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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HONEYBUN ON THE RUN by Sam Cheever

HONEYBUN ON THE RUN by Sam Cheever

Book 7 in the Honeybun Heat series

She’s fighting to protect everything she cares about. He can’t resist a damsel in distress. But he has no idea how high the cost will be if they fail.

Clovis Honeybun is working undercover to catch an assassin targeting his uncle, Senator Brick Honeybun. But his search is waylaid when he spots a pretty woman being mistreated by a guy who looks a lot like his target. Going rogue on a dangerous hunch, Clovis plunges down a trail that might be the right direction but the wrong bad guy.

Ultimately, Clovis discovers he could have to choose between saving the woman burrowing her way into his heart, or a man he’s loved and respected since he was old enough to crawl.

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Excerpt:

She was looking out over his wide, badly mown lawn, her hands shoved into the pockets of her jeans. She turned as the door swung open. Her pretty brown eyes filled with uncertainty. “Hello, Clovis.”

“Emma. You look good.”

She grimaced when she saw the discoloration around the bridge of his nose. “I’m really sorry about hitting you. Again.”

His smile was tentative. “You pack a mean punch.”

She shook her head, avoiding his gaze.

Looking at her for the first time since she’d told him she hated him, his pulse sped and his body tightened. She was every bit as gorgeous as he remembered.

He leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms over his chest. “How’s Cilla?”

“She’s good.” Emma’s gaze slipped past him. “Is this a bad time?”

Clovis wasn’t sure how to answer that. “Bad time for what?” If she was going to tell him she hated him again and to keep his damn family away from her and Cilla…well…yeah…it was a very bad time.

Emma frowned slightly, her shoulders squaring with temper. “Can I come in for a minute, Clovis? I promise I won’t be long. I just have something I need to tell you.”

His chest hurt and his stomach roiled with tension, but Clovis inclined his chin and stepped back, letting her pass before closing the door behind her.

Emma looked around the dark hallway and her gaze slid to the empty living and dining rooms. “A little light on furniture.” She turned and smiled at him.

Clovis’s chest loosened a little and he was able to breathe. “Yeah. I haven’t had much time to go shopping…” His voice trailed off as her smile slipped away. He hated to see it go.

“I know, I’m sorry about Brick. Actually, that’s why I’m here.”

He cocked his head as she hesitated. Then he realized how rude he was being. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m functioning at barely above a savage level right now. Can I get you a beer or something?”

To his amazement she nodded. “I’d like that.”

He motioned toward the kitchen. “I’m afraid the only chairs on this level are in here.”

Clovis followed her into the kitchen, his gaze moving unerringly to her fine backside in the tight jeans. Oh how he’d missed those jeans.

He pulled two cold bottles of beer from the ancient, green refrigerator and handed her one.

She grinned at the fridge. “I think my parents had one just like that.”

Clovis patted the scratched and dented monstrosity. “I’ve grown kind of fond of it. Retro is cool, right?”

Emma laughed and the sound sent a wave of warmth skittering through Clovis. He found himself grinning too. “Sit.” He eyed the mess of papers on the table, realizing his mistake when Emma’s gaze fell on the photos Alf had brought. He lunged for them, scooping them up as her expression fell. “Let me just clean this mess up.”

Emma looked down at the table, her beer untouched on the table in front of her. “I’m so sorry, Clovis. I know saving Cilla cost you your uncle.”

He shook his head. “I’d do it all over again, Emma.” As he said the words he realized they were true and it surprised him. But deep down he knew he’d done what Brick expected and wanted him to do.

Emma’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. She sniffled and nodded, her hand wrapping around the bottle of beer. “I wanted to thank you for saving her. And to tell you I…” She took a deep breath, turning the bottle with her fingertips. “I realize you had to do what you did. I was…well…I was out of line. Out of my mind. I might have cost my baby her life.” She averted her gaze, looking everywhere but at him.

