RIDING SHOTGUN by Anne Kane

RIDING SHOTGUN by Anne Kane

Mercenaries 3

She was a genetic experiment that was never supposed to get out of the lab. If the government finds her, they will kill her without hesitation. She's a crack shot, though, and she's used to looking out for herself. Her affinity for all things mechanical helps her make a living on the underground street racing circuit, but it's a dangerous game, and lately things haven't been going so well.

Shotgun falls hard from the first time he meets her, and is determined to make her his own. When accidents keep plaguing Kalie's car, he gets suspicious and with the help of his mercenary buddies he is determined to find the source of the problem and keep his woman safe.

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Excerpt:Riding Shotgun (Mercenaries 3)
Anne Kane
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2014 Anne Kane

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A subtle movement on the far ridge caught Shotgun's attention. It could be a deer on the far ridge, but he doubted it. Moving the scope of his rifle in a slow sweep, he searched for the cause. There. On the west slope. A faint flash as the late afternoon sun reflected off a metal surface.

He kept the rifle trained on the spot, his trigger finger itching, and sure enough, there she was. A sharpshooter. Her rifle looked suspiciously similar to his own, and she handled it like a pro. Her mistake had been not making sure all the shiny metal was covered up.

Her outfit blended well with the surrounding rocks and he had to give her credit for finding a good vantage point. She'd managed to position herself in a wide crack in between two large outcrops of rock. Her back was protected by a sheer wall of granite. An irregular jumble of boulders in front of her gave her numerous places to rest the barrel of her rifle.

He recognized her from the portfolio Brice had shown them of the Lost Children. Kalie. Her riotous mop of long dark curls was held back behind a wide hairband, and the camo outfit she wore covered her deliciously ripe curves. He was too far away to see if her eyes really were as dark and sensual as they looked in her picture, but he was sure it was Kalie.

Her undivided attention was on the gathering in the clearing below. That would be her second mistake. Just because you're hunting, doesn't mean you aren't also being hunted. As he glanced around, gauging the distance between them and the amount of cover available, he felt the corner of his mouth lift in a slow grin.

Nothing like a bit of a challenge to liven up the evening.

* * *

The man came out of nowhere. Jerking her rifle out of her hands, he flipped her over and slammed her body into the ground. The breath whooshed out of her in one long exhale as he pinned her to the ground with his superior weight. Instinctively, she tried to bring her knee up to fend him off.

"I don't think that's such a good idea, little girl." His voice was low, a thread of humor running through it as he blocked the move with a casual flick of his leg. He could afford to be amused. He was planted firmly on top of her, and her rifle was no longer snugged comfortingly against her chin. She eyed up the distance to the weapon. Too far.

A fierce anger enveloped her, fueled by an unfamiliar feeling of helplessness. No one snuck up on her like that. No one. Taking a deep breath, she forced her body to relax. She could get out of this. If he thought she'd given up, he'd let his guard down.

"Who are you?" She spat the words out between clenched teeth, betraying her fury. So much for letting him think she'd given up.

"Name's Shotgun, Kalie. I'm with Saralyn down there, and her new beau. Just kind of keeping an eye on the situation when I noticed you over here. I don't like people watching my friends through the scope of a rifle."

"Really?" He knew her name. Shit. He probably knew about the other girls as well. Her sisters. That couldn't be good. She needed to neutralize him quickly and let them know they'd been found out. She shifted her weight, as if trying to get more comfortable. "Well, I don't like people skulking around watching my friends either, so I guess we're even. Would you mind getting off me? You're heavy."

"Not quite yet." He somehow managed to transfer both of her wrists to one hand. Raising his other arm, he spoke into the comm unit strapped around his wrist. "I got some action up here, Sarge. Little girl, with a big gun. Name of Kalie. Says she's watching point for the others. You want to verify that?"

"Should have expected something like this." Sarge's voice crackled over the unit. "I'll have Jackson check with the girls. Bring her on down, and we'll see if her story checks out."

"Roger that. Be down in a few."

Shotgun looked down at her. He was a big man. Big and hard. His face was all hard angles and planes, with a faint scar running down one side of his temple. She could feel hard muscles pressing into every inch of her. There wasn't a single soft spot on his entire body. Was he enhanced? One of the soldiers they'd fed those experimental drugs to during the provincial wars? That would explain how he'd managed to sneak up on her without her hearing him.

As she watched, a mischievous light danced in the depths of his eyes. He certainly didn't seem to think she was much of a threat. Maybe she could use that to her advantage "Looks like we're going to join the party. Up you get." He surged to his feet with an innate grace that told her he'd kept up his training after the wars. Holding out a hand to help her up, he still managed to keep that rifle pointed directly at her.

"Fine. Let's get moving." She ignored the outstretched hand and stood. "Can I have my rifle back now, please?"

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ECSTASY by Jacquelyn Frank

ECSTASY by Jacquelyn Frank

The Shadowdwellers - Book 1

At one with the darkness, the mysterious Shadowdwellers must live as far from light-loving humans as possible in order to survive. Yet one damaged human woman will tempt the man behind the Shadowdweller throne into a dangerous desire…

HER WORLD IS TOXIC TO HIM, AND SO IS THEIR ATTRACTION

Among the Shadowdwellers, Trace holds power that some are willing to kill for. Without a stranger’s aid, one rival would surely have succeeded, but Trace’s brush with death is less surprising to him than his reaction to the beautiful, fragile human who heals him.

By rights, Trace should hardly even register Ashla’s existence within the realm of Shadowscape, but instead he is drawn to everything about her—her innocence, her courage, and her lush, sensual heat…

After a terrifying car crash, Ashla Townsend wakes up to find that the bustling New York she knew is now eerie and desolate. Just when she’s convinced she’s alone, Ashla is confronted by a dark warrior who draws her deeper into a world she never knew existed. The bond between Ashla and Trace is a mystery to both, but searching for answers will mean confronting long-hidden secrets, and uncovering a threat that could destroy everything Trace holds precious …

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~Excerpt~

Ashla stood shivering in the darkened streets of Times Square.

She was almost used to the total lack of light, and even the eerie absence of sound in a city that ought to have been clamoring with noise, but what she couldn't adjust to was the absolute barrenness of humanity.

How long had she been in this surreal, postapocalyptic version of New York? Had it been a week? Three? She had lost track. One of the most populous cities in America, and she had yet to see a single soul besides herself.

Ashla was a bit hazy on some of the details of when this all had come about, of how and why the world had blossomed into this bizarre, barren landscaping, but she did recall her initial reaction of pure panic. She remembered quite clearly the act of running around to all of the places where coworkers, friends, and even family were supposed to be.

Queens. The Bronx. Eastern Long Island. Eventually here, in Manhattan.

There was no one.

Oh, everything worked all right. Subways. Cars. Machinery. All of it as if the regular occupants of the world would return any moment to pick up and go on just as they always had. Only, there were some strange details missing. There was no television reception or projection. Lightbulbs, neon lights, and anything providing the smallest glimmer of illumination refused to perform their designated functions. That had truly freaked her out in the beginning. The lack of light had made the vast vacant spaces of the city seem somehow claustrophobic and paralyzing. It had gotten better, thank goodness, as her eyes had adapted to the total darkness with a surprising rapidity. She had even grown accustomed to the fact that it always remained nighttime and never turned to day like it should.

Things had definitely improved once she stopped thinking of reasons why there might not be a sun.

Another odd thing was the food. Food was always fresh for the taking, somehow replenishing itself as though invisible workers still carried out their daily duties of stocking and rotating it. She never saw any of it happen, it just did.

In the end, she had realized that the ideal course of action was to not spend too much time thinking about the details. She never got answers when she did, and only managed to scare herself witless in the process. Explanations escaped her for those and many other anomalous details, but she was weary of the constant heart-racing panic that overwhelmed her every time she thought too hard about her shadowed environs. Instead, she learned to enjoy things ... like foods she'd never tried before, or sneaking into homes in Chinatown just to see how different they were.

There was one light, however. Moonlight. It was the one and only relief to the dark world. The growing cycle of the moon, with its inevitable turn toward fullness, would shed more and more beautifully pale light onto the world around her. Ashla didn't even mind all the spooky shadows it cast in long black and gray streaks. She already knew no one was hiding in them.

In fact, her reality remained completely devoid of humanity, just as it had for the better part of a month now. Two months? More? Even time seemed to have given up on this lifeless wasteland that made no sense to her. She supposed she had given up as well, eventually trudging away from the overwhelming grief over lost loved ones and even abandoning her furious frustration at her suddenly senseless world. Now she simply wandered New York and the rest of the tri-state area trying to amuse herself.

Until then, she had never realized how vital the presence of others could be to a person's sanity.

It had actually been fun for a little while, walking paths and places that were normally so heavily protected by security or warning signs, and examining all the strange inner workings of things she'd never questioned before. At least, it had been fun until she had taken a bad fall in a subway station and it had occurred to her that if she were hurt very badly, there would be no one around to help her; no one to rush her to a hospital for care; no one to care enough to keep her from rotting away from hunger and thirst alone in a dark, tiled tunnel.

She hadn't gone belowground since that particular panic attack. Aboveground might not necessarily be less hazardous, but it was far less enclosing and she took comfort in whatever she could at that point. Ashla's sense of security on the open streets was relative. She was safe from dark, creepy subterranean dangers, perhaps, but she was also left feeling even more alone as towering buildings soared above her, miniaturizing her and making her feel as though she were standing at the bottom of a great abandoned canyon. She had struggled with the ever-increasing fear that someday something might happen and she wouldn't know what to do to help herself.

