the same time, he kissed her, their teeth cracking, their lips tearing at one another. His other hand dipped inside the front of her dress, a rough palm shocked her tender nipple, squeezed it with two fingers, sending fire straight to the spot he owned with his thumb.

The lightning flashed again, blinding her even though her eyes were closed. The wind roared like a train and her body sparked and whipped against him.

She was lost. Gone. Taken away and dropped into a black hole where her body swirled and folded and burst and dissolved into one long, endless, blissful euphoria that shook her body.

Again and again and again, until finally, blessedly, it stopped.

And she was free of the ache and need, heavy with satisfaction, soaked with her own release.

Her blood cooled, and each breath hurt a little bit less.

Finally she could open her eyes, how they got from the crypt to the ground hazy in her mind. But he was clear. Close and warm and sharply in her focus.

Had she noticed how thick and long his lashes were, or that his golden eyes had flecks of black in them? His hair, unkempt and wild, was pushed back, his temples soaked with sweat, his mouth reddened, swollen, devoured.

This had to be a trance. It was Talíña’s magical, mystical shaman trance of ecstasy. She’d had no control and he had…

Plenty of control.

Her fist closed over an enormous erection, and his fingers remained curled inside her body. She let out one last, shuddering, helpless sigh.

“I wasn’t kidding. I was possessed.”

“I believe you were.” He eased one finger out of her, and she lifted her head to meet his gaze. Softly, sweetly, he stroked the nub he’d just annihilated with his thumb, a secret smile teasing her. “And I believe that if I didn’t satisfy you, you might have spontaneously combusted.”

What did he call what just happened? “I think that woman put a spell on me, and made me completely helpless.”

“Or I did,” he said with a dimpled grin. “But I still wonder why.”

“Why.” Miranda frowned, reality and common sense finally making their return as she finally let go of him. “Why what?”

“Why that spellbinding shaman has ten thousand copies of your book hidden in a basement of one of her fake temples.”

Ok I am going to work toward getting all the nifty prizes logged today and we will start giving them out. Some of them will go to random comment in a post with these icons. WHAT icons?

SSE EXCERPT: Dear Santa by Karen Templeton

EXCERPT Part II: Thigh High: Thigh High by Bonnie Edwards

EXCERPT: Give Me a Texan: The Love Letter by Linda Broday

EXCERPT: Give Me a Texan: No Time for Love by Phyliss Miranda

EXCERPT: Give Me a Texan: A Shade of Sunrise by DeWanna Pace

EXCERPT: Give Me a Texan: Amarillo By Morning by Jodi Thomas

EXCERPT Part III: Thigh High: Twinkle Twinkle Little Thong by Bonnie Edwards

Excerpt from Viking Warrior, Unwilling Wife by Michelle Styles
new historical release from Mills & Boone with a UK release in June 2008

Yours, Mine…or Ours is book two in Karen Templeton’s Guys & Daughters series (Dear Santa, Yours, Mine…or Ours? and Baby, I’m Yours)

Excerpt of Taken by the Viking by Michelle Styles, coming 1 May!!
Historical romance released by Harlequin 1 May 2008

Excerpt Unlawful Contact by Pamela Clare aka the one to steam the screen

I am missing some and will add them tomorrow (I see Kresley Cole’s aren’t here). More excerpts to come from Lisa Kleypas, Jill Shalvis, Lynne Connolly, Stephanie Tyler, Caroline Linden, HelenKay Dimon, EC Sheedy, Liz Carlyle, Hope Tarr, Lora Leigh, Sabrina Jeffries, Jenna Petersen, Laura Drewry, Sydney Croft, Roxanne St. Claire, Jennifer Estep, Cheryl St.John and many more….

As well as some nifty prizes from t-shirts and books *g*. Some you will have to answer questions from the excerpts and other will be random drawings from the comments.

first recap can be found here

Jaded by Karin Tabke will hit the shelves on 17 June.

KARIN TABKE, THE AUTHOR OF SKIN AND GOOD GIRL GONE BAD PENS ANOTHER SIZZLING TALE OF SEX, SCANDAL, AND HIGH-STAKES CORRUPTION WHEN A HARD-HITTING COP INVESTIGATES THE SULTRY, SECRETIVE HOSTESS OF AN UPSCALE “GENTLEMAN’S CLUB” IN THE WAKE OF A BRUTAL MURDER . . .

Jaded

Pocket, June 2008

Jase turned back to the soft click of the other door handle.

The creature that emerged struck him dumb. Literally. He could not have formed a coherent word and spoken at that instant even if the fate of the free world hung in the balance. His body instantaneously warmed and his stomach did a slow, hard roll, then another. Her sultry musky scent infiltrated his senses and attacked him like a lethal virus. His mouth went dry.

Holy Mother.

Big jade-colored eyes that slanted upward at the corners reminded him of a feral cat. A sleek, black feral cat. Boldly, she stared unwaveringly at him. Her cool indifference was unsettling. Straight hair so black it almost looked blue hung like a veil around her heart-shaped face. The delicate nostrils of her short aquiline nose flared, and her ruby red lips parted just enough to reveal brilliant white teeth.

Jase couldn’t help it. His eyes traveled from her ethereal face down that long slender neck to breasts so full and creamy they reminded him of caramel apples. He bet they were fake. They had to be. She wasn’t wearing a bra, her nipples stiffened as he stared, and he knew for tits that perfect to sit up that firm and that high they had to have had some help.

She extended a slender hand, the nails perfectly manicured and real, not those fake red claw jobs the hookers favored.

“Sergeant Vaughn? Jade Devereaux, proprietress of Callahan’s. How may I help you?”

You can help me by relieving this boner.

Jase took her hand. The current of electricity that sparked between them startled him. The jolt went straight to his dick. His eyes narrowed, and hers widened. She tried to pull her hand from his. His fingers tightened. Her warmth surprised him. It shouldn’t have. He bet she was a tiger in bed.

His eyes raked her long lithe form, the silky black halter dress she wore doing nothing to quell his imagination. In that moment, as he envisioned her long legs wrapped around his waist as he thrust deep into her, and that red pouty mouth of hers open, panting, begging him to fuck her harder, he knew the vision would become a reality.

“I can think of several ways.”

She yanked her hand from his, her eyes cooling to stone. Retreating a step, she said, “State your business.”

Taking his time while enjoying the sight, Jase pulled his notepad from the breast pocket of his jacket. He flipped it open, ignored the throb in his dick, and wished he could ignore the woman standing no more than three feet from him. She was damn distracting.

“I’m here regarding Andrew Townsend. Was he here last night?”

“I’m afraid, Sergeant, I cannot divulge that type of information.”

“Why not?”

“The names of our members are not for publication.”

“So you’re saying he was a member?”
“I’m saying, if he were we would not divulge the information. It’s privileged.”

“Answer me this, then: Do you personally know Andrew Townsend?”

“I choose not to answer your question.”

“Do you know he was murdered not far from here last night?”

Jade gasped. “How–?” Then she quickly collected herself. “I’m sorry for anyone’s death, Sergeant Vaughn.”

He watched her closely. Her nostrils flared and her left hand trembled. He noticed a Band-Aid on her left ring finger. “What happened?” he asked, pointing to her hand.

She quickly covered it with her other hand before releasing it. She looked him straight in the eye. “I cut myself shaving.”

Jase grinned. “Honey, a girl like you doesn’t shave. I bet you’ve had every annoying strand of hair on that lovely body of yours plucked, waxed, or lasered.”

Jade stepped back. “Sergeant, I’m afraid if you would like any further information you’ll need a search warrant. Now, please excuse me.”

“One moment, Miss Devereaux.”

Jade turned those mesmerizing green eyes on him. Her long black lashes hovered over them like the wings of a raven. Her full lips pursed. Another day and another time and he’d pursue those lips until they were his. But business first.

“We can do this the easy way. You tell me one, if Townsend was a member here; two, if he was here last night; and three, allow me to question everyone who had contact with him, or we can do this the hard way. I get a warrant and go public.”

He watched the play of her expressions. While to the average Joe she managed to appear disinterested, Jase was an expert at reading body language. And once he got past the lushness of her he could read her as easily as the Sunday paper. She knew Townsend, all right, and she was lying about her finger, and she was weighing the pros and cons of his proposal.

“One moment please,” she softly said before disappearing through the door from which she had entered. Jase glanced over to catch the wooden soldier eyeing him with what could only be described as contempt.

Jase shrugged it off. He’d been dissed by worse than that guy. The soft click of the door behind him sent a jolt of desire straight to his dick. Damn.

He turned expecting Miss Devereaux, but instead a rather portly older gent in a fine gray suit opened the door wider. “Sergeant Vaughn, my name is Thomas Proctor, Miss Devereaux’s majordomo. She has instructed me to show you to her office.”

Read Part One? Want to know what happens next? Here’s the next scene from First You Run by Roxanne St. Claire. Good stuff. Good steamy stuff. Don’t forget to read more about the Bullet Catchers.

Hot, possessive lips that tasted like ginger covered Miranda’s mouth with a kiss that blended skill and impatience and power. Jagged bricks scraped her silk blouse as she lifted her arms to pull him closer and give it right back to him.

She felt his heat, muscles, his heartbeat…and, before that kiss had gone on thirty seconds, the outline of a stiff, sizeable erection. He probed her mouth, his tongue seeking every corner, stroking and penetrating. She heard her book thunk to the concrete as he freed his hands to capture her waist, her hips, her buttocks, rocking her slowly against him once, twice. The third time, she swore she’d have an orgasm right there against the wall.

Finally, he let her breathe. But only to nestle his lips against her throat, sucking gently and, just as she’d imagined, tickling her with that hint of beard that made every hair on the back of her neck dance with delight.

She nuzzled to get his mouth. “Kiss me again.” Was that her voice begging a stranger for another taste of tongue?

He slid his hand up past her waist, caressing the side of her breast, then thumbing the nipple into a hard peak as he fulfilled her request.

When he broke for breath, she eased far enough back to see the arousal that darkened his golden eyes. He played with her nipple, torturing her with two fingers, his erection pulsing against her stomach.

“How far do you live?” he asked.

A helpless breath escaped as her pelvis moved like it had a mind of its own. Could she take this big, sexy animal to her sanctuary of a converted garage apartment? No man had spent the night there yet.

But this man, this night…

Miranda wanted him. There was no mother to hiss about the dangers of the world. No authority to warn, coddle and caution her, no voice of reason to make her stay securely at home until she was damn near thirty. She was alive, young, single, free, and juiced up on sexual attraction from a man who made a living protecting people. A bodyguard. A former police officer. What could be safer? She ran her palms down the planes of his chest, over the dips and cuts of a man who took tremendous care of his body, down, down, down until her wrists grazed his belt.

She wanted him. “I’m about a mile from here. We can walk.”

He grinned and pressed one of her hands against the huge tent in his pants. “You can walk. I might limp.”

Blood drained from her head. She’d never felt anything like that. Closing her eyes, she stroked the outline that outsized her hand by and inch or two.

“We could wait…until you, um, cool off.”

“That won’t be anytime soon.” He took a step away, leaving her instantly chilled. “And you’re shivering.”

“Not from cold,” she admitted, turning so he could help her into the jacket. He used the opportunity to plant a few more kisses on her neck and she moaned softly, tilting her head in absolute delight.

“You like that?” he asked playfully, sliding hair pins from the knot she’d created.

“I love that.” So much for her ultraprofessional hairstyle.

“Ah, there you go.” He sighed at the freedom of loose hair, then the tickle of his fingers on her scalp, and more fiery kisses on her neck. “What do you call this color? Auburn? Russet? Umber?”

“Brown.”

“Not hardly. It’s gorgeous, like the rest of you. Just beautiful.”

A glow of sensuality warmed her, a hum of sexual anticipation vibrated every cell in her body. She nudged him impatiently. “Come on, Adrien. Let’s go home.”

He bent over to pick up the bag he’d dropped, then draped an arm around her to lead them out of the narrow street onto College Avenue.

“No one calls me Adrien,” he said after navigating some pedestrians. “unless they’re mad at me.”

“Like your mother?”

“No. Not like my mum.”

The dryness of his tone surprised her. “She doesn’t call you Adrien?”

“She doesn’t call me.” He sidestepped them around another group of college students.

“Ever?” Miranda asked as he tucked her firmly into his side again.

“If you really want me to cool off fast, just keep talking about my mum.”

She sensed he wasn’t kidding. She pointed toward the treelined road of Hillegrass, the dark shadows so inviting now that she had a strong, sexy man at her side. “There’s a shortcut to my house on Regent, up this street.”

“Good on that, luv.” He picked up their pace. “Now, why don’t you give me your travel itinerary, and please tell me you are not seriously leaving town for the next six weeks.”

Maybe this was a one night stand, but at least he was making her feel like it wasn’t, which touched her.

“Yep, six weeks. And I have to leave tomorrow because I’ve been invited to an event in Santa Barbara, which I’m slipping in before a TV interview and signing in L.A.”

“Cancel it,” he said, the suggestion so quick and heartfelt she wasn’t sure she understood. “I’m serious,” he added at her look. “Stay an extra day.”

“Sorry, nothing could make me miss this seeing this place.” Not even the hottest guy she’d ever met.

“Nothing?” He squeezed her flirtatiously. “You might change your mind by tomorrow.”

She might. “I doubt it. I’ve been wanting to go to Canopy for a long time.”

“What is it?”

“An amazing real-life model of Maya ruins, on acres of private land near Santa Barbara. They have replicas of several famous temples completely re-created right down to the last detail.”

“What is it, Mayan Disney?”

“It’s Maya; Mayan is the language. But this place isn’t open to the public and that’s why I can’t miss the event. Canopy is one man’s home. Well, one woman’s, really. Doña Talíña Vasquez-Marcesa Blake, a Mexican shaman married to a very rich American who, she told me when we talked on the phone, was so worried she’d get homesick and leave that he built her a rainforest and ruins. That is Canopy.”

“Like the tops of the trees in the rainforest.”

“Precisely. And she’s evidently a fan of my book, and she’s arranged a book party with all sorts of important people. So, as flattering as your suggestion is, I’m going to Canopy.”

“Then we’ll have to make the most of this one night together.”

They held tight to each other, like lovers on a mission to get horizontal, pausing periodically to kiss and whisper. As they walked past parked cars and overgrown shrubbery, they fell into a sweet silence, with just a cool spring breeze and a steady current of sexual electricity in the air.

“Here,” Miranda said, pointing to the brown shingle Craftsman that abutted the property she rented.

“You live there?” He sounded surprised.

“I live in a converted garage on the property behind it, but it’s easier to get there this way. There are lots of convoluted, reconverted houses in Berkeley. At the end of the row, there’s a break in the hedge. This is much faster than going all the way around the front.”

“I’ll remember that for next time,” he said.

“Next time?” She raised her eyebrows. “You said you’d be gone before I get back.”

“You never know what life’s going to throw at you, Miranda.” His voice hinted at something ominous.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he assured her. “Just that life surprises you sometimes. I certainly didn’t expect to end my evening…” He watched her step into the narrow opening between the shrubs and an overgrown wisteria. “Climbing through bushes with a beautiful woman.” He followed her into the space, stopping to lock his arms around her and steady her feet on the twisted roots under them. “But I’m not complaining.”