Clovis couldn’t stand to see her so upset. He walked over and crouched down beside her chair, lifting a hand to caress her cheek. Emma closed her eyes at his touch and shivered slightly. “You would never have let Cilla get hurt, Emma. I know that. But you were so upset. I didn’t know how to calm you down.” He pulled her closer. “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do…”

She touched his lips with her finger, stopping him. “I know. You did the right thing, Clovis.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, something electric snapping between them. Clovis looked at her lush mouth, his body tightening with need. Emma started to pull her finger away and he reached up, stopping her. “I’ve missed you so much.” The words emerged husky and soft from between his lips.

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MISTRESS OF MERRIVALE by Shelley Munro

MISTRESS OF MERRIVALE by Shelley Munro

A marriage of convenience…full of inconvenient secrets.
Jocelyn Townsend’s life as a courtesan bears no resemblance to the life she envisioned in girlish dreams. But it allows her and her eccentric mother to live in relative security—until her protector marries and no longer requires her services.

Desperate to find a new benefactor, one kind enough to accept her mother’s increasingly mad flights of fancy, Jocelyn is nearly overwhelmed with uncertainty when a lifeline comes from an unexpected source.

Leo Sherbourne’s requirements for a wife are few. She must mother his young daughter, run his household, and warm his bed. All in a calm, dignified manner with a full measure of common sense. After his late wife’s histrionics and infidelity, he craves a simpler, quieter life.

As they embark on their arrangement, Leo and Jocelyn discover an attraction that heats their bedroom and a mutual admiration that warms their days. But it isn’t long before gossip regarding the fate of Leo’s first wife, and his frequent, unexplained absences, make Jocelyn wonder if the secrets of Merrivale Manor are rooted in murder…

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~Excerpt~

London, 1758

“M-married?” Jocelyn Townsend clamped her hands in her lap and frantically sought the right words for the occasion. “Congratulations.”

Tobias Sherbourne, the Earl of Melburn, beamed. Happiness lit his craggy face, taking it from ordinary to compelling. His eyes sparkled, the bright blue emphasized by his snowy white wig. “I’ve offered for the Neville girl.”

“I wish you happy, Melburn.” Jocelyn’s spine pressed against the back of the damask sofa, the squeeze of her stays grounding her again. Gossip and rumors had circulated for months now. Yes, she’d known Melburn’s declaration would come, but hearing it still hurled her into panic. She wanted to vent her frustration for everyone to witness, but of course, she didn’t. Her mother was the only person who shrieked in this household.

She picked up the teapot. “Tea? Or would you prefer something stronger?”

“Brandy, please.” Melburn straightened from his casual lean against the mantle.

A raucous feminine screech pierced the air and tea sloshed from the spout. Jocelyn sighed inwardly, forcing her smile to remain intact while she set the china pot down. Not again. “Perhaps we would both benefit from something stronger.”

She rose and maneuvered her skirts around her mahogany table and a square-backed chair to ring for a maid. The high-pitch scream repeated, louder and closer to the parlor. Jocelyn flinched, shooting a pained look at the closed door.

On her return, Melburn took possession of the seat opposite her, his large frame dwarfing the delicate furniture. “How is your mother?”

One would think the ear-piercing shrieks were nothing out of the ordinary, given his calm demeanor but, after two years as her protector, her mother’s peculiarities no longer disturbed him.

A maid appeared, and Jocelyn relayed her request for a bottle of brandy and two glasses. It mightn’t be the thing for a woman to drink strong spirits, yet if ever there was a time for her to imbibe, it was tonight. The maid’s face blanked, although she curtseyed in acquiescence and hurried off to complete her errand.

“My mother is having a bad turn. She insists someone is watching the house and spying on us.” It was a relief to share the latest drama with Melburn.

“Have you investigated to allay her concerns?”

Jocelyn resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “We have been more vigilant than usual. I haven’t noticed anyone suspicious and neither has Woodley or Tilly, but Mother is steadfast in her charges.”