And then sometimes, some very awful bad times, she couldn't even remember all the names of the people she knew. It was at those times that she truly became frightened. Down deep to the bottom of her soul terrified. Because those were the times when she feared she had simply lost her mind. After all, what other explanation could there be? What could possibly make her forget her beloved sister Cristine? Or even her brothers Malcolm and Joseph? Her parents. It horrified her to think there was anything that could make her forget what it had been like to grow up in her mother's care.

She took comfort that today she remembered it all, and tried not to worry about tomorrow.

Other than all of that ...

New York City was her playground.

Saks. Barneys. Macy's. Bloomies. Granted, they would have been more fun if there had been some decent light to see by, but she compensated for it by shopping close to windows that filled with moonlight. She walked in whenever she wanted and walked out without needing to pay. Every day she picked a new store to get dressed in. She'd amused herself enough at the department stores, and dazzled herself in the Diamond District, but now she was gravitating back to the retro boutiques she had always loved. She liked the priceless vintage dresses, lace and beads and hand-worked details that were so rare in the modern world. So she made her way to her favorite shop and, before long, was slipping into an ivory gown with a tautly stitched empire waist, à la Jane Austen. It had a silk underlining and hand-crocheted lace over it in a perfect pastel cream. It was unique, delicate and beautiful, the style transporting her back to a time when men fought duels for the honor of a woman.

That was when she heard the first resonant clang of metal on metal.

She was so startled by the sound after so much silence that she threw herself against a wall and hid, her breath panting and her heart pounding for a full minute before working up the courage to sneak to the window.

"Something probably dropped. Toppled over. You're just being a ninny," she lectured herself breathlessly.

It was a plausible idea, right up until the moment she heard the second crash of metal against metal, the clang reverberating in the dim world and vacant streets. Understanding crystallized when she heard the hard sound of running feet coming toward her, and she strained to somehow hide and see what was going on all at the same time.

She glimpsed the dark shape of a man an instant before a second man plowed up into him and they both came flying toward her. Ashla ducked with a scream and barely got her arms up protectively before they barreled through the plate glass window in a shower of shards. Clothing racks and tables disintegrated as they broke the momentum of the two large-bodied fighting men. A sword, of all things, went skidding across the hardwood flooring, bumping to a stop against Ashla's bare toes.

"Oh, yeah, Ash, you are definitely swimming in the deep end now," she muttered to herself as she stared down at the weapon. A sword. Not an Uzi. Not a handgun. A sword. Ashla was beginning to realize she had never given her imagination enough credit until she had gone crazy. Now she had to admit that the sword was a neat touch to her little fantasy world. So were the men, for that matter.

She watched with dismay as they grappled with each other on the floor amongst the inventory and glass debris. They were both dark-skinned and had dark coloring. The larger man kept his hair long, whipped back tightly into a plait, the jet color of it gleaming in the weak moonlight filtering into the store. His brawny build filled out his clothing almost to test the integrity of his seams. Denim jeans in black hugged tightly to thickly muscled thighs, biker boots holding his braced feet in place against the floor. His shoulders bulged against the dark gray cotton of his dress shirt, and a necklace of some kind dangled almost tauntingly against the disadvantaged man's cheek below him as they struggled for ownership of the remaining sword.

"Give up!" the brute spat down into the face of his adversary. "You know I will win this!"

"I'd rather kiss the sun," was the gruff, straining reply from the slimmer man. It was true, Ashla observed with concern, that the other man was outweighed and, while of impressive physique himself from what she could tell, he was also outmuscled. This one's hair was close-cropped at the back of his neck and around his ears, but there was a little bit of length to the top as it fell back to reveal a widow's peak. The curve of his hairline made his squared jaw and prominent cheekbones appear deeply exotic. The ebony sheen of his wildly tossed hair set shadows on his already dark eyes, making him appear just a little wicked in his features. The impression deepened as he gave his opponent a slow, amused grin that belied his struggle to keep hold of his weapon. "Give it up, Baylor. You'll not win this. Not today!"

The observation was more like a prediction as a knee levered up between Baylor's braced legs, caught him hard, and sent him flying ass over shoulders above the other man's head. Baylor's back slammed into the floor, forcing a startled cough from him. Free of his opponent, the other man scrambled to his feet but did little more than stagger up against a nearby counter. His sword hung tiredly from one hand, the tip grazing the ground. He raised the back of a broad hand to his nose, which, Ashla realized, was bleeding. For all his determination and bravado, it was clear even to her that he was exhausted and had taken a serious beating. Despite the dusk of his skin tone, she could see the swelling and color of new bruises appearing on his face and battered knuckles.

The one named Baylor was on the floor groaning, trying to recover from a hard shot in the testicles that had to hurt even more than when a woman delivered it. Most men would consider the maneuver fighting dirty, but the weary man had clearly needed every advantage against the behemoth Baylor, and Ashla didn't blame him in the least for resorting to such a brutal tactic.

"You ... dare ... to betray ... our people," the standing man gasped between difficult-to-draw breaths. He was hugging an arm to his side, his ribs obviously hurting him, and Ashla found herself actually worrying that he had broken one or more. She didn't even know him, or what they were fighting about, so why, she wondered, was she starting to show concern for one side over the other?

"There was a time when you were considered the traitor, Ajai Trace," Baylor growled. "History is written by the one who wins the coup."

Baylor rolled over onto his hands and knees, panting hard and groaning beneath his breath as his movements sent obvious reminders of pain through his reproductive system. He looked up and suddenly Ashla found herself staring into deep eyes of black and menace. But as bad as the scowl initially was, the subsequent grin that showed his teeth was far worse.

"Well, well. What have we here?"

The snide speculation made Ashla cringe, but instincts she didn't understand caused her to lay her shaking fingers to rest against the grip of the sword by her toes. She wasn't going to use it, just ... she would make sure it stayed out of his easy reach. Her gaze shifted to the other male and she was surprised and unexplainably grateful to see he had straightened and, as though in no pain at all, swiftly grabbed up his own sword and slid sturdily into the space between Baylor and herself.

"Come now, Trace," Baylor drawled slowly as the other man's blade tapped its tip to the jutting point of his chin. The implication was clear. One wrong move and his head would be singing farewell to his neck. "Look at the fear in her eyes. Look at how the Lost one trembles. Don't you get it? It means she can see us."

Trace was almost certain it was a trick of some kind. Everyone in their world knew well enough that the Lost couldn't see a Shadowdweller. There was one exception, but even that required a ritual, a priest, and a damn good reason to want to make that kind of contact, which on its own was a preposterous likelihood. Still, Trace had glimpsed the cowering Lost girl shortly after they had come in through the window. Her reaction at the time would be understandable. She couldn't see them, but she would certainly see the exploding glass coming toward her.

Trace let his gaze flick to his low right and back again, taking a quick mental picture of the female. It was impossible to miss her, really. She was everything his people weren't. Fair. Blond. Wearing white. Fearful. In fact, he couldn't seem to help himself as he looked back at her once more, getting a better look at just how light and white she seemed. Even her eyes were bright and the fairest shade of blue he'd ever seen.

And they were staring straight at him.

Wide, frightened, but inarguably fixated on him.

"Impossible," he muttered aloud.

"Ha! Proof of your idiotic stubbornness," Baylor mocked him.

"You will shut your treacherous mouth, my friend," Trace ground out angrily, using the press of his blade on Baylor's throat to force the other man to sit upright onto his heels. Even despite his quick obedience, the highly honed tip of the blade cut into his skin and started a river of blood flowing down his thick throat. As for Trace, his roaring temper had shifted from betrayed anger to a storm of fury. "Do you think this is how this will end? Do you really think I will merely take you into my custody and march you to your fate at the hands of my regents? After you follow me here to engage my ear in whispered plots and backstabbing sedition meant to pit one regent against the other? A sister against her brother? Oh, no, Baylor," Trace assured in a voice that ground to a low and slow resonance of threat, "I am my Lord Chancellor's vizier, and it is I who advises him, but while I would have you hanged publicly to be made an example of, Tristan would not see you as the threat you truly are.

"His Grace," he continued bitterly, "suffers from the overconfidence of power and strength. A flaw only time will rectify. Also, there is his unshakable foundation of his trust in his sister's loyalty, a factor which makes him laugh off plot-makers like you. It is a mistake many young regents have made. He forgets that voices like yours will always find the ears of the discontented and disloyal whether they succeed at their intended goal or not.

"Their reign is far too youthful to be given such a test, and our efforts at peace with the other Nightwalkers would distract him from realizing that. So no," Trace assured the kneeling man, "this will not end civilly. It will end with my sword severing those seditious vocal cords of yours and keeping you from ever whispering your ill words to a single other 'Dweller."

"It is against the law for one 'Dweller to take the life of another!" Baylor reminded him with a sneer. "A law you instigated, if I recall! How steady do you think this political body will ever be when its own lawmakers cannot abide by its own rules?"

"Do not quote my own laws to me, traitor," Trace hissed through clenched teeth, pushing forward on his blade until Baylor squawked in protest. "Or do you forget that an attack on any of the ruling body is considered an act of treason and war? In war, the law is suspended with circumstance and proof of cause." Trace leaned forward to close the distance between their gazes. "Do you forget the dagger you plunged into my back so soon?"