“Well, I sure didn’t expect to get booed off stage and end up making out with an Australian bodyguard.” The branches forced them into a tight squeeze, and she could feel he was still hard, and his heart was beating almost as fast as hers. “But I’m not complaining, either.”

He lowered his head and kissed her gently, as though the desperation was gone now that the bedroom was no more than fifty steps away.

“As far as next time,” she whispered in between kisses, “I guess we’ll just have to see how it goes tonight.”

He groaned and reluctantly released her tongue. “You want to know how it’s going to go tonight?” He kissed her forehead, chastely. “First we’re going to have a wee spot of wine and conversation.” He eased his hand inside her jacket, gliding over her breast in a slow circle. “Then we’re going to help each other undress.” He lowered his head and licked her bottom lip. “Then we’re going to taste every single inch of each other’s bodies.” He nibbled. “With the light on so I don’t miss a thing.”

Her legs were so weak she could have fallen backwards into the trees and not cared. There was just moonlight and wisteria and the sexiest, most seductive man she’d ever met. She closed her eyes, let him touch her and kiss her and sweet talk her with his pretty, pretty accent.

“Then…” His hand tightened on her breast, his mighty erection against her. “We’ll do this.” He slipped his tongue between her lips, withdrew it, and slid in again. “That’s how it’s going to go tonight, luv.”

Dizzy, breathless, and aching with arousal, she nudged him out of the trees. “My front door is around that corner.”

As they stepped forward, suddenly he froze, going taut, sharp, and alert. He pulled away, and put one hand up to stop her from taking another step.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Do you smell that?”

She shook her head and sniffed. “Smell what? Fire? Smoke?”

“Blood.”

“Blood?” She jerked away and blinked into the darkness. “You smell blood?”

“Right around there.”

“That’s my front door.”

He went first, then stared and muttered something under his breath.

She closed the space between them and gasped, clutching her throat to keep from screaming.

It looked like black oil, slick and wet and everywhere. On her front door, over the steps and drenching the stones surrounding her entrance. Blood smeared the garage door and stained the concrete driveway. A sickening odor wafted toward them.

At the doorstep lay the bright green feathers and long stylized tail of a quetzal, its beak twisted at a freakish angle.

“Is that a bird?” he said, incredulous.

She stared, the message clear and horrifying. “It’s a sacrifice to the Maya gods.” And it warned of death.

<strong>FIRST YOU RUN</strong>

<strong>Copyright Roxanne St. Claire</strong>

Never Romance a Rake by Liz Carlyle

This is THE book. Yes THE book. The one that I have wanted since Thanksgiving when I closed The School for Heiresses (see my review) and thought OMG I MUST have his book.

I had no clue I would have to wait this long. Now I am sure you haven’t noticed, but I am not a patient person. I know, I know, you don’t believe it… but it is true. THE WAIT – is almost over. The Excerpt… just might explain why you need this book. Why you want this book. Yes this is the historical of the summer, the one you didn’t even know you needed to be counting down the minutes too.

You are most welcome.

Baron Rothewell lives a dark, shuttered existence by day, and a life of reckless abandon by night. Scarred by a childhood filled with torment and deprivation, Rothewell cares very little anyone or anything. His life on the edge of ruin suits him—until he meets a man who just might be his nemesis. The Comte de Valigny likes to play deeply and dangerously, but Rothewell’s recklessness is undeterred. Until one night when de Valigny wagers something just a little more valuable than gold.

Mademoiselle Marchand is a desperate woman in a strange land, and her pleading eyes seem to swallow Lord Rothewell body and soul—assuming he still has one. Now the baron must play his hand with the utmost care, for at last something meaningful is at stake . . .

Click here to read the excerpt on LizC’s site.

POND EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT FROM

Never Romance a Rake by Liz Carlyle

Once inside the drawing room, Lady Nash excused herself to confer with one of the footmen regarding the coffee service. Most of the dinner guests were playing cards now at one of two tables which had been pulled to the center of the room. Rather than hover over them, Camille drifted around the perimeter, admiring Lord Nash’s collection of French landscapes. She was particularly absorbed by one when she felt a light touch at her elbow.

She turned to see one of Nash’s younger sisters at her side. “Cards are so frightfully dull, are they not, Mademoiselle Marchand?” she said, smiling.

Camille smiled back. “They can be, oui.”

The young woman stuck out a hand. “Lady Phaedra Northampton,” she said. “You cannot possibly have got all these names the first time round.”

“Merci, I did not,” Camille confessed.

Lady Phaedra was perhaps a bit past twenty, and remarkably pretty despite her gold spectacles. She gestured at the wall. “You are an admirer of French classicism, mademoiselle?”

Camille turned back to the painting. “I like Poussin,” she admitted, pointing at her favorite elements in the painting. “I like his subtle use of color here. It allows his extraordinary skill with line and light to emerge.”

Just then, Lord Rothewell approached. “Do not let this one goad you,” he murmured, leaning toward Camille. “She imagines herself more intelligent than us mere mortals.”

Lady Phaedra drew herself up an inch. “Well, at least I know my rosa centifolias from my rosa rugosas, which is more than I can say for some people,” she answered, her eyes following Rothewell. Then she softened her tone, and returned her gaze to Camille. “As to the painting, Mademoiselle Marchand, I love it, too.”

Lady Phaedra’s mother drifted toward them. “Yes, I have always thought that one especially pretty,” she remarked, motioning at the painting. “The hills, the trees, and those tiny little horses. Very clever indeed. But I prefer the kind Nash has upstairs. The ones with all the bowls full of fruit and such.”

“Still lifes, Mamma,” said Lady Phaedra indulgently. “They are called still lifes.”

“But they are all still,” the dowager complained. “They are paintings. They cannot very well go anywhere, can they?”

Lady Phaedra chose not to argue with this logic. “Nash’s late mother was of Russian extraction,” she explained. “She had quite good taste in art. As Mother says, there is a collection of fine Flemish still lifes in the library upstairs, if you would care to see them.”

“A capital notion,” said Rothewell out of nowhere.

Camille spun around to see he was studying the Poussin as if it held the secrets of the universe. Her breath caught at the intensity of his gaze.

“Lovely, then,” said Lady Phaedra cheerfully. “Up we go.”

The dowager whacked her daughter lightly on the arm with her fan. “Don’t be obtuse, Phaedra,” she said. “The happy couple might wish to go alone.”

“An excellent notion, ma’am,” said Rothewell. “I believe I am developing a fondness for art.”

“And roses,” interjected Lady Phaedra, grinning. “Did you know that, Mademoiselle Marchand? Lord Rothewell has a vast knowledge of rose gardening. You must ask him to expound upon it sometime.”

“Thank you, Phae.” Rothewell bowed stiffly. “But at present, I find myself equally fascinated by painting.”

The dowager had taken Camille by the hand. “The paintings are in the far end of the library. If the room is locked, you’ll find a key under the vase by the door.” Then she smiled and leaned nearer. “We will not send out a search party if you linger.”

Lord Rothewell watched Camille from the corner of one eye to see if she would hesitate. The notion of privacy was as appealing as it was disquieting. He turned, and offered his arm to her.

“The talk about roses,” she asked as they went up the stairs, “what did it mean?”

“What, Phae?” Rothewell looked down, feeling faintly embarrassed. “Nothing. She is simply teasing me.”

“Oui? About what?”

“About a foolish white lie I once told her—an excuse to escape a tea I did not wish to attend.”

“I see.” Camille seemed to hesitate. “And tell me, monsieur, are you lying now?”

Rothewell stopped on the steps. “About what?”

Her dark eyes flashed with some inscrutable emotion. “About your fondness for paintings, of course.”

He let his eyes roam over her face. “Yes,” he said honestly. “I don’t give a damn for art or roses, if you must know.”

“Ah,” she said softly. “Do you know anything at all of art?”

Rothewell hesitated. He doubtless looked the worst sort of rustic in her eyes. But he’d be damned if he’d pretend to be something he was not—even for her. “I know blue from red,” he finally answered. “And oils from . . . the other kind. That is the extent of it.”

“Oui? And yet you wish to see more paintings?”

“What I wish is to speak with you in private,” he finally snapped. “And I can see no other way of doing so. Forgive my presumption. Would you rather not be alone?”

“Alone should suit me very well indeed,” she said, starting up the stairs again. “For I have something to say to you, monsieur. And I am not afraid of you. I think you know that much by now.”

She should have been afraid. If she had sensed for one moment the thoughts which ran through his head as he watched her silk skirts slither over her hips as she climbed the stairs, yes, she would have been very afraid indeed.

The library was easy to find. A pair of vases on pedestals flanked the entrance. Rothewell found the key, and locked the door behind them. Inside, the room was faintly musty, like any library which was little used. A pair of sconces burned just beyond the doors, but the rest of the room lay in shadows. He found a candle and lit it, then strolled a little deeper into the room. An entire wall had been given over to paintings with sconces placed every few feet between them.

“Shall I light the others?” he asked.

“Merci, but the candle will do,” she said. “We are not here, I think, to look at paintings?”

“No, we are not.” He set the candle on one of the reading tables, and turned to face her. “We are here because I owe you an apology.”

Her finely etched eyebrows rose. Finally, he had shocked her. “Mon dieu, does everyone mean to apologize to me this night?”

“I can speak for no one save myself,” he replied.

She smiled almost sourly, and half turned away. “You refer to your mistress, Mrs. Ambrose, n’est-ce pas?”

Rothewell followed her as she strolled past toward the wall of paintings. “I do,” he answered. “That scene yesterday at Pamela’s—I take full responsibility for it. It was unfair to you.”

“Oui, it was.” She looked back over her shoulder. “And unfair to Madame Ambrose, I think?”

“That, too,” he said grimly.

Camille turned around, and he thought he saw a flicker of pain in her wide, bottomless eyes. For an instant, she hesitated. “I cannot stop you, my lord, from keeping a mistress,” she said after a long, uncertain moment had passed. “But so long as we live together, I shan’t have this affaire d’amour of yours flung in my face. Do you understand me, Rothewell? I will not be humiliated by my husband as my mother was. I will not.”

Her voice was raw, but despite it, Camille stood before him, cool and exquisite, like an ornament of spun glass placed just beyond his reach. Something inside his chest seemed to twist. He suddenly wished to kiss her again. To hold her and kiss her until her beauty was in dishabille. Until her inky hair was tumbling down and tangled in his fingers. Until her mouth was softly parted and her eyes were somnolent with desire. His weakness angered him. Ruthlessly, he shoved the thoughts away.

“Our discussion of Mrs. Ambrose is finished, Camille,” he said, setting his hands on her slender shoulders. “I have apologized.”

Camille’s eyes hardened. “It is far from finished, monsieur,” she gritted. “I demand your word as a gentleman.”

“What, jealous?”

Her eyes sparked with fire. “Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you?” she retorted, her voice a hot whisper. “You would like to have that power over me. To hold my heart in your hands. But I am not such a fool, Rothewell. I will not give you my heart. I can ill afford it.”

His hands tightened on her arms. “I have asked you to be my wife,” he gritted. “And I am asking you to be honorable and faithful. Not one thing more do I require of you, madam. Do not put words in my mouth.”

“Très bien,” she snapped. “Then keep your affaires private, monsieur.”

He gave her a little shake. “At least say my name, damn it,” he growled. “Stop calling me monsieur, as if you just met me.”

“Fine,” she said, “Lord Rothewell.”

“Not that name,” he growled. “Kieran. If you cannot dredge up a little indignation at the thought of my keeping a mistress do you think you could at the very least use my Christian name?”

“So, you mean to be a faithful husband?” she challenged, her eyes wide and mocking. “Oh, do not lie to me, my lord. You are a rake and a rogue to your very core, and we both of us know it.”

Something inside him snapped. He jerked her hard against him, and set his mouth to hers in a kiss which was more brutish than tender. His mouth took hers hungrily, lust shooting through him like a hot, living thing. He wanted her angry. Wanted her, he supposed, to slap him senseless. To shut out the truth of her words. He thrust his tongue into her mouth claiming her, forcing her head back. Forcing her to submit. It was a fierce, fleeting thing, and when they came apart, her eyes blazed, and her breath came sharp and short.

“There,” he said, his own breath coming roughly. “Now do not claim, Camille, that you are so indifferent to me. Use my Christian name. Cease this foolish pretense of yours. Stop acting as if you mean to go to the marriage bed like some lamb to the slaughter.”

A rosy flush ran up her throat. “You are very full of yourself, Kieran,” she said in her quiet, husky voice. “And trust me, I am no lamb.”

“No, you are not, are you?” His voice, too, had dropped an octave. “This is going to be a marriage, Camille. If we can do no more, we should at least try to be . . . I don’t know. Amiable, I suppose.”

Amiable? Rothewell wished to jerk the word back as soon as it left his lips. He was not amiable—to anyone.

But Camille was watching him, and for an instant, the hard mask fell. She was lonely, and alone, he thought, but afraid, perhaps, to be otherwise. She had his sympathy. And in another time and place, he wondered if things could have been different for them.

“Camille,” he whispered, “may we not try to get along?” Such simple words—and, so far as he could recall, the only thing he had ever asked of any woman. The thought shamed him a little.

“I . . . I do not know.” She clasped her hands before her, and in the slight curve of her shoulders, he could see an infinite weariness. “But I know this: I cannot afford to grow attached to you. I cannot come to depend on you. You have said as much yourself and, mon dieu, I admired you for your honesty when you said it—”

“No, what I said was—”

Camille threw up her hand. “Let me finish, s’il vous plaît,” she said. “Do not give in to this—this bourgeois guilt you seem suddenly to be toying with. You desire me, but do not pretend you feel anything for me beyond lust. I will think the better of you for it.”

“Christ.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “It’s just that I wish . . . ”

“Quoi?” She whispered, lowering her eyelids as if hiding some emotion. “What do you wish, Rothewell? That life were fair? I think you know that it is not.”

He shook his head. “I wish that we had met under different circumstances. Before I became . . . what I am. Before you became so cold.”

“Is that what I am?” she asked softly. “Cold?”

“Yes, and hard,” he added. “Your heart has been hardened by life, Camille. You expect . . . well, the worst, I suppose.”

And perhaps she was about to get it, he inwardly acknowledged. He was a poor choice of a husband, for any number of reasons. He probably wouldn’t be faithful. Perhaps not even honorable. Hell, he had cheated at cards just to get the chance to bed her. But his mind kept turning back to the scene of her pounding her fist on Valigny’s card table, and challenging one of them to marry her. She had been ready for martyrdom—and he carried the sword.

Tonight she was even more beautiful, the creamy swell of her breasts just visible above the fabric of a dark green gown which flattered her every turn. His gaze drifted over the warm olive skin of her swanlike neck. Over the emerald earbobs which swayed from the plump earlobes he wanted suddenly to suckle. He returned his hands to her shoulders, and pulled her nearer.