Her butler and her mother’s nurse were equally adamant no one lurked in the alley outside their Cork Street house. While it wasn’t the best location in London, a night watchman patrolled the surrounding streets, and lamps chased away most of the gloomy shadows once evening fell.

The maid returned with a tray bearing the requested brandy.

“Would you like to adjourn to the bedroom, Melburn?”

“No, Jocelyn. I—”

Jocelyn leaned closer and covered his hand with hers, halting his refusal. “It’s a love match. I understand.” His bergamot and spice scent washed over her, familiar and comforting. He was a good man and a spurt of envy chased through her. Silently, she acknowledged her loss and the difficulties she’d experience in finding another protector of his caliber—someone she could trust not to abuse her.

“Ashleigh is a wonderful woman. I wouldn’t see her hurt by spiteful gossip.”

“I’d expect nothing less from you. It was a lucky day for me when you won me from Boynton.” And even better he’d become a friend as well as her lover.

Melburn’s eyes narrowed. “The man is a brute. The minute I saw the bruise on your cheek, my course of action was clear. Besides”—the tension in his upper body eased—“I like your red hair.” He reached over to tug on an unfashionable red ringlet, grinning at her like an errant boy.

“Thank you.” Her words acknowledged far more than the compliment. He’d rescued her from a bad situation and, for that, she’d always be grateful. She poured a measure of brandy and handed it to him before taking a smaller portion for herself. An abrupt ear-piercing shriek right outside the parlor made her wince. “Perhaps I should attend to my mother.”

Melburn set his glass on the mahogany table. “Let me. I’ll take a lantern and check outside in the alley. Help set her mind to rest.”

Reality crashed over Jocelyn as she watched him stride from the parlor and disappear into the hall, the door shutting behind him. This really was the end of their relationship. She’d miss his caring ways and passionate lovemaking. The Neville girl was lucky, and Jocelyn tamped down her envy. She fingered her gold locket and fought her growing agitation. A shiver crawled down her spine when she considered a search for a new protector.

No one could call her beautiful, and the last thing she wanted was to make another mistake, yet time would be of the essence because living in London was expensive. She was certain Melburn would give her a parting gift, yet even so, she’d have to tighten her purse strings until she found a suitable replacement.

The rise and fall of an emotional diatribe pierced the door. Jocelyn sipped her brandy and pulled a face at the harsh bite. At least the burn pierced the chill inhabiting her body. Her mother’s crying ceased, and a reassuring masculine voice filled the silence. She couldn’t decipher the words but knew Melburn would offer comfort. It was his way. The respite allowed Jocelyn to ponder her predicament. Even if she located a protector, finding one who accepted her mother’s presence would prove nigh on impossible.

She could approach her sisters… No, Georgina and Charlotte barely acknowledged her these days. They wanted to send their mother to Bedlam. Jocelyn hated to think of her one remaining parent incarcerated in the hospital, treated like an entertaining exhibit for those who possessed the price of admission. Her mind raced, attempting to fashion a workable solution. She drank more brandy, allowing the spirit to chase away her growing disquiet.

Ten minutes later, the door opened, and the earl entered the parlor. His cheeks were ruddy from the nippy spring evening.

“Did you discover anything unusual?” Jocelyn asked.

“Not apart from an old tomcat lurking in the alley. I informed your mother of my findings.” He sent her a rueful grin. “She decided she’d scared the spy away with her warning cries.”

“Thank you.” Another burst of fancy on her mother’s part.

Melburn sat again, a man with something on his mind, given the way he darted a searching look at her and toyed with his brandy. “What will you do now?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I’ll look for your replacement.” She pulled a face, then let him know she bore no malice by adding a smile. After all, their involvement was basically a business proposition. She’d offered the use of her body in exchange for his financial support. The easy camaraderie between them had come as a bonus. “It won’t be easy to find someone who suits my situation.”

“I might have an answer to your problem.” He hesitated as if he was unsure about his solution.