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DRIVING ME NUTS! by P.J. Jones

DRIVING ME NUTS! by PJ Jones

Three mental patients, two loaded guns, one stolen car and a whole lot of trouble...

Every Friday night Ruckus and Fred sneak out of Shady Grove Home for the Mentally Insane for a ride in their orderly's convertible. A trip to the used book store and Dairy Queen is Ruckus's one little routine among the chaos of pissing all over the lunch trays.

There is nothing routine about Apple, another Shady Grove resident who wants to go joyriding with the boys. It quickly becomes obvious she has bigger plans than getting an ice cream cone - plans that could land them in jail or even worse.

When their lives are threatened by three angry ex-cons and a crooked cop, it's up to Ruckus to get his friends back to Shady Grove in one piece. First, they all need to face reality and confront their tragic pasts. Soon Ruckus realizes that if Apple doesn't drive him totally nuts, she just may help restore his sanity.

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Chapter Two

Ruckus sat up in bed and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Something wasn’t right. Something definitely wasn’t right. He listened, but the only sound he heard was Fred gently snoring in his sleep on the other side of the room. It was still too dark to see, so he closed his eyes and inhaled. A familiar scent snaked through his senses and coiled around his spine, gripping every nerve ending like a vice.

Girl.

It took him a moment to comprehend what his instincts were telling him. He inhaled again. There was definitely a female presence in his room. And fruit. Yes, maybe fruit salad.

This was a dream, he told himself. He was still sleeping. Ruckus closed his eyes then rubbed them. He opened them again but it was still too dark to see anything.

Crunch!

Ruckus jumped and hollered, knocking over the lamp beside his bed.

From the other side of the room, he heard Fred yell. Then the blinding light from Fred’s flashlight was in his eyes.

“Get that light out of my eyes!” Ruckus growled.

Fred shined the light against the open window and then at the chair beside the window—the chair with the slender, flame-haired girl wearing blue hospital pajamas and holding an apple. She bit down into the fruit and stared at them as if sitting in their room in the dark was the most natural thing in the world to do.

“What are you doing?” Fred’s crackling voice was laced with fear.

“I’m eating an apple,” she replied before taking another bite.

“Oh,” Fred breathed, sounding relieved, as if the universe suddenly made perfect sense.

Ruckus leaned over his bed and picked up the fallen lamp. He set it back on his nightstand and turned on the light.

“What’s your name?” Ruckus asked.

“Apple,” she answered through a mouthful of fruit.

“We know it’s an apple. What’s—your—name?”Fred enunciated each word as if he was talking to a first grader.

“My name is Apple.” She shrugged and took another bite.

“Oh,” Ruckus and Fred answered in unison.

That’s when Ruckus finally understood that expression, ‘You are what you eat.’

“I’m Ruckus.” Ruckus pointed to himself before nodding at his roommate. “This here’s Fred. Why are you in our room?”

“I’m bored,” she answered before burping into her tiny fist and throwing the apple core over her shoulder.

The core flew in a perfect arc and vanished right through the open window beside her chair. Like the apple was magic. Or maybe Apple was magic.

Ruckus realized he’d never seen her before. After the last few times he’d pissed on the lunch trays, they’d kept him away from the women at Shady Grove, but he should have seen her passing in the hall on the way to warm-ups or to the library.

“So do you want to do something?” Fred blurted.

“Like what?” she asked.

Fred chewed on his bottom lip for a moment before bouncing out of bed. He pulled several paper-clipped and banded books out from under his mattress and walked over to Apple, dumping the books in her lap. “We could read.”

She picked up a book and studied the picture of the pregnant woman and the man with a cowboy hat locked in a passionate embrace. She pulled a face and shook her head while pushing the books onto the floor. “No thanks. I’m not a big fan of romance.”

Fred’s shoulders deflated, making him look like a puppy who’d just been scolded for messing on the floor. He bent over and picked up his books then shuffled back to bed.

Ruckus took a good long look at Apple. At first she’d looked like a kid because of her small size. But as his eyes adjusted to the light, he could see she had the slightest hint of wrinkles framing the edges of her large golden eyes and the corners of her drawn mouth. He figured she was on the downhill slide to thirty or maybe older.

She was just a little thin, maybe from eating and shitting apples. She had a pretty face, with the scattering of freckles on her cheeks and small nose, but something about her looked scraggly. Kind of like a nice shoe that had a few-too-many scuff marks.

Then again, she had to be a scuffed shoe if she’d landed herself in Shady Grove.

“Why’d they put you in here?” Ruckus asked.

“I’m a klepto.” As if to prove her point, she stuck out her tongue, revealing one of Fred’s paperclips.

Fred scratched the back of his neck and squinted. “Like those women who like too much sex?”

Ruckus stifled a laugh. “That’s a nympho, Fred.”

Apple momentarily averted her gaze while she ran slender fingers through her cropped hair. Finally, she fixed Fred with a comical stare. “I’m a nympho, too.”

They both gaped at her for a long moment.

Fred closed his slackened mouth then blurted. “You’re a klepto-nympho?”

She flashed a dazzling smile and nodded.

Something about the feral expression in Apple’s eyes as her gaze shifted from Fred’s crotch, then to his crotch, rubbed Ruckus the wrong way. Instinctively, he pulled the pillow from behind his back and placed the protective barrier over his lap.

He didn’t think being a klepto and a nympho was such a good combination, and he wondered the real reason she was in their room. Narrowing his gaze, he leveled her with a question that sounded more like an accusation. “They catch you stealing dicks?”

Fred gasped. “That wasn’t funny, Ruckus.”

“It’s a serious question.” He wagged a finger at Apple. “I don’t want her stealing my dick when I’m sleeping. I need it to piss.”

Fred’s eyes widened to saucers and he grabbed his crotch while scooting back against the headboard. “I need my wiener, too, Ruckus.” he cried. “I don’t want to pee sitting down.”

“I’m not going to steal your wieners,” she hissed. “I just thought you two might want to go somewhere.” She stared hard at Ruckus, a knowing expression in her gaze. “I heard you know how to hotwire Otis’s car.”

Fred jumped to his knees and raised his hand in the air like he was a grade-school brown nose vying for the teacher’s attention. “He doesn’t hotwire it. Mr. Otis leaves the keys in his gym bag.”

“Don’t tell her that,” Ruckus snapped before turning to Apple with a scowl. “Who told you about Mr. Otis’s car?”

“Yeah,” Fred squealed. “That’s a secret. Nobody knows.”

She rolled her eyes. “What are you talking about? The whole town, except Otis, knows you take his car joyriding.”

“They do?” Ruckus rasped.

“Duh,” she sneered.

Fred gave Ruckus a deer-in-the-headlights stare before he swallowed hard. “I wonder why nobody’s ratted us out.”

“Otis is the town asshole. That’s why.” Apple stood and faced the window before turning to them with a sly grin. “He leaves his keys in his gym bag, huh?” She snaked one thin leg through the window.

“Hey, wait a minute!” Ruckus jumped out of bed and threw the pillow to the floor. “That’s our car. You can’t steal it!”

“I’ll tell you what.” She cocked a brow, her cool gaze assessing him from head to toe. “I’m going for a ride in that car. If you want to come along, you can.”

“Where are you going?” Fred asked. “The bookstore and Dairy Queen are closed now.”

“So that’s all you guys do?” she laughed. “Go read books and eat ice cream?”

“Yeah.” Ruckus folded his arms across his chest. “What about it?”

“Ohhh,” she cooed. “You’re real rebels. Real rule breakers.”

“That’s right. I am a rule breaker. I piss on lunch trays.”

She jutted a hand on her hip. “Well how’d you like to piss on lampposts and mailboxes?”

Ruckus opened his mouth in a retort, then paused. Mailboxes? He wondered if she meant the kind in front of houses or the big blue cylinders with pull down slots, perfectly sized for small packages or streams of piss. “On mailboxes or in them?”

One corner of her mouth turned up in the slightest smile. “Take your pick.”

“I don’t know about this, Ruckus.” Fred slipped underneath his blankets and pulled them over his eyes. “This isn’t how we do things.”

Apple stuck out her wrist, making a big show of checking the time on her invisible watch. “The donut shop will be opening in a few hours.”

“Donuts?” Fred tossed back the covers. “I haven’t had donuts in a long time. Do they still have holes in them?”

She turned up her chin, nodding. “They’ve got plenty of holes.”

Ruckus and Fred exchanged long looks. Hopeful, nervous, frightened looks.

Finally, Ruckus spoke. “Maybe we should try something different.”

“Okay.” Fred slipped out of bed. “May I bring a book?”

“Grab a book, Fred.” Apple jumped out the window.

Ruckus rushed to the window and looked down. She’d jumped onto a nearby oak and was maneuvering down the length of the branch with the dexterity of a cat on the prowl.

He let out a low whistle. This Apple was the most unusual person he’d ever met – more like a forbidden fruit than a woman. He wondered if maybe he should have resisted the temptation to follow her.

Sure, he was a rule breaker. A rebel. But not too crazy. Nothing he couldn’t handle.

He groaned, then involuntarily shuddered when a chill snaked up the nape of his neck. He’d stirred up a lot of trouble at Shady Grove before, but somehow, he knew this girl would have him in a whole heap of new trouble by night’s end.