“Camille, you are marrying because you have no other choice,” he said quietly. “Do you think I don’t know that? But before you stand up with me before God, you should know what I expect.”

“Bien sûr.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “What do you expect?”

“Kissing,” he said quietly. “Perhaps a great deal of it.”

“Ah, as you just kissed me a moment ago?” she asked.

“Yes, I daresay.” She meant to make this difficult, he realized. “Camille, this cannot be about having a child and nothing more,” he found himself saying. “You deserve something better than a man who will simply take his pleasure from you.”

“I see,” she said quietly. “You wish to seduce me.”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose I do,” he admitted.

She cut her gaze away, a rare show of surrender. “I need a husband, my lord,” she answered, blinking rapidly. “And I have already shown that I am weak. Yes, I desire you. Your touch . . . it maddens me. Your seduction of me will not present much of a challenge, I fear.”

Rothewell shook his head. He was deeply dissatisfied, and he was not perfectly sure why. It was the same sort of frustration he had felt on the night he’d first met her, when Camille had so dispassionately offered her body to him then and there, in exchange for his promise of marriage. He had been damned tempted, too.

He remembered another such beauty who had needed rescuing, but on that occasion, it had been he who had made the offer. The many pleasures of Annemarie’s body in exchange for his undying love and financial support. He was hardly the first man to propose her that. And she had been glad enough to seal the bargain—in a way he would never forget. After long years in the darkness, his life had suddenly seemed filled with light. Until his brother had chosen to interfere.

But Camille was not Annemarie, no matter what Xanthia believed. Oh, the resemblance was there. Dark hair and flashing eyes. Honeyed skin. That sensuous French accent. And yes, it had been the first thing about Camille that had struck him. Tempted him. But any resurrected fantasies of Annemarie would likely not survive one interlude in Camille Marchand’s bed. This woman had a passion and a backbone Annemarie had never possessed.

A woman so rare deserved to be surrounded by joy. To be made love to on a bed of rose petals. To have poetry written in her honor. And none of these things would he ever do for Camille Marchand. It wasn’t in his nature. She would have to settle, at least for a while, with a good deal less.

Though he had not spoken in some minutes, Camille had made no effort to step away. Caught in the moment, he lifted his hand, and stroked the back of his knuckles along her cheek.

Her sweep of black lashes lowered, fanning across her warm skin.

“You were right about one thing,” he finally said. “I desire you. Far more than I would wish.”

She looked up at him, unblinking. “You wish to kiss me again, n’est-ce pas?”

He lifted his hands to cradle her face, then stroked his thumb round the corner of her mouth, and then across her sensuous bottom lip. He felt the plump swell of it quiver beneath the pad of his thumb. He drew it down just a fraction, to reveal her small white teeth, and the pink tip of her tongue. He leaned forward, and skimmed his mouth along the shell of her ear. “Yes,” he murmured. “And it is very necessary, Camille. Absolutely necessary.”

“Necessary?” Her voice was thready.

“This kissing.” He drew back and smoothed his thumb across the apple of her cheek. “You once asked me . . . was it necessary? And it is. Like air to my lungs. Kiss me again. Kiss me, Camille.”

She tilted her head and rose onto her toes without opening her eyes. Slowly, ever so slowly, Rothewell lowered his mouth to hers. He wanted to savor each second, tucking it away in the recesses of his memory. Storing it away for a time when, perhaps, he would not have this pleasure.

Their lips touched, hers trembling at first. His were certain. And with a gentleness that amazed even himself, Rothewell molded his mouth softly to hers. After a moment’s hesitation, Camille was kissing him back in earnest. Unbidden, she opened beneath him, and drew his tongue deep into the warmth of her mouth. It was sweet. So achingly sweet. Something in the pit of his belly seemed to melt.

Her hands came up to hold his face, mirroring his earlier gesture. As if she might control his motions, she held him there, their tongues sinuously entwining, her breath coming more urgently with every moment. He wanted her. Good God, how he wanted her. It was not unbridled lust. It was not Annemarie. He just wanted this woman—Camille—and with an intensity that would have worried him were he not so desperately lost in her kiss.

Somehow, he turned and set her back to the wall below one of the sconces. He wished suddenly that he had lit them all; that he could see the flickering light play over the fine bones of her face, and the silken sweep of her eyelashes. Without taking his mouth from hers, his hands went up to cradle the mounds of her breasts.

Camille gasped faintly at the touch of his hands. When he hooked his thumbs in the laced edge of her bodice, she said nothing, and let her head go back against the wall. She felt enervated, as if she were entirely at his command—and in that moment, she did not care. With a deft tug, he drew the fabric down, taking her chemise with it, until the dusky pink nipples were exposed.

He hesitated as if waiting. For her protest. For the back of her hand. But the dark silence of the library was rent only by the sound of their breathing.

Camille was so tired of fighting her desire for him. Whatever Rothewell was, no matter why he wanted her, she ached for him. And when he bent his head to draw her left nipple between his lips, she gasped at the hot ribbon of pleasure it engendered.

He took that as a sound of approval. He drew her breast more fully into the warmth of his mouth, suckling until she began to make small, breathy sounds of pleasure. Then he moved to the other breast, first circling the nipple with his tongue, then sucking at the very tip as he gently nipping with his teeth.

“Ooh, oui!” she murmured. Her hands went to his shoulders, restless and urgent.

Gently, he slipped one hand between her shoulder blades. “No, let me, Camille,” he breathed against her ear as the hooks of her gown slipped free. “Let me unfasten this.”

She did not feign innocence, or further protest. Instead, she gave herself up to the skill of his well-tutored touch. And when he returned his attention to her small, perfect breasts, cupping their weight in his hands, she opened her eyes. “Mon dieu,” she murmured dreamily.

He kissed her long and deep. Her head moved restlessly against the wall. “Kieran, I want—” she whispered. “I want—oh, I don’t know.”

“Perhaps I can guess.”

But as Kieran cradled one breast and kissed her deeply, and his other hand fisted in her skirts, he realized he should be horsewhipped. He was not so wrapped up in her he could not appreciate the precariousness of their situation. Or the fact that she was a virgin. Instead, he inched her skirts up into his fist, then eased one hand between them, touching her lightly in her most intimate place.

“Camille,’ he whispered. “You are going to marry me. In a few days’ time. We will be married, yes?”

“Oh, oui, je suis . . . ” She stopped and swallowed hard. “I am so . . . yes. Yes. ”

With a lifetime of experience in having sex in places he had no business, with women he scarcely knew, Rothewell inched down her drawers until they slithered into a puddle of silk at her feet.

First You Run by Roxanne St. Claire was released by Pocket Star on 25 March 2008. Number Four in the Bullet Catchers series, you can read all about these sexy bodyguards at the author’s website. Today we have the first part in a series of three tantalizing excerpts. Enjoy!

Adrien Fletcher is a “Bullet Catcher” on a mission. The Australian bodyguard has been given a list of women who might have been bought and sold as infants in a black market adoption scheme thirty years earlier. The only way to tell: find the tiny tattoo that marked the baby at birth. Good thing Fletch is as good at getting a woman naked as he is at protecting her….

Excerpt: The Tattoo Hunt Begins

This was when it got squishy.

Fletch had attempted direct, with the lady in St. Louis who slammed him with an original birth certificate and papers that proved she’d already located her real parents. He’d tried sly, with the dog trainer in Detroit who also had researched her parentage, and knew plenty about the Sapphire Trail babies; she’d already found her birth mother in Pittsburgh. In Vegas, he’d thought he’d hit paydirt with a sweet newlywed by the name of Noreen, but her own birth mother had found her via the internet and they’d had a tearful reunion on her wedding day. He’d already lost ten of his thirty days.

He strongly suspected that Miranda didn’t have a clue she was adopted, since that it tended to come up rather quickly in conversation. And given that the woman in question had buttercream for skin, smoke blue eyes the color of a misty morning over Sydney harbor, and mahogany hair wrapped in a knot thick enough to hint it might be very long and quite fun to explore, all bets were off. And he had no intention of pulling out the guaranteed-to-kill-the-wine-buzz question: Are you adopted?

No. Tonight, he would do an investigation so heated by their undeniable chemistry that she wouldn’t even realize how much of her past she’d revealed. Then, after a bit of heavy pashing in the darkest corner he could find, he’d root around in the sack with her until he spotted the ink.

Then he’d tell her why he was there, and not one minute before.

Worst case? He had the wrong girl and a good time. He’d be off in a day or so for the next name on the list. There were only five left.

“So how is it,” he said, sliding into the easy opening she’d offered him. “that you were born on a plane?”

“My parents were flying home to Atlanta from Charleston.”

Charleston? Too right. “When was that?”

“July 31, 1977.”

Bingo. “So, what were they doing flying so close to mum’s delivery date?” How she answered that question would tell him exactly what she knew about her birth. He watched her expression, which was guileless and natural.

“I don’t think they had strict rules about flying back then. People did all sorts of things when they were pregnant – including drink and smoke.”

“So does your birth certificate say you were born…in heaven?”

She smiled. “I don’t think I ever noticed. Probably Atlanta. My parents have lived in the same house in a suburb called Marietta their whole lives.”

That confirmed it. If she’d never noticed something on her birth certificate, then she was in the dark about the adoption. One thing he’d learned in the past few days – adoptees had studied every crease and ink mark on that piece of paper.

Yet, Miranda Lang, daughter of Carl and Dee Lang of Marietta, Georgia, was a Sapphire Trail baby. That much he knew from his list.

“Do you have any sibs?” Had the Lang’s adopted more?

She shook her head. “You?”

“A half brother I never met.”

“You’ve never met him?”

“What can I say? My oldies are weird.”

“Oldies? Parents?”

“Sorry, bad habit. Too much strine.”

“Strine?” She waved a ginger slice on the end of her chopsticks. “Oh, I get it. Austral-yine. I like it.”

“You do?”

“You may have missed the introduction back at the bookstore. I’m a linguist, so I’m a sucker for accents.”

“Ah, right. Remind to spew a string of strine, then, just to impress you.” He winked, enjoying the flirtation.

She couldn’t hide a sneaky smile. “How long have you been over here?”

“Uh uh,” he chided, tapping her knuckles as she reached for sushi. “Your life story is on the table now, not mine.”

“Sorry, but mine makes for pretty dull dinner conversation.” She finally shed the business-like jacket she wore and he stole a glance at the silky blouse, the whisper of lace silhouetted under it, kissing a sleek collar bone and covering tiny breasts. She was bird-thin and narrow, and he wondered where the tattoo might be. He’d start where Aborigine babies were tattooed — on the bottom of her foot. And work his way up. Slowly. He took a deep drink of ice water, but it didn’t cool anything down.

“Being born on a plane isn’t dull,” he said.

“It went downhill after that.”

“The plane, or your life?”

She laughed again, completely relaxed now. “Not downhill, exactly, but really not that interesting. I was raised in a suburb, home schooled until I was sixteen, fast tracked into Emory University, where I spent the next ten years amassing degree after degree, taking the occasional trip for post docs and research, and finally getting an offer for an adjunct position at Berkeley. Last year, coinciding with the sale of my dissertation to a major publishing house, and much to my colleague’s dismay and disdain, I made assistant professor. End of story. Now you.”

He ignored the suggestion. “I don’t know much about the Uni system in this country, but I guess a professor at a school like Berkeley is tall poppies in the field.”

“Not such tall poppies.” She imitated his accent nicely. “Assistant professor is pretty much the first floor of the ivory tower, and the way up is steep and crowded with competitors. Few of them are willing to make room for a thirty-one year old who hit the publishing lottery instead of toiling away in classrooms for decades.”

He nodded, mildly interested in the politics, but anxious to get back to where she was born and who gave birth to her. Or not. “So does your mum tell you the story of how you were born on a plane? I imagine it’s rather spiffy, as birth tales go.”

“My ‘mum’ does not. She says it traumatized her. But then lots of stuff traumatizes my mother – like her baby moving to California. She’s still not sure I can cross the street alone, let alone the country.”

“Overbearing, is she?” Wouldn’t that be just like an adopted mother who doesn’t want anything to happen to her illegally obtained daughter?

“More like overprotective. In fact, if you look that up in Websters, you should find a nice picture of her.”

“What’s she protecting you from?”

Her smile was slow, and it hit the mark in his gut. She reached across the table, and with one finger, lifted the sleeve of his T-shirt, revealing the spiky swirl of the black axe blade the decorated his bicep. Her touch hit a mark a bit lower than the gut.

“She’s protecting me from…” She let the shirt sleeve fall back and leveled a gaze at him. “Men like you.”

He grinned and nodded enthusiastically. “Good call, Mum.”

Some lovely electricity arced as they held their eye contact. It would be so easy to ask her now. What about you, Miranda? Got ink?

But he knew better. Direct questions would put her off and if she had no clue she was adopted, which she obviously didn’t, she’d freak and his plan to go tattoo hunting would end as fast as this dinner. Instead, he moved closer, trailed a finger over her knuckles, and watched her eyes darken in response.

“And Dad?” He offered her the last piece of unagi, and she took it. “Does he protect you from the wrong kind of man?”

Her smile was wide and genuine and just too pretty. “My dad is amazing. He’s the greatest guy. I’d have lost my mind with my mother if I hadn’t had him. I always say that’s why God gives you two parents.”

Or four, as the case may be.

Which reminded him of a cold, ugly fact: if he had the right woman, he was truly about to wreck what was probably an ideal childhood. But he had a job to do, a friend to help, and a point to make.

Besides, a full body inspection of wouldn’t hurt either one of them, judging by the sparks crackling between them. If he didn’t find the tattoo, he’d never mention what he knew about her real birth and she would continue on her merry way, with nothing more than a blissful memory of a man who’d attended her book signing and gave her an unforgettable night.

“Miranda,” he said softly, taking both her hands this time. “Let’s get out of here.”

He felt her pulse jump under his fingertips. “No more sushi and small talk?”

“You’re leaving tomorrow morning. Do you really want to spend one more minute with a table between us?”

He watched her chest rise and fall with a slow, unsteady breath. “Where are we going?”

“If you have to ask, maybe we’re not going there after all.”

She wet her lips, inhaled, gave him a long, direct gaze. “I’ve never slept with a stranger.”

He stood, placed a few twenties on the table, snagged the book, and then helped her out of the chair. “Then let’s keep talking, so won’t be strangers anymore.”

He wrapped his arm around her to guide her to the door, pulling her into his flank, and settling his hand over a slender, but nicely curved, hip.

“Is it my turn to ask questions, now?” she asked.

“Absolutely. What would you like to know about me?”

She gave him a sly, flirtatious smile. “Anything I should know before we walk out of this restaurant together.”

“Fair enough. Let’s see…I’m a former member of the Tasmanian Special Ops police, the best kicker on my rugby team, a stellar bodyguard, an exemplary employee, a trustworthy mate, a half-decent surfer, a lousy cook …” He pushed open the restaurant door, walked her around the corner and pressed her against the brick wall. “And a helluva good kisser.”