“Tell me. I’d like to think we’re at least friends after all this time.”

Melburn paused a fraction longer before appearing to come to a decision. “My cousin, Leo Sherbourne, requires a wife.”

A shocked gasp escaped her. “But I’m a courtesan. I—”

“You’re not a courtesan by choice.”

“Well, no but—”

“Think about it. Marrying Leo would give you an opportunity to start afresh.”

Most men wanted to distance themselves from their ex-mistresses. Jocelyn frowned at his quiet insistence, questions flying through her mind. “I see the benefits for me, but what about your cousin? What does he gain from such a match? Why would you want me to join your family? What if your betrothed learns of our shared history?”

“Leo lost his wife last year. He has a daughter, and he finds himself in want of a wife.”

Jocelyn’s brows rose. “Surely he could hire a nursemaid?”

“There are unusual circumstances that make a wife the better solution.”

“What unusual circumstances?” Jocelyn wasn’t sure she liked Melburn thrusting her into the middle of a mystery. “How can I make a decision if you don’t give me the full facts?”

“Jocelyn, it’s not my story to tell. I’m merely acting as Leo’s agent in this matter, gauging a sense of your interest. What I can tell you is that my cousin is a good man. He’s trustworthy. He won’t beat or degrade you.”

The chance of a new start wasn’t something that occurred every day. “What about my mother? Where does your cousin live?”

“Leo knows of your situation.”

“That wasn’t what I meant. Is your cousin willing to give my mother his protection?”

“He wants to meet with you tomorrow morning,” Melburn said. “If you’re agreeable, you can ask your questions then.”

Jocelyn drank the last of her brandy and set her glass aside. She laughed lightly. “Very well, you wretched man. You’ve piqued my interest with your suggestion, and you know it. I’ll meet with your cousin here at eleven tomorrow morning.”

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BENT BOOT ROAD by Lynn Rae

BENT BOOT ROAD by Lynn Rae

Lydia Back has problems; a dead end job cataloging artifacts no one wants to see, an office in a dusty basement storage room, and she’s just discovered that her friend is missing. Adding to her frustration is the arrival of a too charming private investigator who needs her help.

Carter Harris has no problems; he has his own successful business and is enjoying a few days in a scenic southern Ohio town to gather information on a missing professor. But his local contact turns out to be an uncooperative woman who prefers traipsing around in the forest to having a civilized conversation with him.

Together, they begin to uncover some of the secrets that lurk under the surface of other people’s lives and to appreciate each other’s abilities. When danger threatens, both Carter and Lydia realize it will be impossible to survive alone.

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 ~Excerpt~

“I know that my hat looks stupid, but it does keep the ticks from dropping out of the trees right into your hair, like this one must have done.”

Carter had a feeling she was gloating, but the idea of something sucking his blood was so revolting he wasn’t really paying attention to what she was saying. They were back at the Inn, and he was sitting on the toilet as Lydia dispassionately looked at him. He recalled that just the previous evening, he had been taking care of her hands in her bathroom, so it seemed like this was completing the circle. Although he would have rather had cuts and bruises than some bug burrowing into him.

“We seem to be doing this a lot, sitting in bathrooms and administering first aid.” He began to speak, mostly to take his mind off of what she was doing.

“It’s a rough and tumble life.” Lydia started to move the hair on his head to give her access to the tick. He’d felt the bug as they left the Mullins’ house and had almost driven off the side of the road with shock. He felt a slight tug and she grunted. “They must like the taste of you. Do you want to see it?”

“No.”

She tapped the tweezers in a disposable cup and then began to check his scalp for more of the disgusting things. Despite thinking about what might be crawling around on him, he found that as she ran her fingers through his hair he grew more and more relaxed. She was quiet and worked slowly, and his relaxation began to shift in another direction, something more focused and compelling. Which meant he needed to stop it now. So he reached up and caught one of her wrists. “I’ll check, you don’t need to do that.”