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ANOTHER CHANCE by Rebecca Royce

ANOTHER CHANCE by Rebecca Royce

Patrick O'Callaghan is a vampire grappling with the fate that has been laid out for him. Turned into a vampire during World War II, he lived for many years as a crazed monster searching only for blood and dishing out death. That is until he is approached to join a unique unit of the United States military, a special operations division made up of vampires looking for a second chance, for a way to redeem the horrors they have caused by serving God and Country. The only catch? He had to give up human blood.

Jennifer DeMarco is a hard-nosed reporter and the daughter of an Admiral in the United States Navy. When she goes missing, kidnapped by terrorists she hoped to interview, Patrick's unit is sent out to rescue her and then remove her memory of the events, making it like they never happened.

Things go awry when Patrick responds sexually to Jennifer, something that hasn't happened since he was made a vampire. New truths are unveiled to Patrick-things he never thought he either could or should have as a creature of the undead, and Jennifer's life continues to be in danger.

When disaster strikes, the two will discover that there are second chances if only you're willing to take them.

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~Excerpt~


Jennifer had cried herself nearly asleep, which was the absolute last thing she’d wanted to do. Of course it didn’t really matter. It might actually be better to be unconscious when the time came for her to be raped and murdered. Oh God, why hadn’t she just listened to her father and stuck to a desk job? Why did she have to prove something to everyone by becoming a hardnosed investigative reporter? Ha. She actually laughed. She wasn’t acting at all hardnosed at the moment.

Jerking back, she jumped when she thought she saw something out of the corner of her eye. Straining to turn around, she decided she had to be crazy. The room was pitch black. There was no way she could see anything moving around. Even if there was something in there with her, it was most likely something she wouldn’t want to see, like a rat.

She grimaced at the thought. There was nothing she hated more than rodents, which was funny considering that she was about to be beheaded with the video posted on the Internet for her family to watch. In the world she lived in, there should be a lot more to dislike than one small rodent.

“Don’t move.” A voice spoke from behind her, and she started before she could help herself. No one could have gotten in here. Was she hallucinating?

“I’m real and, no, I can’t read minds. People tend to think they’re hallucinating when I appear.”

Jennifer couldn’t be sure, but she thought she heard amusement in the stranger’s voice. Truthfully, that was sort of comforting in an odd way. If he could be funny then maybe her straits were not as dire as she’d feared. That was, of course, assuming that he was actually there to rescue her, which he had not said.

“I’m going to take off this gag and you are still not going to make any noise, do you understand me, J.L.?”

He’d called her J.L. For some reason that didn’t sit well with her. Usually, she preferred it. Jennifer was the name her parents had given her. J.L. she had invented herself. However, from this man it didn’t sound right. Since she couldn’t see him, all she had to go by was the intonations and accent on his carefully chosen words.

There was no question, he had a thick Brooklyn accent. It couldn’t be mistaken, and she hadn’t heard anything like it in years. Everyone she knew spent so much time trying to hide their origins, to sound so completely unidentifiable in order to gain respectability. It had been a long time since she’d heard such a completely unabashed representation of where someone was from.

She didn’t know a thing about him and already she was anxious to get a look at this person whose very presence in the room intrigued and terrified her.

True to his word, he sliced the gag from her mouth. Her tongue felt heavy and she was horrified to hear herself pant. She’d had no idea she was in such bad shape.

“I’m going to undo your wrists and your ankles. As soon as I have, you’re going to wrap your arms around my neck. Do you understand? Nod, if you do.”

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TRACE OF FEVER by Lori Foster

TRACE OF FEVER by Lori Foster

Book Two in The Men Who Walk The Edge Of Honor Series

Caught in the crossfire of vengeance and desire...

Undercover mercenary Trace Rivers loves the adrenaline rush of a well-planned mission. First he'll earn the trust of corrupt businessman Murray Coburn, then gather the proof he needs to shut down the man's dirty smuggling operation. It's a perfect scheme - until Coburn's long-lost daughter saunters in with her own deadly plan for revenge.

With a smile like an angel and fire in her eyes, Priscilla Patterson isn't who she seems to be. But neither is the gorgeous bodyguard who ignites all her senses. Joining forces to plot Coburn's downfall, Priss and Trace must fight the undeniable heat between them. For one wrong move, one lingering embrace will expose them to the wrath of a merciless opponent….

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Excerpt:

Priss stretched awake in the much cleaner and better smelling hotel room. The sheets were smooth, the pillows soft. She had enough space to actually move around without bumping into anything.

Sunlight crept in around the haphazardly closed curtains. It would be another gorgeous June day. Time to get up – except that she couldn’t move her legs, not with Liger stretched out in full splendor across her.

With a yawn, Priss crawled out from under the big cat and sat up on the side of the bed. For this particular morning, she was safe.

So many changes in such a short time.

Her mother’s death had been both a devastating loss and a blessing. Not a day went by that she didn’t miss her, but at least now she didn’t suffer.

Leaving her home should have been an upheaval, but with her motivation driving her, Priss had gotten through the packing, the road trip and the new town by rote. Comfort took a distant second to reaching her goals.

She’d settled in and even found Murray. She’d been right on track.

And then she’d met Trace... whatever his last name might be. She wasn’t buying the name he’d given her. Trace had as many, maybe more secrets than she did.

She enjoyed sparring with him verbally, found him physically appealing, and was intrigued by his cocky attitude. By far, he was the most tempting man she’d ever met.

Because she really didn’t know enough about him to be so captivated, her reaction to him was kind of... well, sick.

Sure, her instincts were good, and her gut told her that Trace was hero material. Despite a lack of facts, she’d already decided he was one of the good guys, an Alpha male who would step into danger to protect others, just as he had – so far – protected her.

And her cat.He was the complete and total opposite of Murray Coburn. So why was he working for that bastard? Or was he?

On her way to the bathroom, Priss glanced at the connecting door.

In the very next room, Trace slept.

Her heart pounded, and that was the biggest change of all. She joked with men, argued with and rejected them. But a pounding heart? Nope. Not once had she ever met a man who affected her that way.

Before leaving the bathroom Priss splashed her face and cleaned her teeth. A glance in the mirror showed her looking a little worse for wear.

Using both hands, she shoved back her hair from her face and gave herself a critical inspection. Before meeting Trace, she’d always accepted herself as a sexless woman, apathetic in most situations, methodical in her approach to life.

But around Trace she felt so much that her head swam. She’d gone to sleep thinking about him and, she just realized, she’d awakened with him on her mind.

Utterly pathetic.

She had just given Liger his food when a tap sounded on the connecting door. Priss’s heart leaped into her throat.

With excitement. Pure, sizzling stimulation. Suddenly she was wide-awake.

Tamping down her automatic smile, Priss leaned on the door. “Yeah?”

“Open up.”

Still fighting that twitching grin, Priss tried to sound disgruntled as she asked, “Why?”

Something hit the door – maybe his head – and Trace said, “I heard you up moving around, Priss. I have coffee ready, but if you don’t want any –”

Being a true caffeine junkie, she jerked open the door. “Oh, bless you, man.” She took the cup straight out of Trace’s hand, drank deeply and sighed as the warmth penetrated the thick fog of novel sentiment. “Ahhhh. Nirvana. Thank you.”

Only after the caffeine ingestion did she notice that Trace wore unsnapped jeans and nothing else. Holy moly.

“That was my cup,” Trace told her, bemused.

But Priss could only stare at him. Despite the delicious coffee she’d just poured in it, her mouth went dry.

When she continued to stare at him, at his chest and abdomen, her gaze tracking a silky line of brown hair that disappeared into his jeans, Trace crossed his arms.

Her gaze jumped to his face and she found him watching her with equal fascination.

A little lost as to the reason for that look, Priss asked with some belligerence, “What?”

With a cryptic smile, Trace shook his head. “Never mind. Help yourself and I’ll get another.”

Oh crap, she’d snatched away his cup! “Sorry.”

He lifted a hand in dismissal and went to the coffee machine sitting atop the dresser. His jeans rode low on his hips. The sun had darkened his skin, creating a sharp contrast to his fair hair.

Another drink was in order, and another sigh of bliss. Hoping to regain her wits, Priss said, “God, nothing in the world tastes better than that first drink of coffee.”

Trace looked over his shoulder, his attention zeroing in on her mouth, then her chest and finally down to her bare legs. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

Sensually stroked by that hot glance and the low timbre of his suggestive words, Priss followed him in.

Trace gestured toward the small round table and two chairs. “Take a seat, Priss.”

“I don’t mind sitting.” But first... Priss finished off her coffee and looked at the full pot. “Is it all right if I get a refill?”

“Help yourself.”

When Priss moved toward the coffee machine, rather than give her room, Trace leaned back on the edge of the dresser and watched her. She could detect his early morning scent of warm skin, musky male and palpable sex appeal. Delicious.

Would he smell that sinful up close, if she put her nose in his neck, or near that solid chest? Or... maybe lower?She eyed his gorgeous body, and raised a brow. “Doing a little flaunting of your own this morning, huh?”

“In deference to your delicate sensibilities, I pulled on jeans. Isn’t that enough?”