FIRST YOU RUN

Copyright Roxanne St. Claire

Superb and Sexy (Sky High Air, Book 3) by Jill Shalvis, will be released 27 May 2008 by Brava. This is the third in a trilogy of sexy, funny Romantic Suspense about a trio of pilots. The other books in the series are Smart and Sexy and Strong and Sexy (see Sybil’s review). On to Chapter One!

The Summary:

BUCKLE UP. IT’S GOING TO BE QUITE A RIDE.

Despite his brooding bad-boy attitude, Brody knows life has treated him pretty well. His luxury charter airline, Sky High, has given him financial security and the means to take to the skies whenever things on the ground get complicated. And lately, things have become very complicated, thanks to the insanely passionate, or perhaps just insane, kiss he shared with Sky High’s gorgeous, wisecracking concierge, Maddie. He’s tried to keep his distance, but now Maddie desperately needs help, and it’s triggering protective alpha-male urges Brody didn’t even know he had.

For months, Maddie hid her crush on sexy, exasperating Brody behind a cool, kick-ass exterior and then blew that to smithereens by jumping him in the lobby. Yeah, real smooth. She’s tried to break her ties with Sky High, but Brody won’t let her walk away-especially now that he knows that Maddie and her twin sister Leena are in big-time trouble. To save Leena, Maddie and Brody must pose as husband and wife, and Maddie is amazed that the man she thought was oblivious to her existence knows her very well indeed. But that’s nothing compared to the way she’s about to get to know him-intimately, in depth, and over and over again.

Chapter One

The man pulled up in a rumbling, bad boy Camaro like he owned his world, and Maddie had good reason to know he did.

Brody West owned his world all right, and completely rocked hers.

What the hell was he doing here?

It’d been a long time since she’d seen him. Six weeks, two and half days, and waaaaay too many minutes. Not that she was counting.

But to be honest, that she hadn’t seen him was all her own doing. She’d left town to recover.

To think.

To make a Plan with a capitol P.

Hence staying in the mountains where no one could bother her — including Brody.

Especially Brody.

With him, no contact was good contact since they clashed at every turn, bickered when they weren’t clashing, and in general, brought out the worst in each other. She hadn’t even thought about him while she’d been gone, sitting on the porch of the log-style cabin that she’d rented for its rustic, isolated beauty, emphasis on isolated.

Okay, so she’d thought about him. She just hadn’t wanted to think about him. Probably she was just overreacting. Honestly, maybe it wasn’t even him in the car.

And yet she knew better. Her body knew better. The simple act of hearing the engine rev had made the hair on the nape of her neck rise in sudden, unexpected awareness.

Yeah, it was him because she felt . . .

God, she felt so much, but thunderstruck led the pack, though an undeniable excitement came in close second.

He was here, forty five miles off the beaten path from his home in the Burbank Hills to the Angeles Crest.

But why? Why wasn’t he holed up in his office, or on one of his planes he loved more than anything, working himself in to an early grave as he liked to do?

She knew that he, along with his partners Shayne and Noah, wanted her back at work, seemed desperate for her to be back. Shayne had told her yesterday on the phone that Sky High had gone through four temp concerieges in the time she’d been gone on leave, all of whom Brody had chased off with his sunny nature.

Translation: he’d been brooding and edgy and terrifying.

Yeah. Sounded like him.

But the brooding and edgy thing had never bothered her much. Maybe because she’d always been drawn to the bad boys. The reason for that was simple. Bad boys wanted the same things she did ­ no strings attached.

She didn’t do strings.

Outside, Brody turned off the Camaro and silence filled the air.

A heavy, weighted, questioning silence.

And suddenly Maddie’s chest felt too tight. Damn it. She let out a long, calming breath, which of course didn’t work. It never worked. Neither did just sitting at the window staring down at him, but God, she was tired, and still recovering. Yeah, that’s what this asinine weakness in her knees was — recovery. Because it sure as hell wasn’t for him.

No way.

They didn’t even like each other . . .

And yet she leaned over so she could see out the window again, past the twin tall pines trying to claim her view, at the nearly six feet four inches of rough and tumble, sexy-as-hell male as he unfolded his long legs from the muscle car.

Her pulse took another unfortunate leap. The last time she’d seen him he’d been in his pilot’s uniform, and even though it was ridiculous and juvenile and wrong, it had turned her on. The thought of seeing him out of it? Even more so.

Topaz Delirium by Lynne Connolly
Contemporary Erotic Romance eBook coming soon from Loose ID (late April 2008)

Topaz Delirium is part of the Department 57 series. After you’ve read our exclusive excerpt, you can find out about the earlier (and currently unavailable) books here and meet the heroes of Dept 57 here.

Top fashion model and Dept 57 agent, Svetlana Yevchenko, is in Paris for the couture Fashion Week. She is principal model at the House of Lebec, and his new perfume, Topaz Delirium is named for her (Topaz is her model name). She has been in love with Jasper for years, but he never has serious relationships with anyone.
However, when one of the models, a Talent, is murdered, Svetlana and Jasper work together on the operation to close down the factory that is producing the poison that is killing Talents.
Svetlana finds out far more than she ever suspected about Jasper. But with a curse attached to him, Jasper doesn’t feel he can take the chance of loving her.

After a show, in which one of the models collapsed and died, Svetlana and Jasper have dinner together. They have discussed the coming Department 57 operation, and have carefully avoided their mutual attraction.

The Excerpt:

Jasper gazed down at his plate. “Is there something wrong with the food? It came from my usual service, which is generally reliable, but it seems to taste of very little tonight.”

Svetlana forced herself to lift a morsel to her mouth and concentrate on tasting. This was the first real meal she’d had all week, so she should really have more appetite. “It’s fine. Better than fine.”

He considered his plate, his head tilted to one side, his invariable habit when thinking about something. “Perhaps I’m not in the mood for it.” He shoved his plate aside and reached for his glass. “It gives me pleasure to see you eat, though. So many models never eat at all.” He toasted her, lifting his glass. His lips quirked in a smile though the look in his eyes remained distant. “I’ll design for real women. With curves.”

“Isn’t that more difficult?”

He shrugged and tilted his chin up in an arrogant gesture. “I am Jasper Lebec. I can do it. It’s true that breasts disturb a drape or break up a sweep of pattern, but I’ll make breasts fashionable if I can.”

She forced another mouthful down. “So why do you think many women have breast augmentations?”

“A different market. Less refined.” His gaze sharpened. “You haven’t had such an abomination, have you?”

She laughed. “No. You’d have noticed, in any case.”

He put his empty glass down on the fine linen tablecloth. “So I would. I see you naked several times every season. But it’s just business. In the atelier, you’re another shape to challenge me, that’s all.” He opened his mouth but closed it again without saying anything. Abruptly he got up from the table and tossed his crumpled napkin down by his plate. “Would you like some dessert? It’s something with raspberries, I believe.”

Svetlana recognized the gesture; Jasper was getting too close to revealing his true feelings, so he changed the subject and broke eye contact. Her naked body disturbed him, did it? Was it that, or the thought of her stripping for Hugo Berthier? Tough shit. He was sending here there, after all so he’d have to suck it up. “I don’t want any dessert. You’ll have to take my word for it, Jasper. I don’t starve myself; I’m just not hungry tonight.” She couldn’t take any more.

She had to leave. She wanted Jasper so much; her pussy was wet and ready for him already, dampening her panties under the severe blue skirt. Her thoughts were too disturbing, too close to the surface, and Jasper’s powerful Talent would discern them before too long if she didn’t leave now.

“Too late,” he murmured, so quietly she had to strain to hear him. He turned around to face her.

The expression in his silver eyes was nothing like she was used to. Hot, passionate, and desirous. Needy. He spoke to her, in words throbbing with sincerity. “I want you so much, it burns me every time I look at you.” He paused, and she stared back, stunned. “What, you can’t take the truth? Shall I send for your car?”

She shook her head. “Why, Jasper?”

“Why what? Why do I want you? God knows.”

“Jasper?” If they wanted each other, if he’d wanted her all this time she’d wanted him, why hadn’t he said anything? Was he afraid of commitment, perhaps? She had no idea. She couldn’t read him unless he let her in, and his face remained impassive apart from the fire in his eyes.

He lifted his hand, only to drop it again, the movement jerky, so unlike his usual elegant, considered gestures. “Every time I look at you, I want you with a despair that eats at my soul.”

“Why haven’t you come to me before?” She wasn’t hearing this; she couldn’t be.

He shook his head. “Too many reasons. But, Svetlana, we can have tonight.”

Met by Chance (released 5 Feb 08 by Samhain) is the most recent historical romance release by the prolific Lynne Connolly It is the third book in the Triple Countess Trilogy. Read Sandy’s review, then read on for an excerpt!

There’s more to this man than satin and lace.

After a serious riding accident, Perdita Garland is back in society. Unfortunately the first man who catches her interest, Charles Dalton, Marquis of Petherbridge, turns out to be a popinjay with a spoiled daughter in tow. And his equally spoiled sister is flirting with the same fortune-hunting suitor who almost cost Perdita her life. What’s a lady to do? Warn the marquis of the danger, of course.

Charles knows that English society finds his manners and dress astonishing, but they cover a man broken by a disastrous marriage to a faithless wife. Now a widowed father determined not to be fooled again, he is nevertheless charmed by Perdita and the steely strength of will under her fragile exterior. If only the lady would mind her own business.

But when his impulsive sister elopes and kidnaps his daughter, he finds himself wishing he had listened to the little busybody. And Perdita, feeling partly responsible for the disaster, boldly sets out to help him put things right.Alone in a strange city with his lordship, plunged into danger, Perdita discovers there is more than meets the eye under the pampered skin of the marquis. There is strength, power…and passion beyond her wildest dreams.

The Excerpt:
Perdita went to the stove and picked up the cloth to wrap around the hot handle of the kettle. It wasn’t a large kettle, but full of boiling water the weight was more than she was used to.

She felt the handle slip under the cloth and the weight of the water continued the small initial movement. Before she could prevent it the handle slipped through the cloth, and the boiling water spilled over her.

Perdita reacted quickly, dropping the kettle and jumping back to avoid what she could, but Charles acted quicker.

A torrent of cold water doused her, hurled from the can by the door, forcing her to close her eyes against the deluge. Then his arms went around her from behind and he lifted her up, almost throwing her on to the bed on the opposite side of the small room. He dragged her skirts up, and pulled at her garters, tearing the woollen stockings off her. Perdita, stunned by the swiftness of the actions, came to herself and pulled the stocking off the other leg.

They studied the damage. The boiling water had landed on her skirts, soaking through the thin, worn fabric too quickly, but his quick actions saved her from serious damage. Her legs were pinker than usual, but no welts, no scalds were apparent.

What was apparent were her scars. Perdita tried not to look at her legs usually, and usually put on her stockings by herself by touch, only allowing her maid to tie off the garters for her. She couldn’t bear to look at the damage.

The accident had caused some ugly scars. On her left leg the shinbone had penetrated the skin, leaving a puckered scar, lividly white. Her legs had been cut by stones on her fall, and not much attention had been given to their healing, once infection was discounted, so the scars were worse than they might have been. Little white lines, raised above what had been a smooth surface. The bone in the right leg had set a little crookedly. Perdita knew it could have been worse. Any more and she would have been left with a permanent limp, unable to walk or dance.

Ugly. So ugly Perdita couldn’t bear to look. She had forced herself to, once the bandages and splints came off, determined to face what she had with determination and courage. Easier on her own. Violetta, now her brother’s wife, had seen them, and given her massages which helped the muscle strain when she began to walk again. It had been Violetta who bullied her into taking those first steps, and helped her to face society, something Perdita was sure she never wanted to do again after her humiliation and then her accident. Her mother had seen them, and Orlando. No one else, until now.

She didn’t want to look at him. He’d saved her from a scald, but reminded her just why no man would take her, when he could have an unblemished, untouched woman.

She’d been foolish to consider it, she knew that.

“Thank you.” Her voice barely rose above a whisper. “I don’t think I’m badly hurt. Silly of me.”

“No.” His voice was just as low. He stared at her legs and Perdita knew there was no concealing them now. Many married couples rarely saw each other naked, and if they did, they were in bed. She’d hoped to hide the evidence of her shame and her stupidity with any future husband some way, any way.

“Dear God, how you must have suffered!” His low, throbbing tones held more than pity.

More than he would know. The physical suffering had been penance for her, for the stupid mistakes she’d made. “My horse had to be put down. I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

He reached out, and touched her calf with his open palm. There was a scar there, white and twisted. Without it she would have had a sweetly rounded calf. With the scar, it was a travesty.

She moved, tried to withdraw but his touch became a grip. “No. Don’t. Trust me enough, Peri, trust me to look.”

She was afraid of his reaction, afraid he would recoil, or more likely, gently withdraw once it was clear she hadn’t done herself serious injury, at least this time. She knew he would not be unkind, but was equally sure he would not be interested in her any more. Who would, thinking of those ugly limbs wrapped with theirs, entwined with their own?

There was nothing left to lose. Under his hands, turned gentle once more, she made herself relax.

“Dear God, I knew you’d had an accident, but not that it was this bad!” He slid his hands over her lower legs, as though he could smooth the skin back to perfection. He felt every knot, every scar.

He looked up at her and shocked her with his expression. His eyes glistened, and there was no repulsion on his face. No desire either, but she would have been appalled had she seen that. No man should desire a woman after seeing that. Deep compassion remained, even sympathy.

Sympathy?

“I’ve always admired your courage, but I didn’t know until now just how brave you are. Peri, these injuries must have been crippling.”

She forced a smile. It wavered, but she managed it. “Violetta helped me. She’s Orlando’s wife. Where everyone else gave me pity and sympathy, she gave me backbone. She forced me to stand, bullied me to walk. She also discovered that my doctor was keeping me malingering for his own ends. It could have been a lot worse.”

“Thank God it wasn’t!” He seemed to mean it literally. If his hands hadn’t still been on her legs Perdita would have tossed her wet skirts back down. She would have felt more comfortable. What he did next shocked her to the core.

He bent and kissed one of the worst scars, his lips touching the wound like a healing touch. Then he lifted his head and looked at her, getting to his feet. She watched him in silence as he stripped off his neckcloth and undid the ties at the top of his shirt, pulling the garment over his head. Bare-chested he stared at her, waiting for her reaction.

At first all Perdita saw was a strong male chest, the muscles moving under the skin when he dropped his hands to his sides. Then she saw some silvery marks. She stood up to look closer, forgetting propriety, forgetting everything but their presence and what he was showing her.

Threads of silver lightly scored his skin, forming lines not formed by nature. They were hardly noticeable, until she looked closer. She reached out a hand, then snatched it back. She wasn’t that far gone.

When she looked up at his face, he was smiling. “They were bad, once,” he told her, in a voice so gentle she could hardly bear it. “I fell on an unguarded fire when I was a toddler, barely walking. The nursemaid snatched me off the coals, but the damage was done. The scars were bad all through my boyhood.”

“But they’re hardly noticeable!”