Enough for what- her peace of mind? Ha. Being around Trace, especially with him half naked, sent her heart racing like a marathon runner’s. “Maybe it would be,” Priss admitted, “if you didn’t look so good…”

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WHEN YOU DARE by Lori Foster

WHEN YOU DARE - Book of one The Men Who Walk The Edge Of Honor by Lori Foster

The tougher they are, the harder they fall...

Professional mercenary Dare Macintosh lives by one hard and fast rule: business should never be personal. If a cause appeals to him and the price is right, he'll take the mission he's offered. But then the lovely Molly Alexander asks him to help her track down the men who'd had her kidnapped - and for the first time, Dare's tempted to combine work with pleasure.

Fiercely independent, Molly vows to trust no one until she's uncovered the truth. Could the enemy be her powerful, estranged father? The ex-fiancé who still holds a grudge? Or the not-so-shy fan of her bestselling novels? As the danger heats up around them, the only anchor Molly has is Dare himself. But what she feels for him just might be the most frightening thing of all...

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Excerpt:

Dare came into the hotel room quietly, saw Molly curled on the bed, and frowned. The towel barely covered her, and with her knees pulled up, he would get one hell of a peep-show if he moved to the foot of the bed.

Not that he would. In many cases he lacked scruples; it was a hazard of the job. But with women, with this woman, he wasn’t about to take advantage. Despite her bravado and commonsense reaction to her nightmare, he’d never seen anyone more emotionally fragile.

Besides, the less involvement he had with her, unscrupulous or otherwise, the better. He needed to figure out what had happened to her, and the quickest way to safely remove her from his care.

He’d known she was spent, on the ragged edge, but the fact that she hadn’t even pulled the covers over herself proved her level of exhaustion.

More than anything, she probably needed to eat. But should he wake her for that when she also needed sleep?

He wasn’t a damn babysitter, but since he’d personally gotten her out of Mexico, he couldn’t very well just dump her somewhere. By rescuing her, he had accepted an implied responsibility.

Trying not to rattle the bags and juggling the food with his other purchases, Dare closed the door and locked it. A glance at the bedside clock showed the time at one-thirty A.M. He’d only been gone a half hour, tops.

Luckily the WalMart across the street stayed open twenty-four hours. He’d found not only clothes for her, but food, too. Dressing and feeding her would go a long way toward resolving her most pressing issues.

With barely a sound, he stowed the drinks in the tiny fridge and put her share of the food into the microwave to keep.

Removing his wallet, change and cell phone from his jeans, he placed them neatly on the desk. Next he took out his knife and the Glock 9mm he carried, and set them beside his other belongings. He stretched out his knotted muscles. Too many hours crawling over rough ground, ducking for cover and demolishing men without enough sleep or food had left him tense and weary.

After pulling a chair out from the round table, he opened the covering on his pancakes and coffee.

He’d taken only one bite when she stirred, sniffed the air, and drowsily opened her eyes. Dare turned toward her.

She gave him a “deer caught in the headlights” look.

He studied her, a small bundle huddled tight on the bed, face still ravaged and eyes wounded. Never had he seen a woman look so vulnerable.

He swallowed his bite and, sounding as casual as he could under the circumstances, asked, “Hungry?”

She stared back, then struggled up to one elbow. Her expression changed, the wariness hidden beneath that intrepid bravado. “Starved. Literally.”

With all the dirt removed, her big eyes dominated her small features. More marks showed on her fair skin, one on her cheekbone and under her left eye, one on her throat, and a darker, angrier bruise on her right shoulder.

She breathed deeply, her eyes closing and her nostrils flaring. “That smells so good.”

Out of his seat already, Dare fetched her food. “Do you want to sit here, or eat in the bed?”

She hesitated, looking down for a moment as if uncertain of her welcome, not wanting to inconvenience him. “Table please, but... I should dress first.”

“All right.” He set the food on the table and opened the bag of clothes, pulling out a few T-shirts, panties and a pair of pull-on cotton shorts. “You can get more stuff tomorrow if you feel up to it. Something warmer, maybe, and nicer for the plane ride. But for now, I figured this would fit.”

She didn’t look at the clothes. The arm she leaned on barely supported her, and her breath went choppy with effort.

Voice weak, strained, she said, “I’m sorry, but... I haven’t eaten in too long and I’m feeling kind of... faint.”

Dare straightened, going on alert. Would she pass out on him?

“If...if you could help me into the bathroom, I’ll dress in there.”

Shit. He did not want her passing out alone, maybe hitting her head. “Yeah, no problem.”

Dare moved to the bed and slipped an arm behind her, then drew her to her feet. She swayed into him, one hand clutching at his shirt and holding on for dear life.

She made no attempt to step away. He didn’t ask her to. “What would you like to do?”

“I can’t...” She choked, cleared her throat, and her voice was so low he barely heard her when she said, “This is embarrassing, but the shower...” She swallowed. “I think I’m depleted.”

Easing her back onto the bed, Dare knew he’d have to be firm to get her agreement. “Okay, Molly, listen up.” He kept his tone as impersonal as possible. “This isn’t a big deal. I can dress you. I can even feed you.”

She rolled in her lips with embarrassment, a habit he’d already noticed.

“It’s nothing I haven’t done before,” he lied.

That brought her dark eyes up to his.

Damn, but her eyes could melt a man’s soul. “I’m in the personal protection business. You’re not the first woman I’ve rescued. You’re not even in the worst shape.” Another lie. Most women he retrieved were found in the first forty-eight hours before too much damage had been done—or they weren’t found at all. “Okay?”

Still with her gaze locked on his, she nodded.

“Good girl.” He grabbed the clothes from the bag, not really discomfited with the task, but he’d just as soon get past it.

Taking clothes off a woman, yeah, he had plenty of practice with that.

Dressing the near-dead... not so much.


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CAPTAIN DEVLIN'S CAPTIVE by Susanne Saville

CAPTAIN DEVLIN'S CAPTIVE by Susanne Saville

Little does Jasabel Buchanan realize the rakish Bermuda sloop she sights on the horizon is about to plunge her into a passionate voyage of intrigue and adventure. An indentured lady's maid to the rich Governor's daughter, Jasabel is taken prisoner when the ship on which they sail is seized by pirates. Soon she finds herself the personal captive of the pirates' dark, enigmatic captain.

Sent into bondage on the plantations because of his Jacobite loyalties, Captain Neil Devlin escaped to become the terror of the English colonies. When the chance to abduct his former owner's daughter presents itself, he takes it. What he doesn't expect is her spirited, and captivating, lady's maid.

But amongst old injustices an evil lurks, and before she can be free, Jasabel must decide if she dares to love a pirate.

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Chapter One

June 1692

Jasabel Buchanan had yet to scream.

She had not screamed when she heard the thundering feet charging toward her bolted cabin door, nor when the simple wooden panels had splintered and pirates had surged into her cramped quarters. Nor did she yell when a particularly fearsome--and malodorous--pair of those men had dragged her up on deck, despite her desperate struggle to scratch and kick them. Screaming would have done no earthly good. And Miss Felicity was screaming enough for both of them.

Miss Felicity looked like a heap of clothes on wash-day as she lay sobbing and pounding her palms against the planks. Her blonde ringlets, whose curled perfection Jasabel had labored long to create this morning, were now a tangled shambles. With gratuitous force, her captors hurled Jasabel forward, then shoved her to her knees at Miss Felicity’s side.

Jasabel crouched low, protecting her head, expecting a blow from somewhere. But none came. In fact, the men’s shouting and raucous laughter seemed to be farther away. She glanced up. The pirates had moved off to appropriate more plunder. Miss Felicity raised her reddened, tear-stained face to the sky and wailed. Internally, Jasabel wailed right along with her.

When she had first seen the sloop on the horizon, she had thought it such a jaunty ship. Its triangular, gray sails were rakishly slanted back, almost like fins, as if the clean-lined ship were a denizen of the seas, sprung fully-formed from the waves themselves. It came up on them swiftly. Never had she imagined it would raise the red flag. Never had she thought such a beautiful craft could be possessed by pirates.

Trying to assuage her aching knees, Jasabel rolled onto her hip and, jaw clenched, surveyed the defeated crew. None of the Rebecca’s sailors seemed injured, which tallied with the fact that from her cabin she had heard a distinct lack of cannon fire. After Captain Walters had ordered Miss Felicity and herself to seek shelter behind their rooms’ locked doors, he had apparently surrendered the Rebecca to the pirate vessel without resistance. How did Captain Walters think mere locks would keep them safe when an entire ship could not?

Murmuring soothing words to Miss Felicity, Jasabel attempted to huddle close and was coldly rebuffed for her troubles. No matter how horrendous the circumstances, Miss Felicity apparently found familiarity from her servants intolerable. After almost a year in her service, she shouldn’t have been surprised. That was typical of Miss Felicity.

The pirates finished rounding up the men of the Rebecca. Bright sun bore down on them as they stood in a long, tense row, from her captain to the lowliest member of the crew. Most were staring up at the quarterdeck, from whence the captain would normally command.

Jasabel swiveled, following their gaze, as one of the sailors gasped, “It’s the Devil himself.” Her breath caught in her throat. She would not have argued the point.

The raven-haired man standing on the quarterdeck, imperially surveying them all, certainly seemed capable of striking fear into the doughtiest of hearts. He was tall, lean, with broad shoulders, and dressed entirely in black from his boots to his plumed, three-cornered hat. Silver lace at his throat, silver buttons down the length of his coat and ringing its wide cuffs, and silver embellishments along the leather baldric from which his sword hung provided the perfect foil for his dark aspect.