He took her hand in his. “They are bad still. In here.” He lifted their conjoined hands to his head, touching one temple lightly. “I was ragged at school mercilessly for the marks. My mother was ashamed of them, and never allowed me to go bare-chested, even in front of my body servants. It took a long time to recover, but I did.”

“How did you do it?”

“I was compensated.” The answer was vague, but Perdita could guess what he meant.

“Your wife? She didn’t care about the scars?”

He laughed bitterly. “You could say that.”

When he tugged on her hand, she allowed herself to be drawn forward, into his arms. They folded around her, softly cherishing. Perdita let her head rest against his shoulder. She could be comforted. Nothing else was possible now, but his skin felt warm against her cheek and his arms comforting around her body. It was all she wanted, she told herself. Anything else wasn’t worth considering.

Until she felt his fingers under her chin, tilting her head up. Knowing what was coming she went willingly, and opened her mouth for him when his lips settled on hers. Entwined together, bare chest to her thin gown, Perdita revelled in the hard, cherishing body against hers, the soft, coaxing tongue teasing her into arousal.

Desire rose, sharp and needy. She wanted him. He couldn’t want her. Part of her mind still couldn’t believe anyone would want her, having seen those terrible marks. But she responded, accepting him, responding to his caresses. She smoothed her hands up and down his back, revelling in the bare skin under her palms. He felt wonderful, warm and alive, muscles tensing when he tightened his hold on her.

Charles lifted his head slightly. “I want you, ma cherie,” he murmured, his breath hot against her lips. “Will you come to bed with me?”

The Devil’s Daughter by Laura Drewry (released 8 Apr 08 by Love Spell) is something different — a paranormal Western. Read Shannon C’s review and read on for a peek at the first chapter…

From the back cover:
GIVING THE DEVIL HIS DUDE

Shoveling sulfur and brimstone could really get a girl down. When her dad offered freedom from the fiery depths in exchange for one simple soul-snatching, Lucy Firr jumped at the chance. With her considerable powers of seduction, she threw herself at rancher Jed Caine. Yet instead of taking her to bed, he made her muck out the pigsty.

It would take the patience of a saint to resist the likes of Lucy Firr—and Lord knew Jed was no saint. The temptress fired his blood like no woman he’d ever met. Why she’d suddenly latched on to him, he had no idea. But the safest place for her—and her virtue—was out in the barn.
Lucy could see the heat in Jed’s gaze. But it was the tenderness of his touch and his hard-won smile that undid her. She was supposed to steal his soul, yet here he was…capturing her heart.

CHAPTER ONE

Redemption, Texas
Summer 1881

“I want him.” Lucy pointed her long slender finger at the quiet man near the back of the restaurant; the tall one with the dark eyes and the wavy hair that begged to be touched.

Oh yes, he’d do quite nicely.
“I. . .wha–?” The fat lady in charge of the auction whirled around. “Who. . .? Where did you come from?”

“Lucy Firr,” Lucy answered without taking her eyes off her man. “And I’ll take him.”

Necks stretched and craned as twenty or more men twisted in their seats to get a look at the man she wanted; the man with the long, unwavering stare, the man she’d chosen to be her savior – or her accomplice, depending on how you chose to look at it.

He didn’t move a muscle, didn’t nod in agreement or even acknowledge he was the topic of conversation. He just stared back at her with those too-dark-to-read eyes.

The fat lady sputtered, gaped, then stammered, “Y-you mean Mr. Caine?”
Lucy smiled and nodded toward the back of the room again. That was exactly who she meant.

Jedidiah Caine.

Yes, him,” she repeated.

Why did the fat lady keep staring that way – as if Lucy had suddenly sprouted horns?

Had she sprouted horns?

With calmness she didn’t feel, Lucy fingered her hair back from her face, carefully probing for any unusual bumps.

Nothing.

Finally, the woman turned and stretched on tiptoe to see over the crowd, then teetered back on her heels. She fidgeted with her high lace collar, tucked the coin box tightly beneath her elbow and turned her wary gray eyes on Lucy.

The other women up for bid at the wife auction sought out Lucy’s man, too, then bowed their heads in a circle as furious whispers buzzed among them. Each woman wore her hair pulled back in a tight knot or braid at the back of her head, with not a single bow or earbob in sight.

Lucy shuddered. How could any self-respecting woman, mortal or not, allow such dresses – if that’s what you could call those horrid garments – touch their skin? To make matters worse, each dress was exactly the same as the others; plain cotton frocks buttoned neck to waist, with plain straight skirts.

No imagination whatsoever.

These poor women didn’t have a prayer. Then again, neither did Lucy, but that was an entirely different story.

She smoothed the deep green silk of her skirt and tossed her long glossy black hair over her shoulders. The small restaurant-turned-auction-house was near to bursting with the crowd of men, but there were only four women on the auction block. Five if Lucy included herself, which she didn’t. She was not up for auction. She was here for one man – and one man only.

The only man who stood between her and the baby she needed.

Mr. Jedidiah Caine wanted her. He needed someone else, but he wanted her. There was no doubt what was going on inside that gorgeous head of his; inner turmoil stewed beneath his frown and clouded his already dark eyes. He was going to be difficult, no question, but she’d overpower him soon enough. If she didn’t, she would have to stand before her father empty-handed, and she could not let that happen. Again. The consequences would be far too severe this time.

Whether Jed Caine knew it or not, he was going to help Lucy avoid eternal damnation. He’d be sacrificing his own soul, but he didn’t need to know that. Not yet, anyway.

The heavy stench of the unbathed crowd, mixed with cheap cigars and manure covered boots, fogged the air. Yet even with the space of the room separating them, Lucy knew her man wouldn’t stink. There was something about him, something about the way he stood there, so quiet, so sure of himself.

Lucy bit back her laughter. His lust would be easy enough to work with on its own, but he was obviously a proud man, too. This was going to be easier than she’d hoped. Was it possible her father had finally underestimated her abilities?

Grumblings between the men started low, then grew louder. Coffee cups rattled on the tables, and a few men motioned toward the door, but not a single person left.

Lust seeped from them like gaping wounds. It was in the way they ogled her, the way they curled their lips and nodded toward her as they muttered among themselves.

But his want burned hotter than the rest. It smoldered in those dark eyes, in the firm set of his jaw and in his deepening frown. Oh, he wanted her all right, but he certainly wasn’t going to admit it. And he certainly wasn’t happy about it.

“Yes,” Lucy purred. “He’ll do just fine.”

The woman in charge cleared her throat and adjusted her wire-framed glasses. “I’m sorry, Miss Firr, but that’s not how the wife auction works.” She indicated the room full of men, each one raking Lucy with shameless lust-filled gazes. “The gentlemen decide which woman is suitable and then the bidding starts. Highest bidder wins.” Her thin lips curled into a nervous smile. “The women don’t get to choose.”

Lucy seared the fat lady with a glare but refrained from commenting on the woman’s easy use of the word ‘gentlemen.

“What if I don’t want the man who buys me?” Lucy wrinkled her nose as the man closest to her spat a wad of tobacco juice toward a nearby bucket and missed. It splatted against the plank floor and spread out in a tiny dark puddle where many others had obviously landed before it.

Again, the fat lady smiled in that nervous way as she took a step closer. A sour waft of body odor hit Lucy’s nose as the woman stopped in front of her. “It doesn’t matter what you want. So long as your guardian approves, the match is made.”

An odd aura surrounded the woman. Lucy was unable to define it, but whatever it was, it troubled the woman’s soul something awful.

Lucy shook it off and focused her attention back on the group at hand. She was surrounded by souls in various stages of decay, yet the only one that mattered was his.

His clean, honorable yet proud soul. She would use that honor and pride to get past him. If she worked it right, he wouldn’t even know what she’d done until it was too late. By the time he realized, she’d have secured his soul and his sister-in-law, Maggie’s. Individually, neither meant anything to Lucy, but together, they stood as protectors over the one soul she desperately needed; Maggie’s baby. The second it was born, Lucy would claim its soul and secure her freedom.

The baby was key to everything. Without its soul, nothing else mattered.

Lucy held her gaze on her man, but spoke to the fat lady. “I will choose who I leave with, and the money he pays, instead of going to me, will go directly to. . .” she hesitated a second, knowing she had to choose her words carefully. After all, guilt was a great motivator with these God-fearing conscience-bearing humans. It would only guilt them more if she designated the church as the beneficiary, but she’d never give them or their God that satisfaction. “The school.”

Another rising murmur, this time accompanied by a few more tobacco spits from several of the men and more whispering by the women. The fat lady’s eyes bulged with excitement.

“New books,” she breathed. “Oh my.”

“Furthermore,” Lucy continued. “I’ll only have him.” She pointed at her man again. “If he doesn’t want me, I’ll simply be on my way.”

Again, every head swiveled in his direction, waiting. Lucy waited, too. If she walked out of this auction now, she’d forfeit her only chance of succeeding; her only chance of retrieving the one soul she most desperately needed.

“This is highly irregular,” the woman muttered, but she, too, stood waiting for the man to speak.

Every passing second deepened Lucy’s doubts and deepened her man’s frown.

An icy chill shot through her. Her man needed a woman, but surely he couldn’t want one of these others instead of her.

That was ridiculous. They were as homely as hedgehogs and there must have been month-old corpses that smelled better.

Lucy gave herself a hard mental shake and refocused on Mr. Jedidiah Caine. She knew two things about this man and two things only.

The first was that if it wasn’t for his brother’s “disappearance,” he wouldn’t even be at the auction, bidding on a wife he didn’t want. And the second was that he’d never let his own desires get in the way of what his family needed.

“Mr. Caine?” the woman finally said, her voice wavering. “Will you have Miss Firr as your wife?”

Amid heated murmurs and pointing fingers, he finally stepped through the crowd, weaving his way toward the front of the room. His gaze never left Lucy’s, even as he bobbed a quick nod at the fat lady.

A hush fell over the room as everyone strained to hear.

Mr. Caine spoke quietly, his voice deep and sure. “You’re a beautiful woman, Miss Firr. But you already know that, don’t you?”

Lucy smiled. Of course she knew it – temptation would be one of her strongest weapons.

Strangely, he didn’t smile back. His dark eyes never wavered from hers as he spoke. “Given the number of honest men here today, I appreciate your interest in me.”

Yes! This was going to be easier than–

“And though it pains me to say it,” he continued, “I’ve no need for a beautiful woman. I’m not even looking for a wife.”

Shocked silence hung in the air. He must be toying with her. Every man wanted a beautiful woman – the proof sat all around them. What made Jed Caine think he was any different?

Humiliation wasn’t new to Lucy, but she’d never gotten used to it – and when it came from the likes of a mere mortal. . .

She swallowed her anger and forced a seductive smile.

“You have no need of a wife, you say.” She coyly tipped her head a little to the right. “Yet here you are at a wife auction.”

Her facial muscles pinched against the smile, but she held it in place as Mr. Caine explained what she already knew.

“I need to hire a woman to help my brother’s wife. I need someone who’s not afraid to get dirty, who’ll work hard, and who doesn’t mind living without frills.” Color crept up his neck and over his face. His lips curled upward in an awkward, uncomfortable smile. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Miss Firr, you sure don’t look the type to collect chips for the fire.”

Snorts and chuckles filled the room, followed by giggles and twitters from the other women. Lucy silenced their taunts with a blistering glare. These people had no idea who they were dealing with; she was here to win, and whether he liked it or not, Jed Caine was going to help her do just that.

“Why is it then, Mr. Caine, that you are here and not your brother? She’s his wife after all.”

A painful hush fell over the room. Mr. Caine swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing slowly with the movement, and his eyes darkened to near pitch.

“My brother. . .Sam. . .is missing, and until he returns, Maggie and I need a little help.” His jaw clenched, as though waiting for someone to voice what the entire room was thinking. Sam Caine was dead, and he’d probably killed himself to get away from his crazy wife.

With practiced ease, Lucy slinked closer until they stood toe to toe. Broad across the shoulder, he stood like a rock wall, his sleeves rolled to the elbows and his faded blue shirt tucked neatly into the waistband of his wool pants.

Yes, Jedidiah Caine was a man to behold – tall, but not towering. Lucy had only to tip her head slightly to look into his eyes. She’d been right – he didn’t smell anything like the rest of the people in the room. In fact, there was a warm, musky scent about him that only confirmed what she already knew.

He was what humans referred to as a “good man.” A good man meant a good soul; a trusting soul; a weak soul.

Perfect.

“I can be ugly if you want me to.”

He quirked his left eyebrow. “I doubt that.”

She opened her eyes wide and blinked up at him with all the false innocence she could muster.

“The work is hard.”

“I like things hard.” She murmured as she toyed with the button nearest his navel.

“And dirty.”

“The dirtier the better.” She waggled her brow, and slipped her tongue out to moisten her lips.

Tiny crinkles formed at the corners of his eyes, but he didn’t laugh. Instead, he cast a telling glance down the length of her skirt.

“And living without any frilly dresses?”

Lucy waved her hand down her skirt. “Do you see any frills?”

The fat lady cleared her throat again. Tension built throughout the room, but Mr. Caine remained perfectly calm, apparently unmoved by any of Lucy’s actions or words.

“Move it along, Caine,” someone called as grumbling began to roll around the room.

“Can you cook?” Mr. Caine ignored the other man and eyed Lucy suspiciously.

“Yes,” she lied. The rest of the crowd, especially the women, seemed disinclined to believe her, given the way they rolled their eyes and snorted, but Mr. Caine did neither.

“And you can keep the house?”

“Of course.” Another lie.

One of the men near the back stood up. “Caine already said he don’t want her, so let’s give the rest of us a chance.”

An odd look flashed across his face, then disappeared. He hesitated a moment, and licked his lips.

“What about children?” he asked.

Lucy trailed her fingers up to the next button. “I believe that’s what the dirty work will produce.”

One of the women sucked in a shocked breath, and several of the other men grumbled louder, but neither Lucy nor her man spared them a glance.

He still didn’t look convinced. “You’re awfully skinny; you don’t look strong enough for the work.”

Lucy leaned closer and trailed her finger in a long slow path down his cheek, laughing softly when his jaw twitched beneath her touch.

“I’ve got all the strength you’ll ever need, Mr. Caine.”

More gasps and groans filled the room.

“Miss Firr, please!” The woman in charge fanned herself with her hand.

A tiny smile tugged at his mouth. He was enjoying this as much as she was, yet there was still something wrenching him away, something he was bound to by honor: caring for his brother’s wife.

“As tempting as that sounds–” Mr. Caine wrapped his fingers around her wrist and tugged her hand away from his face– “and as tempting as you are, Miss Firr, I doubt very much you’d last a week.”

“Move on!” the man in the back yelled. “We ain’t got all day.”

“Mr. Caine,” the fat lady stammered. “I need a decision.”

After a moment’s hesitation, with the internal battle playing out in his eyes, he sighed in resignation.

“I’m sorry, Miss Blake,” he said to the fat lady, his smile gone. “As much as I’d like to agree to this, Miss Firr isn’t the type of woman I’m looking for.”

Desperation flooded Lucy’s veins. He was a stubborn one, this human. Well, so was she. If only she could think of something else to tempt him with.

“But–” Miss Blake stammered. “If you don’t want her. . .what about the school?”

Mr. Caine tipped a short nod at Lucy and headed back to his place at the far end of the room as the other men all started calling out at once.

“I’ll take her!”

“I like ‘em skinny.”

“Ten dollars!”

Miss Blake turned desperate eyes on Lucy, who shrugged nonchalantly, smiled and made like she was going to leave, all the while fighting the fear and anguish that had begun to overpower her. She had about five seconds to figure something out, something that would save her from her father’s wrath and the desolate eternity that beckoned.

She hadn’t taken two complete steps when Miss Blake started offering her own services.

“If it turns out she can’t cook, I’ll teach her myself.” The woman sounded almost as desperate as Lucy felt. The school must really need those books.

Judging by the excited nods and murmurs going on around them, it was safe to assume the woman could cook. And from the size of her, she must cook well. Lucy cocked a taunting brow at her man’s back and waited.

He continued to make his way to the back.

“And I’ll help her with the cleaning and the wash.” Miss Blake’s voice went higher with each word.

He stopped, but took his time turning around.

A loud whisper carried across the room. “Maybe Caine should marry you instead.”

Chuckles and snorts followed, but Mr. Caine held Lucy’s gaze, his lips pressed together as though fighting back what he wanted to say.

“Mr. Caine, please.” Miss Blake mopped her brow with a lace handkerchief. “You need a woman to make you a home, to give you a family, and to help you make something of all that land you bought.”

He didn’t look the slightest bit swayed.

“And think of the children.” She lifted her chin and pinned him with what must have been a well-practiced frown. “One day your brother’s child will attend that school – do you not think it’s your responsibility to help ensure the best education possible?”

Lucy felt the uncertainty ebb over Miss Blake’s soul first, then Mr. Caine’s. He seemed to falter for a moment, but remained rooted where he stood. His mouth tightened into a thin line, his dark eyes staring straight back at Lucy.

Guilt – it worked amazing feats in humans. Lucy was certain if the fat lady – Miss Blake – could produce one of these book-less unschooled children, the man would no doubt hand over his last penny.

But Lucy had to give her man credit – he continued to resist. Sure, he’d been tempted, but he’d held strong. If he didn’t want Lucy, he might end up taking home one of these other women.

That would never do. Still, she held her tongue. Watching the guilt crash and ebb over his expression was almost worth the anxiety of the wait.

“Mr. Caine,” Miss Blake went on, “if nothing else, think about Maggie.”

Every muscle in Mr. Caine’s face and neck tightened.

“It’s not good for her to be out there all alone in her condition. Obviously, if you could care for her yourself, you wouldn’t be here.”

When he didn’t answer, Miss Blake cleared her throat and continued.

“She needs a woman with her, someone to tend her needs, someone who understands.” She adjusted her glasses and cleared her throat quietly. “And though it’s not a nice thing to say, most of these other women. . .” she indicated the four behind her, “would not willingly want to take on a responsibility like that with someone in Maggie’s. . .condition.”

Mr. Caine’s gaze flicked from Miss Blake, to Lucy, to the other four women who all suddenly found great fascination with the toes of their boots.

He mumbled something under his breath and pushed back to the front of the room.

“Have you ever done a day’s work in your life?” he asked, taking Lucy’s hands in his and turning her palms up.

“Yes,” she answered with a definitive nod. Stoking fires and chiseling brimstone counted as work, even in a human world.

His brow furrowed slightly as he ran his thumb over her calloused and scarred fingers.

Lucy tried to tug her hands away, but he held them a moment longer, his gaze locked on hers. What did that look mean? And why did a tremble creep up her spine?

“There’s plenty of other men here, Miss Firr.” He spoke quietly, causing the others to shift and strain to hear. “Why are you set on me?”

Lucy lifted her chin and leaned close enough to whisper. “Because you have a good soul. I can see it.” She hesitated a moment, then added, “And because you’re the only one not set on me.”

An odd look came over him, a small spark glinting in the depth of his dark eyes.

“Okay.” He released her, then held up a hand to quell the burst of complaints. “So long as you understand it’s going to be hard work, and you’ll have to do your share.”

“M-Miss Firr?” The fat lady stuttered. “Are you in agreement?”

“Of course – whatever Mr. Caine wants.”

“Once the money’s paid,” Miss Blake hurried to say, “there’s no refund.”

Caine nodded in silent agreement.

“And,” she went on. “Annulments are not–”

“There’ll be no need for an annulment,” he interrupted with a hard glare.

Another loud groan sounded through the room, but before anyone could complain too loudly–or, God forbid, change their mind–Miss Blake bartered an amount, had them both sign the slip, then ushered them through the crowd toward the door.

“Reverend Conroy is waiting at the church.” She hurried them out of the restaurant. “Just give him this slip and the school’s portion of the money. Good luck to you both.”

She made to shut the door behind them, but stood on the other side, peering through the last remaining crack for a long moment.

“Mr. Caine,” she said quietly. “I meant what I said. I’ll help in any way I can.”

Lucy waited until the door was closed before speaking. There was something about the fat lady Lucy didn’t trust. Granted, she didn’t trust anyone, but this woman was particularly odd.

“Do we have to be married in the church?” Lucy shivered, panic clenching at her throat.

Mr. Caine held out his arm for her to take, but she didn’t move. She couldn’t go inside a church – God would strike her down before her foot crossed the threshold – and any preacher worth his salt would know what she was the instant he saw her. If that happened, this whole plan would be finished before it began.

“Change your mind already?” He chuckled, setting his hat over his dark hair and tipping her a raised brow.

“No,” she answered, her mind racing. “I’m not a particularly religious person is all.” That was putting it mildly. “Couldn’t we go see the judge instead and have him pass the money on to the school?”

Mr. Caine shrugged. “Makes no difference to me as long as it’s done quickly and we can get back. Day’s a-wastin’.”

She released a breath and took the arm he offered. Warmth radiated from his skin – a welcome relief to Lucy as she shivered again. “Does it ever get warm?

His laughter startled her. “It’s the middle of July, Miss Firr.” He waved towards the sun, directly overhead. “It doesn’t get any hotter than Texas in July.” He turned to look at her while they walked. “Where are you from, anyway?”

“Somewhere warmer than here,” she answered with a smile.

He led her across the main street of town, steering her around potholes and horse droppings.

“What brings you to a town like Redemption?” he asked.

A lie jumped to her tongue, but Lucy bit it back. It would be much more interesting to see him figure it out bit by bit, even though his mind would refuse to believe any of it.

“I came here to save myself from a life of misery.” She lifted her silk skirts higher than necessary to avoid another pile of dung. “I want to live what you’d call a normal life.”

“And you didn’t have a normal life where you lived before?”

“Normal for there, yes,” she answered.

They passed by the bank and then the feed store, where two men standing outside leered openly at her. A pointed look from Mr. Caine had them scurrying inside, safe from the trouble his glare promised.

“What was so bad about where you lived?” he asked, as though nothing had happened.

Lucy bit back a laugh, then watched his face as she answered. “It was Hell.”

To her surprise, he didn’t flinch at her language. Instead he chuckled softly. “I know what you mean. I used to think this was hell, too.”

“Oh no,” she muttered. “This isn’t even close.”

He led her inside the law office where, within minutes, the old whiskey-smelling judge had made it official.
She was now Mrs. Jedidiah Caine. Granted, it wouldn’t last long, but she’d never been a wife before.

This ought to be interesting.

Excerpt of Strong and Sexy (Sky High Air, Book 2) by Jill Shalvis, released by Brava 1 Jan 08. Read on…

She rushed into Shayne Mahoney’s party as if there was a firecracker on her ass; wobbling on heels she clearly wasn’t comfortable in, wearing a little black dress that revealed pale, porcelain curves most people found unfashionable these days. Not Shayne. Nope, he loved curves.The woman’s dark hair was piled haphazardly on top of her head, held there by two yellow pencils. Interesting choice for a formal cocktail party. So was the way she moved into the large reception lobby, her gait a little awkward, her smile broadcasting her nerves.Very interesting.

She wasn’t his type. Not because she wasn’t tall, stacked and model-ready, but because she pretty much screamed fish out of water.

All of the women he’d dated lately – hell, ever – had been confident. Bold. Overtly sexy.

And, as Brody and Noah would tell him, none of the women he’d dated had managed to hold his interest.

There was a message there, he knew, but he didn’t care. He shifted to move away, but then something had him turning back, just as the woman tripped over her own feet. As he started toward her, she managed to catch herself, then furtively glanced around the crowd to see if anyone had noticed, a self-conscious gesture that made him smile.

Definitely not confident, bold, or overtly sexy.

And yet something about her seemed incredibly appealing, and not just because in a sea of pedigreed roses she stood out as the lone wildflower, but because she seemed familiar.

He hadn’t slept with her, he knew that much. He hadn’t flown her in one of his planes, or for Sky High Air, and he hadn’t worked with her.

So who was she?

A server passed her, and she took a flute of champagne, flashing the guy a quick smile that could break a heart at fifty paces because it was real, it made her more than just pretty, but someone he couldn’t take his eyes off of.

And yet the server didn’t smile back, which pissed Shayne off. Granted, she wasn’t fake-tanned or gym-toned like the other women here, and no, she wasn’t especially graceful, and clearly felt out of her element, but she was a guest, and as such, deserved the same respect the others received.

Shayne would talk to the server, that was for damn sure, though it would do little good. The people here tonight were shallow, all of them. Hell, Shayne himself had been hit on no less than three times before the party had even gotten started, including Michelle, a woman he’d stopped seeing when she’d gotten a little too possessive after two dates.

But this woman wasn’t hitting on anyone, she was trying to be invisible. Interest piqued for the first time in days, he kept his eye on her. She was attempting to tuck some of her wayward hair back into its constraints, not being successful in any way as the strands immediately slipped free again, brushing over her throat, her shoulders.

Yeah, she was a complete wreck.

An adorable, sexy, complete wreck.

Excerpt of Vanquished by Hope Tarr (Medallion, 1 Jul 06) – pretty covers, but some of the model’s poses make me go “ouch!” Have you seen her recent Blaze cover?

CHAPTER ONE

“Your denial of my citizen’s right to vote, is the denial of my right of consent as one of the governed, the denial of my right of representation as one of the taxed, the denial of my right to a trial by a jury of my peers as an offender against the law; therefore the denial of my sacred right to life, liberty, property…”

~ Susan B. Anthony
United States of America v. Susan B. Anthony, 1873

Westminster, London
February 1890

“Votes for Women now. Votes for women NOW!”

The protestors’ voices pitched higher still, shriller still, or so it seemed to Hadrian as he hurried across Westminster Bridge, the wind tearing at his greatcoat and scarf and threatening to rip the bowler from his head. Stepping out onto the crowded street, he tightened his grip on his camera, a German-made Anschütz with a shutter mechanism capable of arresting motion to one-thousandth of a second. He’d put the equipment to good test that afternoon at St. Thomas Hospital photographing a newly discovered medical anomaly. The poor bastard had been born with an enormous scrotum, tumor-mottled skin, and a chronic palsy that would have rendered traditional photographs little better than a blur. Even so, using his talent to turn a fellow human being into little better than a circus freak hadn’t set well with Hadrian, and the subject’s sad-eyed patience in holding any number of humiliating poses had made him feel like the lowest of beasts. Now frozen, footsore and famished, he couldn’t reach his studio soon enough.

But to do so he first had to run the gauntlet of suffragists who’d overtaken Parliament Square. They’d camped out for coming on two days now, creating a bloody nuisance for pedestrians and conveyances alike. Dressed in somber grays and serious blacks, the fifty-odd females picketing beneath the gray wash of winter sky might just as easily pass for a funeral procession as a political rally were it not for the placards the women held aloft and the noise they emitted — especially the noise.

“Miss Caledonia Rivers to speak on the subject of female emancipation… Hallman’s Assembly Rooms… tomorrow evening… seven o’ clock.”

Dodging traffic to cross to the sidewalk, Hadrian could only shake his head. That any woman fortunate enough to possess a roof and four walls would march about in the bitter air struck him as a sort of perverse self-indulgence, a foolishness on par with going slumming in the stews or touring prison yards to observe the convicts picking oakum. He had no patience for it, none at all and when one bug-eyed female had the audacity to try and stuff a pamphlet in his already full hands, he swallowed an oath worthy of his Covent Garden days and darted inside the park’s gated entrance.

He realized his mistake at once. Apparently not content with clogging the sidewalks, the damnable females had made camp within the park proper. A platform had been erected in the center of the green and several more dark-clad women busied themselves lighting the torches set about its perimeter. Giving them broad berth, he kept his head down and his sights trained on the opposite end of the wrought-iron gate.

The blare of a bobbie’s whistle from outside the park walls instinctively sent him swinging around — and barreling into a female’s soft body. “Ouf!”

Hadrian stared down in horror. The woman he’d knocked off her feet now sprawled at his, feathered hat askew and skirts bunched. On the frost-parched-grass beside her, a leather briefcase crammed with papers stretched wide open.

He went down on his knees beside her. “Madam, are you all right?” Unleashing his grip on the camera, he slid an arm beneath her shoulders.

She jerked at his touch. Behind the netting of veiled hat, her green eyes flashed fire. “It’s miss, actually.” She elbowed her way upright and yanked down her skirts — but not before Hadrian caught sight of a pair of appealingly trim ankles. “And I would be in fine fettle indeed had you but seen fit to mind where you were going.” Broken peacock feather dangling over her one eye, she got to her knees and began collecting her papers.

Courtesy toward women was deeply ingrained, one of the few values Hadrian possessed, and the only claim he could make to being a gentleman by deed if not by birth. And so rather than point out that she had bumped into him as well, he held out his hand to help her up. “Allow me.”

Beneath the weight of that atrocious hat, her head snapped up. “I believe I have had quite enough of your help for one day.”

As if bent on proving her wrong, the demon wind kicked up, scattering vellum sheets to the four winds.

She leapt to her feet. “My papers!” Hiking up her skirts, she gave chase across the park. Over her shoulder, she shouted, “Well, don’t just stand there. Do something!”

Bloody hell. With a muttered prayer that his camera would still be there on his return, Hadrian abandoned it to run after her. Hell bent on cheating the wrangling wind, he plucked one sheet from its skewer of wrought-iron fencepost and another from the foot of the statue of the late Benjamin Disraeli. At the lady’s insistence, he retrieved two more from the upper branches of one very tall, very scratchy oak tree. Breathless, bruised, and sporting a tear in his coat, he shoved the last of the papers in his pocket and climbed down. Dropping to the hard-packed ground, he scanned the square for signs of his erstwhile victim, but she appeared to have vanished.

He was on the verge of giving up and going on his way when he spotted her, down on all fours and buried shoulder-deep in the boxwood hedge. Coming up behind her, he tapped her smartly on the back. “What the devil do you think you’re about?”

From beneath the branches, her muffled voice answered, “Collecting my papers naturally.” She crawled out, feathers hanging at half-mast and a clutch of vellum in one grubby glove.