“I am Captain Neil Devlin, and well pleased I am you’ve heard of me.”

Even his voice was dark, like smooth port wine, but it was also surprisingly cultured and possessed a lilting cadence. He strode a few paces along the quarterdeck. Sunlight glinted off his silver as he moved. He wore no fashionable wig, nor the surfeit of ribbons gentlemen generally sported, yet he struck her as more well-bred than the average male of her acquaintance, let alone amongst pirates.

“You may also have heard that afore I depart I offer to those who want it a chance to turn pirate.”

“Do not listen to that Irish rogue,” Captain Walters bravely interjected. “The wages of piracy is Hell.”

The pirates froze in a terrible hush, as if they expected their leader to take ruthless offence at the words, but he simply chuckled.

“Damnation may well await us, but those who join us shall be our equals, with a vote in our doings and a share of our spoils. I make this offer to slave and free man alike.” His words boomed across the expanse. “Step forward now and hazard your life for your own gain rather than your masters’.”

Two black men and one white slowly separated from the line of crewmen. Since slavery in the islands encompassed all colors, each of them might be a slave. Having been waylaid so soon out of St. George’s Town, Jasabel was not yet acquainted with the crew’s situations but she hoped for their sakes they were going to a better life. One of the pirates beckoned the men to follow and they headed for the sloop. Then another of the dark captain’s minions called out the successful transfer of the best of the Rebecca’s cargo to the pirate ship’s hold.

Jasabel’s heartbeat quickened. Their ordeal was almost over. Perhaps they were mere moments away from being allowed to return to the shelter of their cabins. She swiped at the perspiration trickling down her temple. The air felt close and thick. This was decidedly not a day for loitering in the harsh sun. Gathering her torn, cotton skirts together--blue dress, white petticoat, and white shift, she wished there was a way to fan her stockinged legs without attracting male attention.

“Move them across, as well.” It was Captain Devlin’s voice. The words sent a jolt of fear through Jasabel’s frame and her eyes darted to the dark pirate in time to see him pointing in her and Miss Felicity’s direction.

“You cannot mean to seize the women,” Captain Walters exclaimed. His face had reddened with anger, although his vehemence was undermined by his powdered wig slipping slightly askew.

“Regretful I am to be telling you this, but they are part of the cargo, and as such we’ll be taking them with us.” The pirate did not sound regretful in the least.

“If you have a shred of decency, man….”

Captain Devlin grinned. “I’ll not be knowing that word, sir. I’m a damned pirate, am I not?”

Rough hands snatched Jasabel’s arms. She could hear Captain Walters sputtering in indignation as she was dragged across the deck. Miss Felicity was screaming again. But nothing could stop their forcible departure from the Rebecca. The pirates were in control, and they were far stronger than either woman. Conserving her energy for whatever the dark captain had in mind for them, Jasabel mounted the shrouds. As she carefully climbed around to the outside, the tar-stiffened ropes chafed her palms. The menacing creak and bump of the hulls as they collided together with the rhythm of the waves, warned her she would be crushed between the two lashed ships if she fell now. She tried not to look down.

Then again, perhaps it would be better for her to fail in her leap? Being ravished by a pirate was supposed to be a fate worse than death. He would most likely murder them when he was finished. She sucked the salt air deep into her lungs. There was an outside chance she could survive this. It would be a sin to give up now.

Jasabel gathered her strength and jumped.

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THE VENDETTA FACTOR by Tim Smith

THE VENDETTA FACTOR

Former CIA spook Nick Seven doesn't realize what he's up against when he takes on the mob in this suspenseful, quirky adventure by Tim Smith.

When former CIA agent Nick Seven did a favor for his friend, gambler Rock Moretti, he didn't know that his innocent gesture would place him in the middle of a turf war between two crime families, each fighting for control of the lucrative Miami market. Nick's peaceful life in the Florida Keys becomes a battle of wills as he must call on his instincts to outwit both Dons, as well as a Justice Department prosecutor with a personal agenda. When Nick becomes the target of a hired assassin, he realizes that he has his own vendetta and thirst for revenge.

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“Vendetta Factor” excerpt


It was nearly midnight on Key Largo and the continuous party atmosphere showed no signs of slowing down. The evening sea breeze had cooled off the temperature somewhat as waves of deep blue water from the Gulf of Mexico rhythmically lapped up on the shore, leaving traces of white foam behind. Silent flashes of heat lightning several miles away lit up the sky, backlighting a handful of gray clouds while the red, blue and yellow neon lights of Cricket’s Yacht Club reflected on the water’s rippling surface at the inlet, offset by the steady flashing red light of a nearby conning tower. A lone white Flamingo stood in the shallow water near the outside deck, oblivious to the frivolity surrounding him while patiently waiting for any morsels of food that might come his way.

People entered the club to get a drink and enjoy the jazz being played by the quartet in the lounge while the real action took place in a private dining room. An amber haze of cigarette and cigar smoke hung in the room like a cloud. Two men sat at a green felt-topped table, each with a dwindling stack of poker chips in front of them while a dozen observers stood around, watching the action and the eight thousand dollars in the center of the table. The two players each held five cards and looked intently at each other, knowing that one of them would soon walk away from the table richer than when they had sat down two hours earlier.

Rock Moretti was hunched forward, both meaty forearms resting on the edge of the table. He was in his shirtsleeves, his silk paisley tie was loosened, and matching suspenders held up his ample trousers. His trademark Cuban cigar was wedged tightly in the corner of his mouth as he aggressively, impatiently puffed it.

Nick Seven, dressed in khaki slacks, a black cotton shirt with a palm tree print and tan loafers with no socks, leisurely rested his tall lean frame in his Captain’s chair while casually drawing a puff of smoke from one of Rock’s illegal imports. He stared at Moretti through lowered eyelids, a slight non-committal smile adorning his tanned face, waiting for his opponent to make a decision.
“Raise ya a thousand,” Moretti growled, tossing ten one-hundred dollar chips into the pot.

Nick paused a moment, never breaking eye contact as he removed the cigar from his mouth, exhaled a large billow of bluish-gray smoke then slowly rolled the cigar between his thumb and forefinger. “Call,” he said, matching the bet.

“Showtime, Nicky. Whattaya got?”

Nick hesitated again, the semi-smirk not leaving his face. “Two pair.”

Moretti chuckled softly as he laid his cards on the table. “Full house. Jacks over tens.” He continued chuckling in satisfaction as he began to rake in his winnings.

“Excuse me, Rock,” Nick interrupted. Moretti stopped and looked at Nick as he began laying his cards on the table one at a time. “When I said two pair, I meant a pair of red Kings and a pair of black Kings,” Nick said as he flipped the Ace of Hearts kicker onto the table.

The spectators began laughing softly as Moretti slumped back in his chair, his eyes taking on a look that would slice through steel. He glared at Nick for a moment before a smile began to dimple his pudgy face as he slowly nodded his head in appreciation. “Lucky Nick,” he said.

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THE SPY WHO KISSED ME by Pauline Baird Jones

THE SPY WHO KISSED ME by Pauline Baird Jones (Previously Pig in a Park this revised edition has new content, including an all new epilogue!)

1998 Romantic Times Reviewer's Choice Nominee Favorite E-book of 1998, Book Reviewer's ListServ Dorothy Parker Award of Excellence, 1998

Isabel "Stan" Stanley's mother has been hoping a man would fall in Stan's lap. But when a handsome spy dives through the sunroof of her car in a hail of bullets, Stan's sure this wasn't what momma had in mind. Bad guys beware. Stan's packing a glue gun and she knows how to use it... Sort of.

"Pauline Baird Jones' debut contemporary, Pig in a Park is a delightful madcap romp that will leave readers eagerly anticipating future works by this amazing new talent." Patricia Rouse, Romantic Times Columnist

"Pauline Baird Jones' humor is exquisite comic genius! Her characters are phenomenal and colorful as a rainbow. Move over James Bond!" Suzanne Coleburn, The Bells and Beaux of Romance

"...a remarkable new talent...Pauline Baird Jones and her hilarious novel PIG IN A PARK make their debut. Written in first person, this adventurous romp is a 14 karat gem, and I for one would love to see more from this vastly amusing author." Four & 1/2 Stars from Romantic Times

"A romantic suspense, action-packed mystery, or a sizzling romance, the choice is yours because PIG IN THE PARK is all three, and more... The characters are many, varied, and unusual. The plot has as many twists as a kitten-snarled ball of yarn, but Ms. Jones manages to smooth out every kink, unsnarl the impossible, and deliver a book that is absolutely engrossing, engaging, and balm for your funny bone." Under The Covers Reviews

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The Spy Who Kissed Me

by

Pauline Baird Jones



Chapter One



I'd never have gotten mixed up in the first murder if Mrs. Macphearson hadn't caught the flu, but I can't blame her for a capricious fate rolling the "who's turn is it to be smitten?" dice and my name--Isabel Stanley--coming up.

Isabel. Picture someone petite, fragile, done in soft pastels, lusciously formed and you'll know how I don’t look. Most people find it less stressful to call me Stan, when faced with a reality that is tall, lots of leg, and colored in brown and paste . . . with crayon.