This time she accepted his hand up without argument. Standing face-to-face, he saw she was tall, nearly a match for his six feet. The novelty of looking a woman directly in the eye had him peering beyond the blur of veil for a closer study. No great beauty, he decided, nor was she any green girl. If he had to make a stab at guessing, he’d peg her at thirty-odd, perhaps a year or two older than himself, and a spinster judging by the “miss” as well as the dreary clothing. And yet the sage-colored eyes beneath the slash of dark brows were both expressive and arresting, and the full mouth and softly squared jaw completed a pleasing enough picture.

Caught up, it took her discreet cough to remind him of the papers bulging from his pocket. Handing them over, he said, “I think this is the lot.”

“Thank you.” She took them from him, her gloved fingertips brushing his, and improbably he felt the warm tingle of her touch shoot straight to his groin. Stuffing the papers inside her case, she spotted the mud and dried leaves festooning the front of her coat. “Oh dear, I’m a mess” she said, swiping at the muck with her soiled glove. “I never can seem to manage the trick of remembering a handkerchief.”

He fumbled in his pocket. “Here, have mine.” He pressed the square into her palm, again experiencing that peculiar surge of heat.

She accepted with a grateful smile and bent to brush away the dirt. “Thank you — again.” Straightening to her full, glorious height, she handed back his handkerchief.

Feeling in better spirits, he shook his head. “Keep it. Really, it’s the least I can do after mowing you down like so much lawn grass.”

She laughed then, a soft airy tinkling that made him think of the wind chimes his landlady insisted on hanging by his backdoor. “All right then… if you’re sure.” She stuffed the wadded ball of linen into her coat pocket and turned to go. Stopping in her tracks, she looked back. “Mind you don’t lose your papers.”

“My papers? Oh… quite.” Good God, he’d left his best camera out in the open and, worse yet, had been on the verge of forgetting it entirely. What the devil was the matter with him? Jogging over to retrieve it, he thought of his flat, empty save for his cat, and realized he was no longer so very eager to reach it — at least not alone. “I’m not always such an oaf, you know,” he called back, wracking his brain for something else to say, some pretense to hold her.

From a few feet away, she cupped a hand to her ear. “Sorry?”

“I said I’m not always such an oaf.”

“Oh.” She paused in mid-step, appearing to consider that. “Well, I’m not usually such a harridan, either except when I’m nervous — or in this case, late.”

“I don’t think you’re a harridan.” Camera in hand, he closed the space separating them in three ridiculously long strides. “It’s these protestors, taking up the whole bloody square as if they own every brick and statue, spewing their rubbish at all hours that have everyone on edge. I only came through the park to avoid them.”

Mouth lifting into a pretty smile of full pink lips and straight white teeth, she nodded to the park beyond them. “It would seem you’ve rather failed in that regard.”

“Yes, I suppose I have.” Looking back over his shoulder, he saw they were the object of a good many whispers and gawking stares. Their mad dash must have made an amusing spectacle indeed. Ordinarily that realization would have set him fuming but rather than care, he found himself saying, “There’s a tea shop just around the corner. Allow me to make amends by buying you a cup?”

She shook her head, looking adorably shy and far younger than she had at first when she’d still been tight-lipped and cross. “That isn’t necessary. And I’ve an… engagement to keep.”

Ah yes, presumably the engagement for which he had made her late already. A decent fellow would accept defeat and send her on her way. And yet the mental image of how splendid she would look freed from all those ghastly clothes and wearing only his bed sheets prompted him to press, “As you’re late already, why not postpone it altogether, at least until you’ve thawed?

She shook her head, causing the broken hat feathers to careen like a torn sail. “I can’t. I really must be going.” The tightening of her mouth told him he’d been too forward, that this time she really did mean to go.

“Ah well, perhaps we’ll bump into one another again sometime.” He fished inside his coat pocket for one of his business cards as a pretense to asking her name.

“Yes, perhaps we shall,” she allowed but there was no hope of it in her eyes. She turned to go and Hadrian knew this time there would be no more keeping her.

Before she could take a step, a squat woman with salt-and-pepper hair and a man’s plaid muffler wrapped about her short neck rushed up to intercept her. “Good Lord, Callie, are you all right? I was outside the gate and only just heard what happened.”

Beneath her veil, the woman — Callie — flushed bright crimson. “Calm yourself, Harriet. I am perfectly fine. I took a bit of a tumble, and my briefcase spilled.” Her shy-eyed gaze shifted to Hadrian. “This gentleman was kind enough to help me.”

From behind horn-rimmed spectacles, Harriet’s beady-eyed gaze dropped to the camera case in Hadrian’s hand. “I don’t know what rag of a newspaper you’re with, sir, but if your scheme is to scare up scandal and rubbish by waylaying Miss Rivers and photographing her in disarray, then you’d best think again.”

Taken off guard, Hadrian started to demur when from the vicinity of the stage, someone with a bullhorn belted out, “Miss Caledonia Rivers to make her address. Five minutes, ladies. Five minutes…”

Callie Rivers. Caledonia Rivers. It was then that the fog inside Hadrian’s head lifted. His mystery woman was one of them, a suffragette! And not just any suffragette but their leader! Seeing her through new eyes, he took in the spinsterish coat, the awful hat, and the leather case containing the oh-so important papers, and asked himself how a piquant smile and a pair of pretty ankles had turned him into such an absolute idiot.

He stared at her, feeling like a biblical figure from whose eyes the scales had just fallen. “Your pressing engagement, I take it?”

She answered with a brusque nod, at once prim and proper and utterly businesslike. “Quite.”

Now that his initial shock was fading, he could at least appreciate the irony of the situation. The first woman to pique his interest in years was the celebrated champion of a cause he’d come to loathe.

“Lest we part as strangers, my name is St. Claire. Hadrian St. Claire.” By this time, he had the sought-after business card in hand and his shock firmly in check. Handing her the card, he said, “I’m not a reporter. I’m a photographer. I have a studio a few blocks from here on Great George. Portraiture is my specialty.”

She tucked his card into her pocket with nary a glance. “I’m afraid I’m not terribly fond of having my photograph taken.”

“Pity. You’d make for a most intriguing subject.” And because he had absolutely nothing to lose — now that he knew who and what she was, what possible interest in her could he have — he looked directly into Caledonia Rivers’ beautiful, mortified eyes and added, “I should have recognized you from the newspaper etchings had they but done you justice. You’re far prettier, and far younger, than I would have supposed.”

Beneath the veil, the stain on her cheeks darkened from pale pink to dusky rose but, to her credit, she didn’t look away. “I think you mock me, sir.”

“On the contrary, miss, if either of us is the subject of mockery, I rather think it is me.” He nodded toward a clutch of young women watching them and giggling behind their gloves.

Harriet skewered him with a sharp look before turning back to the Rivers woman. “Callie, dear, we really must be on our way.” She hooked her plump arm through her friend’s and began leading her away.

“Ladies.” He tipped his bowler to them both, but it was Caledonia Rivers whom he followed with his eyes as she hurried toward the platform, creased and muddied skirts trailing the pavement, broken hat feathers caught up in the fingers of the wind.

So that was Caledonia Rivers, the celebrated suffragette spokeswoman making headlines in all the newspapers. What was it the press was calling her these days? Ah yes, The Maid of Mayfair. Unlike so many of her suffragette sisters whose reputations skirted the fringe of respectability, Caledonia Rivers was said to be so very good and virtuous — and yet not too good or too virtuous to indulge in a bit of a flirt in a public park, the little hypocrite.

He’d only paid her the compliment to torture her, and yet in his roundabout way he’d spoken nothing but the truth. The flesh-and-blood woman with whom he’d passed the last delightful few minutes scarcely resembled the stern-faced Amazon the newspapers made her out to be.

As for the “maid” part, he was deucedly sorry he wouldn’t have the opportunity to test that out for himself.

Or would he?

Hidden by Eve Kenin, new from Shomi out in **July 2008**

Tatiana has honed her genetic gifts to perfection. She can withstand the subzero temperatures of the Northern Waste, read somebody’s mind with the briefest touch, and slice through bone with her bare hands. Which makes her one badass chick, all right. Nothing gets to her.

Until she meets Tristan. Villain or ally, she can’t be sure. But one thing she does know: he has gifts too- including the ability to ramp up her heart rate to dangerous levels. But before they can start some chemistry of their own, they have to survive being trapped in an underground lab, hunted by a madman, and exposed to a plague that could destroy mankind.

Prologue

Sub-basement, Janson Transport Head Office, Port Uranium, January, 2088

Blood had its own scent. Metallic, sharp. Faintly sweet.

Tatiana raised her hand to her cheek, beyond pain, almost beyond thought. There would be more. With Duncan Bane, there was always more.

To make you stronger. To make you invincible. Bane’s justification. And the simple truth. But Tatiana wasn’t like Wizard or Yuriko. She didn’t recover as quickly as her siblings. She bruised easier. Her bones broke where Wizard’s and Yuriko’s bent to absorb the force.

And Bane had been particularly brutal this session.

“Because you are soon to go on your first mission,” he explained in that soft, soft cultured voice, pacing a straight line before the three of them. He paused, touched Tatiana on the shoulder. She shuddered, but knew better than to pull away. “This will ensure that you are ready, that you survive. You”-he spun toward Wizard-”will be the commander, and a commander must be able to make rapid decisions.”

Another step, and Bane stood in front of Yuriko. Running his finger along her cheek, he smiled as she jerked away. “So decide now, Wizard. Who will be subjected to ten more minutes?”

Tatiana choked back a plea. Please. I can’t. I can’t-

She shook her head, struggled to focus. The room felt too big, too bright, and this all felt so familiar, like she had been here many times before. She knew what Wizard would say even before the words left his lips.

“Me. I will take the ten minutes.”

She let out a dry sob. Wizard. Her brother, so logical even in this. He would take the blows because he was the most physically resilient. And because he would stand before her and take them in her stead.

Yuriko was like him. Clean and linear in thought and action.

But Tatiana…

Bane laughed as he stared at Wizard, the sound hollow, echoing off the bare walls, echoing in her darkest dreams.

Yes, just a dream. It must be.

“You are the commander,” he said. “The fastest. The strongest. You have the best chance of finishing your mission. I may send you out tonight, before you have time to heal, though. Choose the weakest, Wizard. A good commander knows when to calculate the odds, when to sacrifice for the good of the mission.”

“Wizard…save her. Please. She has a chance,” Yuriko’s normally cool tone was laced with despair, with pain, and Tatiana’s heart shattered as it did each time the nightmares sank her to this place, to the deep dark of her soul, the coldest part of her memories. Because in begging Wizard to save Tatiana, Yuriko had doomed herself.

Bane would set loose his brutality on her.

Trembling, Tatiana swayed on her feet, her swollen lips working as she tried to form the words…What words? Did she mean to offer herself to Bane’s fists, or to sacrifice her sister?

Again came the eerie, frightening sensation of familiarity and the terrifying knowledge that she had lived these moments again and again, that the outcome was always the same.

The walls around her shimmered and danced, and she heard voices, saw lights. They were wrong. They had no place here.

She had no place here. None of it was real.

Heart racing, palms damp, Tatiana began to run, her feet pounding against the cold stone floor, hard, fast, only she didn’t move at all. Her limbs pumped as hard and as fast as they could, and still she stayed in one place, trapped in the past.

She only needed to pull free, come awake, and they would be gone, the pain, the memories, the horror. But neither the bonds of sleep nor the terrors that dwelled in her memories eased to set her free. They held her in tight tendrils that dragged her back and pulled her into a place she had no wish to be.

Wizard…save her. Please. She has a chance.

Yuriko’s voice, low, urgent.

Bound in the barbed web of events that had played out long ago, Tatiana thrashed and flailed. A dream. A dream. It was only a dream.

“Calculate the odds,” Bane ordered.

Tatiana’s breath came in short, huffing pants. She couldn’t push any sound past the lump in her throat. Coward. She was a coward. Weak.

Hazy, unfocused, she shifted her gaze to Wizard. Silently she pleaded for…what? What did she want him to do? What could he do?

The outcome was always the same. She had been powerless to change it then, powerless to change it now.

“Choose.” Bane whispered the word against Wizard’s ear.

For the first time in her recollection, her brother hesitated.

Choose. Choose. Choose.

And then Bane’s face melted like wax in a flame, shifting, changing, until it was a different man who chained her, a different man who stood looking down at her wanting to master her, to use her, to twist what she was for his own gain.

She had thought Bane the face of purest evil. But she’d been wrong. So wrong.

Gavin Ward. Dr. Gavin Ward.

He was here for her. Her time was up.

Sweating, screaming, Tatiana bolted upright, the dream so real that she smelled the stink of her own fear, felt the sting of the blows in her cheek, her jaw, as though they had landed minutes rather than years past. Felt the pain of knowing that her weakness had cost her sister her life.

Yuriko. Oh, God. Yuriko.

Dragging her knees up, Tatiana wrapped her arms around them, and lowered her forehead. She closed her eyes, shuddering in the cold and the darkness, fighting the memories, the anguish, the fear.

A nightmare, she told herself. Only a nightmare.

But it wasn’t.

Because as she raised her head, she saw him, there, in the shadows, just beyond the bars that caged her. Gavin Ward was there. Watching.

And the light glinted off the scalpel in his hand.

© Eve Eve Silver 2008. All rights reserved

** doesn’t it just make you WANT it now… don’t worry July isn’t THAT far away… and if you haven’t picked up Driven yet WHAT are you waiting for? Do keep in mind you do NOT HAVE to read Driven by Eve Kenin before reading Hidden. They take place in the same world are NOT sequels.

But if you are now dying to read this and haven’t read Driven yet, check out our reviews here and here. You can thank us later .

As you know, I have really enjoyed Karen Templeton’s last few novels and her latest trilogy is amazing. I want to put the entire Guys & Daughters series (Dear Santa, Yours, Mine…or Ours? and Baby, I’m Yours) into every readers hand and say, “Forget what you ‘know’ or think you know about Harlequin, romance novels, Silhouette Special Edition. If you have never tried the line, start here.”

It’s that good.

Here’s the blurb…

All Kevin Vaccaro had wanted to do, when he went looking for his ex-girlfriend on the other side of the country, was to apologize for not fighting harder to help her overcome the same drug and alcohol dependency issues that had held him in bondage for years. Except his ex is dead…leaving behind a baby girl. Jobless, homeless, clean for barely a year, how the hell is Kevin supposed to prove to Pippa’s grandfather – and her widowed aunt, the baby’s primary caregiver – that he deserves custody of his own child?

Julianne McCabe knows letting Kevin stay in her father’s house for a month – Victor Booth’s condition for even considering eventually giving Kevin custody – means very possibly having to give up the child she loves as her own. If Kevin takes Pippa away, Julianne’s heart will break. But even worse, watching Kevin’s fight to earn her father’s – and Julianne’s – trust threatens to dissolve the safe cocoon she’s woven around herself since her husband’s death.

And that will never do…

He remembered the almost wistful envy in her voice. Weird, he’d thought at the time, through the haze of assorted controlled substances. Still weird, he thought, now stone cold sober.