Don't get me wrong. Being darn near invisible isn't the worst thing that can happen to you. Ask my sister Rosemary about her ex. Just be sure to do it from a safe distance. Calling her spitting mad isn't an exercise in the theoretical.

I used to be a safe distance from her and my mother until six months ago when my instinct for survival got swamped by guilt because my sister's divorce happened to coincide with our dad’s abrupt exit from this mortal coil. Since my livelihood is done with computer and sketch pad for the benefit of slightly dysfunctional children, I was able to make the move from New Orleans to Arlington, Virginia almost painlessly.

Painless isn’t possible with my mother in the mix. She’s a fundamentalist Baptist and thinks that giving life and voice to a roach named Cochran, no matter how spunky and cute, is just tacky. That it pays very well only adds insult to her imagined injury.

With that attitude, there's no way I’m telling her about my secret yearning to add romance writing to my roach credits. It won’t be an issue for some time. Romance novels are harder to write than they look and being raised by said Fundamental Baptist isn't the best preparation for writing love scenes.

Not too surprisingly, our dysfunctional little family was rubbing along about as smoothly as chalk on a blackboard when Mrs. Macphearson got the flu, sending my life screeching off into a dangerous and embarrassing new direction.

I had no premonition of impending danger when I said I'd fill in for Mrs. M during the youth choir practice. I like playing the organ and they have hot chocolate afterwards. Gourmet hot chocolate. They have to. It's January in our tiny suburb of DC and our church is old and cold. If circulation isn't restored quickly, maiming is inevitable.

Since I have an aversion to getting maimed and my blood was thoroughly thinned by my residence down South, I dressed for the impending arctic conditions. Starting with thermals, I worked my way out to jeans and a woolly mammoth sweater, finishing with snow socks and boots. I pulled my hair back in its usual braid and brushed artificial roses to a bloom along my unremarkable cheekbones. When I could do no more, I collected coat, hat and gloves, and opened the door that separated my over-the-garage apartment-by-Goodwill from my sister's House Beautiful.

Though Rosemary and I started from the same fertilized egg, she is able to manage her assets better than me . . . with the notable exception of Dag Kenyon, scum bag of the universe and the husband who came, screwed her over and went.

Down in the kitchen I found into my mother watching the war on CNN. I knew I would. Just like I knew her meticulously plucked brows would make that arc into her gray fringe when she saw my clothing choice. "Slacks for church, Isabel?"

"It's cold and I’m allergic to frostbite." I bent to root through the refrigerator for pickles.

"You'll reek of pickle if you use your fingers like that. Reverend Hilliard particularly dislikes pickles."

Pickle jar in hand, I looked up in time to catch the match-making gleam in her eye. Surely she wasn't that desperate to remove the stain of singleness from my name?

What was I thinking? Of course she was that desperate. The only thing she wanted more than my marriage to a testosterone carrier was Rosemary's ex-husband castrated and forced to live out his life as an impotent handyman for a women's sorority.

She's still got some work to do on the forgiveness thing.

"How could anyone hate pickles?" Holding her avid gaze with my limpid one, I deliberately submerged my hand in the jar, then wiped the pungent residue down the side of my jeans. If I had to, I'd hang dill around my neck to keep him away. No way I was getting intimate with a guy that close to God.

"Maybe her tight jeans will distract him from the smell," my sister Rosemary said from the doorway, with a shadowed smile. Suffering agreed with her. Our mutual assets still looked better hanging from her bones than they ever had from mine.

"They are very tight," my mother began.

Luckily for me the telephone rang and dislocated the conversation. Before any of us could answer it, Rosemary's eldest daughter, Candice swirled into the room and scooped up the receiver. Telephone answering is the only known benefit of having a thirteen year old in the house.

"Jeez, it's for you, Stan." She thrust the telephone at me like I'd committed a crime, then vanished like a comet, leaving a shimmering trail of hormones quivering in the air to mark her passage.

My mother stared at the place where Candice had been for a moment, then turned to look down her nose at me. "I wish you wouldn't encourage the children to call you Stan. Isabel is a lovely name."

No one needed encouragement to call me Stan, but I didn't waste breath pointing this out. "Hello?"

"Isabel?"

No one except Muir Kenyon who would be at the top of my mother's potential husband list, purely because of his lukewarm interest in me if he weren't also the brother of Rosemary's ex-husband. It's all very awkward but Muir is so clue-less he hasn't figured that out yet.

"Hello, Muir."

"I was wondering if you would care to join me for a cup of hot chocolate this evening? I wrote this new computer program I'd like to show you." Muir's monotone droning in my ear barely registered until he mentioned chocolate.

Somehow Muir has realized I love hot chocolate like hobbits love mushrooms, while totally missing the fact that I hate to hear about his computer programs.

"Gee, I'm sorry, Muir. Reverend Hilliard asked me to play the organ for youth choir tonight."

"Well, that shouldn't last long. It's a school night, isn't it? Can we meet afterwards? I designed this program myself--"

"I don't think so."

"I'll call you tomorrow then."

He would, too. It was depressing, but I didn't have time to dwell on it. I had to leave before I compounded my sins by being late. I hung up the telephone and shrugged on my jacket, while surreptitiously examining Rosemary from under my lashes. She seemed to be in a fairly good mood.

"Could I borrow your Mercedes, Rose? My car was raised in New Orleans and doesn't know how to put out heat."

She frowned. Rosemary is a trifle possessive with her things. When we were kids in nursery school she used to spend the whole playtime with her toys stacked in the corner, guarding them from forays by other kids. Time has not modified this tendency much. Added to the equation is my tendency to sometimes daydream while I drive, even occasionally ending up somewhere other than where I intended. Which doesn't mean I've put a scratch on anything--of hers.

I watched her struggle between her protective passion for the car she'd wrested from her husband in the divorce settlement and the lowering knowledge she needed me to drive carpool in the morning because she had a class in glue gun technique.

"The keys are in my purse. Just be careful," she muttered.

"I'll treat it like it was my own."

Her brows shot up. "Not good enough."

"None of those accidents were my fault," I protested. "New Orleans is an automotive Bermuda Triangle!"

"One scratch--"

"Cross my heart and hope to die if I don't take care of your precious car." How lightly I said those words as I pulled on my wool fedora, tugging it down over my ears. How fate must have chortled (what does a chortle sound like anyway?) while my mother tsk-tsked and adjusted the hat to a more suitable angle on my head. When she was satisfied, she gave my cheek a pat that was partly fond, partly annoyed, and let me escape out the door for my rendezvous with destiny.

As soon as I was out of her sight, I jerked my hat down again. It was cold and I'm a grownup who can do what she likes when her mother isn't looking.

#

When the youthful hallelujahs faded into the frigid halls, I followed the hormonal herd to the kitchen for my earthly reward: the promised gourmet hot chocolate fix. At first the brew was too hot to drink, so I wrapped my hands around my cup, letting the warmth sink into my chilled fingers while I sniffed the fragrant, heavenly steam. After a time, I blew on the surface, took a tentative sip, then closed my eyes and savored the rich bouquet, the hint of hazel nut--

"Stanley!" Jerome Jeffries, youthfully oblivious to the finer nuances of hot chocolate consumption, pulled me to one side. "We got us a job!"

I guess this is where I admit I play keyboard in a band. Jerome, cuter than Val Kilmer, a mere twenty years old, and the guiding light of the band, recruited me shortly after I moved home. It wasn’t hard. I let myself be briefly dazzled with visions of jiving to "Wild Thing" or "I Love Rock'n Roll."

Very briefly.

Jerome had his sights set on becoming another Harry Connick, Jr. I thought we should call ourselves "Sad," but Jerome liked "Star Dust" better. So did my mother, who also pointed out that I was too old for such nonsense. I told her that actually I was too young.

For this reason, I greeted Jerome's announcement of a new gig with some wariness.

"Please tell me it's not another anniversary?" Anniversaries made my mother start digging up blind dates. Didn't matter to her that there were good reasons these guys were still single. Scary reasons.

"This is totally not an anniversary." His mouth curved into a grin that could have taught Tom Cruise a thing or two about grinning.

"It's a rally in support of the troops of Desert Storm at Grant Park! You won't believe this, but we've been asked to play back-up for the one and only Lee Greenwood!"

I waited a moment, but he didn't grin again.

"Lee Greenwood! Wow!" I paused. "Who's Lee Greenwood?"

Jerome laughed like I had told a great joke. Laughing kinked the area around his eyes, his mouth and my mid-section. I sipped my chocolate, the scientific equivalent of pouring gasoline on a fire. I tugged at the collar of my sweater. Perhaps the thermals were a mistake.

Tommy, our bass guitarist and dead ringer for Tom Cruise, mistook this for a summons and joined us. Okay, so it wasn't just the long held dream of playing in a band that made me agree to play bubble music on my weekends. I'm a Baptist, not a saint.

After more exclamations of mutual delight, we agree to get together before the rally to rehearse. I downed the last of my chocolate as I watched them leave, almost reeling when the combined heat of their cute and gourmet chocolate surged into my face, making my eyebrows sizzle and emit steam. Not content with sizzle, the heat spread out, seeking those parts of my body encased in thermal and wool. Time to get cool.

I headed for the door, but got cut off at the pass by Reverend Hilliard. I was starting to sweat buckets while the overhead lights put a halo around his cool blonde hair. He smiled at me, two rows of gleaming, reverential teeth that nearly blinded me. The guy looked like he'd been born with the clerical collar around his neck.