Whether Victor Booth was there now, he had no idea. The man wasn’t exactly listed in the phone book. In fact, despite his regular appearances on one of the morning talk shows a few years back, even though you could hardly go into Costco and not see his face plastered on a stack of hardbacks, it was next to impossible to find out anything about “Dr. Vic.” Apparently the paparazzi had bigger, blonder, boozier fish to fry.

A breeze nudged aside the heat clinging to Kevin’s skin, rustled the cottonwood leaves, shimmering coins in the clear mid-morning light. He sucked in a breath. Then another. Two thousand miles was a long way to come to possibly run into a dead end. But he had to find Robyn, to apologize for running, even if at the time he’d felt he had no choice. Then maybe he could finally get on with something resembling a real life. How he was supposed to go about that…not a clue. But for sure his retarded Peter Pan days were over.

A grinning Golden Retriever edged into his peripheral vision, a toned matron in a sleeveless shirt and cargo shorts marching smartly behind. The woman glanced at the parked car, curiosity buzzing from behind bumble-bee sunglasses. A second later, she flipped open her cell phone, tossing another furtive glance over her shoulder as she soldiered on. On a weary sigh, Kevin unfolded himself from the car, giving the woman – clearly keeping an eye on him – a little wave and smile.

She jumped, nearly tripping over the dog as she scurried away.

Feeling moderately cheered, Kevin hauled in another steadying breath and started across the street, thinking it was a shame Hertz didn’t provide barf bags as part of the rental fee.

***

“What on earth are you watching so hard, Julie-bird?”

Ignoring her father’s much-loathed pet name for her, Julianne McCabe shifted slightly at the living room window. All the better to see the tall, lanky male – the last vestiges of boyhood clinging to his loose-limbed gait – heading toward the house.

“See for yourself,” she said, removing her glasses to clean the lenses on the
hem of her sleeveless blouse. Pointlessly, as it happened, since her father, in his usual summer uniform of loose linen shirt and Dockers, had already hobbled across the room to peer over her shoulder. Smelling of aftershave and peppermints, like all good daddies should, Victor Booth was supposed to be in his office, working or resting the pulled muscle in his back or something. Not here, hovering. Being “there” for her.

Julianne pushed her glasses back on, wincing slightly when the corners of the steel frames caught in her too-long bangs. When had she last worn her contacts? Or makeup? Had the energy, or inclination, to fix herself up?

“Who the hell is that?” her father muttered a moment before the young man vanished behind the massive, obscenely blossomed Spanish broom blocking their view of the front entry. A second later, the doorbell rang.

And wasn’t it a sad commentary on what she’d let her life become, that a stranger at the door should produce something almost like a thrill? Over the ripple of self-disgust, she said, “Guess we’re about to find out.”

“Don’t bother. It’s probably just somebody trying to either sell us something or save our souls.”

Too late on that last thing, Julianne thought as she shook her head, aiming an indulgently patient look in her father’s direction. The sort of look adoring and/or grateful daughters were supposed to give doting fathers. Especially fathers with the confidence-inspiring visage that sold books and filled auditoriums – the thick, tweedy hair and crinkly blue eyes, the precisely clipped hedgerow of also-tweedy whiskers edging a Dudley-Do-Right jaw.

“Since he’s empty-handed, I think we’re safe,” she said, heading toward the door, amazed to find herself feeling almost awake. “And besides, he’s been sitting in his car watching the house for ten minutes.”

A cane shot out in front of her. “Stay here.”

Julianne crept into the tiled entryway behind her father, who was shuffling toward the door as fast as his pulled back muscle would let him. Although what she hoped to see, she had no idea, since his linebacker frame easily blocked the doorway. Gus, their older-than-dirt chocolate Lab, dozed on the warm, unevenly textured clay tiles in a blurred pool of sunlight from the clerestory over the doorway. Wouldn’t mind spending my days like that, she thought, her arms folded over her stomach, only to realize she pretty much did. Except for—

“Sorry to intrude, Mr. Booth,” said a strong New England accent. “My name’s Kevin Vaccaro. I’m, uh, a friend of Robyn’s? She here, by any chance?”

Julianne sucked in a breath over her father’s, “No, she’s not.” Grief, anger, regret riddled his words, the same triad of emotions that had battered Julianne’s soul, in never-ending waves, for far too long. Dad shifted to lean heavily on the three-pronged cane he’d already sworn to burn. “Robyn died three months ago, Mr. Vaccaro.”

Blood drained from a face downright Michelangelesque. No surprise there, given her sister’s penchant for the cute but clueless, each hook-up less connected with reality than his predecessor, every one summarily dumped before they could dump her.

Except this one, who’d beaten her to the punch.

“I’m…so sorry,” Kevin said, almost stumbling backwards, shock turning to horror in guileless brown eyes. “I didn’t know…I should go—”

“No,” Julianne said, elbowing past her father, in a split second making a decision that would in all likelihood rock her universe. “No, come in—”

“Julie!”

“For heaven’s sake, Dad, he’s in shock! We can’t just send him away!”

Confusion cramped Kevin’s face as Julianne’s presence seemed to finally register. Dimly, it occurred to her how she must look, the epitome of the haggard young widow who doesn’t give a damn anymore. Not that she hadn’t always been the older, paler, bonier version of her sister – her eyes less blue, her hair more faded, a thinner mouth, a sharper nose—

“You know who I am,” Kevin said.

“You bet your ass I know who you are,” her father said. Not budging. Not forgiving. “And you are not welcome in my house.”

“Dad. It wasn’t his fault.”

That much Julianne knew, even if her father still couldn’t accept the truth: That Kevin’s leaving Robyn, while not doing her any favors, had played little part in her inability to shake a substance abuse problem that had been in place long before his involvement with her. Julianne also knew she’d win this battle. Although whether because Dad wasn’t as adamant about his plan as he’d have her believe, or because he wouldn’t deny her anything reasonably within his power to give her, she couldn’t say. Nor did she care. At the moment, she’d play whatever hand had been dealt her and deal with the consequences later.

“Can I get you something?” Julianne asked as she led Kevin past the quivering, gray-muzzled dog, the family photos lined up against a taupe wall (the Gallery of Illusions, Robyn had called it), into the brightly lit living room cluttered with corpulent leather furniture, local artwork, southwestern native crafts. “Coffee? Water?”

“A beer?” her father said behind them, deliberately provoking.

Irritation flashed in toffee-colored eyes. Kevin was younger than she, she knew. Not by much, a few years. Enough to make a difference, though, to someone who felt old as Methuselah. His shirt was a little too loose, his pants rode a trifle too low, the hallmark of a guy who hadn’t yet figured out that size mattered. Still, she thought – hoped? – she saw the signs of someone playing a hard, fast game of catch-up.

“I’m a recovering addict, Mr. Booth,” Kevin said softly, reaching down to scratch a panting, grinning Gus between his ears before meeting her father’s lock-jawed expression. “I’ve been clean for more than a year.” He turned to Julianne, wearing the slightly blank look of someone unsure of his next line. At the moment, the dog was probably registering more on his radar than she was. “And thanks,” he said, “but I’m good.”

Then he dropped onto the sofa’s edge, his hands clasped between his knees as he stared at the floor, clearly trying to absorb the news. Finally, he lifted his eyes to Julianne’s father. “What happened?”

Victor’s gaze bounced off Julianne’s, scrupulously avoiding the baby monitor on the coffee table not two feet from where Kevin was sitting. Not that it was likely he’d make the connection, but still. “I don’t have to—”

“I came here for answers,” Kevin said, his voice surprisingly strong. Unintimidated. “No, actually I came to apologize to Robyn, but now that I’m here…” His hands clenched. “Now that I know…”

“This is private family business. We’re not obligated to tell you—”

“My sister was killed in a swimming accident,” Julianne said quietly. “While we were on vacation in Mexico.”

Kevin swore, softly and bluntly, his reaction genuine enough for Julianne to feel a spurt of sympathy. Robyn hadn’t loved him, she knew that much. Oh, she’d been pissed when he’d left, but that had been more the wounded pride of a emotionally scarred, and very young, woman outraged at being the dumpee. What Kevin’s feelings had been for her sister, she had no way of knowing, of course. Not that she blamed him for leaving. Few people would have nominated her sister for a congeniality award.

Her father’s eyes cut to hers, pleading. Unflinching, she returned his gaze, shaking her head.

Even though she knew what her act of defiance would cost her.

“Was she using?” Kevin asked, shattering Julianne’s thoughts.

“Yes,” she said over her father’s, “What concern is that of yours?”

“Of course it’s his concern!” Julianne said, startled at her own vehemence. It had been a long time since she’d felt vehement. Since she’d felt much of anything. “It’s always been his concern! He has a right to know! He’s—”

“Julie!”

The cane jabbed into the carpet as Dad advanced on her, his anguish colliding with hers. Her only excuse, perhaps, for not having fought him harder before this about ending the lie, doing the right thing. But, oh, dear God – how incredibly out of whack their lives had been these past few months, focusing on loss instead of gain, on separation instead of connection. A crippling confederacy of negatives Julianne was now determined to overthrow—

“Don’t do this, Julie-bird. Don’t tell him.”

—whether her father was on the same page or not.

“Don’t tell me what, for God’s sake?” Kevin was on his feet, his bewilderment clawing at her sense of decency. “Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on—?”

Kevin’s gaze jerked to the monitor, crackling with the distinct sounds of a baby waking up from her nap.

“Robyn was pregnant when you left,” Julianne said quietly, her heart splitting in two as she watched her words slowly register in toffee colored eyes.

(c) 2007, 2008 – Printed with permission of Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd. All rights reserved.

le sigh…. this book is good…

Unlawful Contact by Pamela Clare

EXCERPT Part I: Unlawful Contact
EXCERPT Part II: Unlawful Contact
EXCERPT Part III: Unlawful Contact
EXCERPT Part IV: Unlawful Contact

We will announce Pamela’s winner tomorrow . Hope you have enjoyed the excerpts and if you have read the book, what did you think? Here is one last bonus bite *g* otherwise known as the jag shag.

If only she had Holly’s sexual courage—and her skill at walking in spiked heels.

Doing her best to step gracefully, Sophie made her way down the stairs into the parking garage, spied the gleaming black Jaguar, and, pulse racing, walked right past it. She stopped at the end of the row and stood there, waiting. Hunt was a smart man; he would figure it out.

And she hoped he figured it out fast. She was freezing her bare butt off.

She heard the Jag’s engine roar to life and took a deep breath, a giggle welling up inside her. She subdued it, fought to keep a straight face, hardly able to breathe. She couldn’t blow this. She just couldn’t.

The Jag rolling slowly, Hunt circled the row of parked cars like a predator circling its prey. When he finally drew along side her, she was on the driver’s side. The car slowed to a stop, and the window slid down with a buzz. He raked her with his gaze, down and up and down again. “Do you need a ride?”

She lowered her voice, let the words come out slow and sultry, looking at him from beneath her eyelashes. “Only if you can take me where I need to go.”

“Oh, babe, I know I can.” He smiled, a slow, sexy smile. “But what’s in it for me?”

Sophie walked closer, switched her shopping bags into one hand, and lifted the front of the dress just enough to show him what was—and wasn’t—beneath it.

Air rushed from his lungs as if he’d been hit. “Get in.”

Sophie dropped her dress back in place, took a step backward. “You’re my first… customer. How do I know you won’t hurt me?”

He looked at her through dark eyes. “You don’t.”

A tremor of excitement rushed through her. She walked around to the passenger door, which opened for her, and let Hunt take her bags. Then she slid into the seat, the heat of his gaze all over her, a look of blatant male hunger on his face.

As the car began to move, she reached over, unbuttoned his jeans and slid her hand inside, her blood going hot when she found him already hard as granite. “You’re so big!”

But he didn’t answer, his eyes on the exit, his jaw clenched.

She freed him from his jeans and stroked his entire length, working him slowly, paying special attention to the engorged head. “Does that feel good?”

Sunlight flooded the car as it left the garage for the street. As the car turned onto the highway, she bent down and took him into her mouth.

Marc gripped the steering wheel with both hands, his mind completely blown. When he’d told her to surprise him, he’d been thinking of a white, lace teddy and maybe a thong or two, not a full-blown sex game and road head. Oh, but here he was, driving on the highway, going fifty-five, and getting the best blow job of his life, his cock in her hot, wet mouth.

And, Jesus, what was she doing with her tongue?

Merging traffic. Slow down.

“You’re pretty good, baby.” His voice was ragged, gruff. “God, yeah, really good.”

She moaned, tightened her grip, took him into her throat.

Throbbing heat filled his pelvis, made his balls ache.

Speed limit fifty-five. Speed up. Whoa! Slow down.

He reached down, sank his fingers in her hair, holding the steering wheel with one hand, his hips lifting of their own accord, urging her to go faster. “God, yes! Fuck me with your mouth!”

Faster. Faster. Yes!

The Louisville exit passed in a blur.

Slow down!

Then she reached down, forced her hand between his thighs, and cupped his balls, keeping up the rhythm with her mouth, her tongue swirling over the aching head of his cock, swirling, flicking, stroking.

Orgasm shot through him in great, wracking spasms, the pleasure sharp and hot, Sophie taking all of it. How he managed to keep the car on the road, he didn’t know. All he knew was that when he could think again, they were still on the highway, and no one was dead.

She sat up, ran kisses along his throat, his jaw. “Did you like that?”

Two could play at this game.

“I’m not finished with you yet, babe. I intend to get my money’s worth.”

She shivered. “What do you want from me.”

“Put your chair back, spread your legs and rest your knees on the dash. Then lift your dress above your waist.”

“But—”

“Do it!”

She did as he asked, exposing her soft inner thighs and the red-gold curls of her muff, opening for him like an exotic tropical flower, rosy and sweet. One eye on the road and one on her, he indulged himself and played with her, feeling the softest part of her, teasing her swollen clit, sliding his finger inside her. Soon she was lifting her hips, whimpering, pleading with him. By the time he’d pulled into the garage, she had already come once, and he was hard again, his libido sent into overdrive by her erotic game.

He jerked the car to a stop, turned off the engine, and closed the garage door behind them. Then he walked around to the passenger side, opened her door and hauled her into his arms for a long, hard kiss. But he wanted more. He pulled her around to the front of the car, turned her to face away from him, and bent her over the hood of the Jag, lifting her dress, exposing her delicious bare ass.

“I’m going to fuck you now just the way I want to—hard and fast.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a condom, opened it and rolled it down the length of his erection. Then gripping her hips, he drove into her.

She closed around him like a fist, the fit so perfect that it seemed a miracle, every thrust better than the one before. He wanted to make it last, wanted to make sure she enjoyed it, too. But the sight of her bent over the hood of Jag in her sexy black dress, her bare ass exposed, his cock pounding into her, brought him hurtling toward the edge.

Faster… God, yes! Harder…

She felt so damned good.

Slick… tight… like heaven.

He felt the tension inside her peak and shatter. Her breath broke, became a cry, her back arching as she came. And then he was thrusting into her mindlessly, lost in the hot rush of release.

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