I fought back a sudden urge to repent of my recent lusting.

"I can't thank you enough for helping us out, Miss Stanley. I pray it didn't disarrange you too much?"

He probably had prayed. Scary thought.

"It was no problem. I'm glad to help out the kids."

He smiled again, upping my guilt level dangerously.

I quickly added, "I really have to be going. I have Rosemary's car and she likes it home by ten."

He looked at me uncertainly. I took this for consent and fled. Outside the cold air sizzled against my hot cheeks. In another moment I’d spontaneously combust. I quickly stripped off the jacket, hat and gloves, tossing them into the back seat, then slid in and started the motor. The heater blew cold. Before it could change its mind, I switched it to cold vent and opened the sunroof, welcoming the combined rush of frigid air across my gently steaming face and neck.

Earlier, snow had mixed with rain. Clouds still obscured the stars, but the air was now dry and empty. In the fitful light of the street lamps, the road gleamed slick and empty. I drove cautiously, enjoying the feel of fresh air, sweet solitude --a rare commodity in our over stocked household--and a great car to drive.

Pleasantly tired and full of chocolate, I drove in auto-pilot, my thoughts drifting to my current romance novel with its impending love scene that I still didn't know how to write.

"Get a better imagination or a lover, Stan," my agent had advised, the one time I’d let her read a draft.

"Maybe I should get a new agent," I muttered. About then I saw the stop sign and hit the brakes. Across the intersection, an unfamiliar street retreated into murk, lit only by the faint glow of the street lamps.

"Great." I’d done it again. I crossed the intersection, straining to read the signs. The names were vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place myself relative to home--

To my right, several firecrackers went off, one right after the other.

Then a man burst through the bay window of a house.


© 1998 Pauline Baird Jones All rights reserved.

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SECRETS OF NIGHT by Virginia Cavanaugh

SECRETS OF NIGHT - Book One in Virginia Cavanaugh's Order of Night Series

When the tenuous peace between the Shape-Shifters, Vampires, and Sorceresses is shattered, Kierra, Sorceress Senator for The Order of Night, takes it into her own hands to discover the reasons why.

As the Vampire member of the Triad for The Order of Night, Kale is no stranger to war, yet isn't eager to battle anew without cause. His investigation into the allegations that the Shape-Shifters are the breakers of the peace treaty is thrown askew when the woman who's haunted his lusty dreams is found doing recon of her own.

As the body count rises and more women disappear, Kierra and Kale race against the clock to uncover the secret the Shape-Shifters are keeping. Imminent war and forbidden attraction threaten to implode their progress, while Kierra's secrets may very well tip the scales of power.

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Excerpt:

Kierra stood in the thick woods, surveying the three floors of the brick mansion that housed the Shape-Shifting Senators of the Order of Night for Area Four. She crept silently through the woods and slid behind the massive trunk of an old maple tree, concealing herself in its shadow. She peered around it, careful not to expose her form to their enhanced vision.

A strong masculine hand clamped around her mouth, and she drew in a shocked breath through her nose. A warm summer breeze glided past, rustling the leaves above her head and carrying the scents of pine, earth, and something else extremely tempting and forbidden. The muscles in her body—tense with need to react and defend herself—relaxed as she realized she had nothing to fear from the newcomer. His hand slid from her mouth and down her neck, causing her to shiver. Soundless movement brought the Vampire Kale around to stand in front of her. The moonlight filtered by the dense canopy of trees partially illuminated the area.

Even though it was forbidden for her to mix with other races, she could not stop her body and mind’s reaction to him. Her gaze roamed over his body as her heart increased its tempo. He easily stood at six and a half feet tall, with long black hair, and pale blue eyes. The rippling muscles of his body were large and well defined. Full lips were turned up in a playful smile, revealing a small dimple above a strong jaw. He wore the usual black tank top and black leather pants, which hung perfectly on his lean hips.

“Witch,” he stated in greeting.

“Anemic brat.” She cast him a contemptuous smile. She hated it when he called her Witch. Her race took it as an insult. “And once again I shall remind you that the politically correct term is Sorceress. I don’t chant, draw pentagrams, or brew potions. Now get back before they see you.”

“Which brings me to my first question.” He walked around the tree, coming to a stop behind her. “What are you doing here?”

His whisper sent heated breath across her neck and cheek. A mild shiver of delight traveled down her spine. She wondered if he had any idea of the effect his presence had on her. Part of her wished he would go crawl back under whatever rock he had crawled out from under, while the other side wanted to know why he was here in the first place. She had taken a great risk in coming herself. So what motivated him? She looked at him over her shoulder. “I should ask you the same thing.”

“I was just out for a stroll. How about you?”

She rolled her eyes, refusing to rise to the bait. Could he ever be serious? She focused her attention back to the front of the house. Three black SUVs were parked in the circle drive with their motors left running. Two men, dressed in solid black, stood off to the side smoking. Their faces were illuminated faintly by the red glow of their cigarettes as they inhaled, but she did not recognize them. The bay window of the dining room revealed the five Shape-Shifting Senators seated at a long table, along with ten other people that Kierra assumed were also Shifters. “There’s a lot of activity going on in there.”

She felt the slight pressure of his body behind her as he peered over her shoulder at the house. A wave of heat washed over her as his chest came into contact with her back, and she found it increasingly harder to think clearly.

“I agree, but that still doesn’t tell me why you’re here.”

She drew in a tight breath as she refocused on the problem at hand. “Earlier today, a group of five young Sorceresses were attacked,” she whispered. “They all ranged between twenty and twenty-five years of age. Their powers were just starting to surface and were still very unstable. Three of the women were taken and the two that returned were scratched up and bitten. They said they were attacked by a group of Shifters they had not seen in this area before.”

“Are the two that got away certain that the other three were taken and not killed?”

“They said they were being shoved into the back of a van. They only escaped because Emmaline shocked her captor then reached out and shocked Catheria’s. They both ran for it as Emmaline placed a shield around them. They’re very lucky Emmaline was able to control her magic.”

“You know, even if the Senators had something to do with this, they wouldn’t have been stupid enough to bring them here.”

“I know. But you have to admit that their absence during the Order’s biannual meeting last night, coupled with this abduction is more than a little odd. No new Shifters would’ve been able to settle in this area without the consent of their Monarch and the Area Four Senators. I want answers, and I figure this is as good a place as any to start getting them.” They were either here illegally with the blessing of the Senators, or their Monarch was involved with whatever they were up to. Without knowing, she couldn’t very well turn it over to the Shifter Triad member. She had to know if they were all corrupt or just the ones who were in front of her.

Kale stepped back. “And now you plan to just waltz in there with guns blazing per se? Without consulting the Order first?”

She turned to face him. “I’ve been a Senator of the Order for ten years now and you’re also a Senator as well as Triad, so now that we’ve talked, I’ve consulted. And I don’t plan on going in there guns blazing. From the looks of it, they’re getting ready to leave so I am going to sneak in.” Her stare became fixed on the strong line of his jaw as he crossed his arms and cast his best that isn’t going to fly look.

“Do you really expect me to stand here and do nothing?” she asked, directing her gaze back to his face.

“Such youthful impulses can get you into trouble.”

“I’m not a youth. I’m a hundred years old. Just because I wasn’t alive when the dinosaurs roamed the earth, doesn’t make me a youth.” Twenty years ago, she had moved out of the convocation dorms younger Sorceresses lived in until they grew into their magic. As any other Sorceress would have done, she declared her independence with the blessing of the convocation’s elders. It really irked her when he made references to her age, and she was beginning to think he did it on purpose. She silently cursed herself for rising to the bait this time and giving him the retort he had no doubt sought.

He rolled his eyes. “No, I don’t expect you to stand here and do nothing, but I am going in with you.”

She placed her hands on her hips, her gaze meeting his. “You can’t do that. You’re part of the Triad, and they would have your butt in a sling for something like this.” She couldn’t believe he would be willing to give up his position as one of the ruling members of the Order of Night to help her.

“Being part of the Triad is how we’re going to keep our butts out of the sling.”

She threw her hands up in defeat, knowing there was no point in arguing with him. He could be impossibly stubborn when he wanted to be, and it seemed like any time he was around her, he chose to be.

She turned from him and peered around the tree again as the sound of multiple voices reached her ears. Senators Eric and Bree led the group out of the house, the dim yellow parking lights bathing their faces in a soft glow. The lights in the house had all been extinguished, casting the rest of the group in shadow. She could not make out what they were saying, but from the tone, it appeared they were arguing. At times like these, she wished she had the super hearing the Vampires and Shifters had inherited. Kierra whispered over her shoulder, “Are you catching any of this?”

“Pieces. Eric’s pissed off that one of the others challenged his authority. Now Bree just told them all to shut their pie holes, in a not so nice manner.”

Kierra watched as Bree yanked open the lead SUV’s passenger door and climbed inside. For a person who shifted into a rabbit, Bree could be pretty fierce. The others followed suit. Kierra and Kale both lay flat on the ground as the SUVs passed by. The sound of dirt and rock crunching under the tires faded, signaling the coast was clear.

“So how do you want to do this?” Kale asked as he got to his feet and extended his hand to her.

“When I arrived I made my way around the perimeter and noticed a back door.” She jumped up and released his hand. “I believe it would be best to enter through it.”

“Lead the way, Witch.”

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