Taking a step back, she watched him rub his scalp gingerly. “Anything else?”

“No.”

“Check your skin too, and your back in the mirror.” She backed away and left the bathroom “When are you picking me up for dinner with Reggie?”

“At six.” Carter hadn’t felt any more suspicious bumps, and he was dreading checking the rest of his body in the shower he’d soon be taking. “Hey Back, what about you?”

“What about me?” Her voice floated in from the living room. It sounded like she was almost out in the hallway already.

“Do you want me to check you?”

“Nope, I can take care of myself.” And with that the door closed with a thump and she was gone.

“I can take care of myself too.” Carter grumbled as he began to strip, carefully shaking each article of clothing to see if anything nasty had hitched a ride. He’d actually had a pretty good day so far, the police had opened a missing person file on Dr. Cooper, they had discovered that he had been somewhere on Friday, and he had hopes that the upcoming dinner with Reggie might result in even more useful information. Of course, he had just had a parasite pulled out of his skin by a confusing woman who knew what to do with a machete.

He wasn’t sure what to make of Back. She seemed to alternate between liking him and then rushing to get away from him. As he stepped into the shower and ran the water, he thought about her in a shower and his body began to wake up. Just what he needed to confuse the situation, an attraction to a sarcastic woman who lived in the middle of nowhere. In order to divert himself from speculating on what she looked like beneath that absurd, if practical, overall, he began to run his hands over his skin to check for more ticks. That was not erotic at all. But Back would be doing the same thing as soon as she got to her apartment. He should have offered her a turn in his shower, or they could have shared a shower and he could have helped her check her back. And backside. And now he was getting warmed up again. He had been alone too long if just thinking about a woman he barely knew was enough to get him hard. There was no room in his life for a long-distance relationship, as if he would even want such a thing with an aggravating person like Lydia Back. There were plenty of sweet, kind women in Columbus that he could take a shower with. And in his experience, he hadn’t needed to check them for ticks first.

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NOT THAT TYPE OF GUY by Sara York

NOT THAT TYPE OF GUY by Sara York

When CIA assassin Aiden Johnson is trapped between a bathroom wall and a hard man, he chooses the hard man, much to his surprise. Aiden doesn’t want to admit he’s gay, but his first stumble into man love leaves him disoriented, searching for answers and desperate to find the truth. He covers his real desires by dating an ultra hot girl, but it’s the guy sitting a few tables away that draws his attention.

Super nice and attractive Doctor Trace Williams is so special he seems like an angel to Aiden. Their first kiss blows Aiden away. That Trace sees into his soul, even when Aiden is trying to hide everything, pisses him off. Aiden needs Trace in his life, but once Trace finds out the truth about Aiden’s job, will they have any part of their relationship left?

What would you do if your lover ripped apart the very foundation of what you believed?

Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This book deals with difficult subject matter, including abduction, abuse and murder. It also includes amazing sex between incredibly sexy men, masturbation and an engaging story. Enjoy!

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Excerpt:

Chapter One


Aiden Jackson took the disposable cell phone out of his pocket, plugged in his earpiece and answered the call. “Go.” Aiden spoke with his lips in a thin line, dark sunglasses covering his eyes as he searched the bustle of people waiting for their train at the Waterloo Station in London.

“They know someone’s here,” Chuck said, his voice whisper quiet.

“Shit, they on to me?” Aiden took off his shades and picked up a book. He leafed through the pages, acting the part of bored tourist on holiday.

“No, I can see you, and you’re good.”

Aiden put down the book and moved through the little shops, exploring the crap for sale, wishing he were anywhere else but here. Maybe on a beach, or playing golf even, though he hated the game.
This close to the end of a mission always made him jumpy. If he were on a beach, he would have the satisfaction of another successful operation notched on his belt.

“You’ve got someone tailing you now.” Chuck’s voice sent a shiver through Aiden.

An untrained person would turn to find their tail or they would run. Hell, even a semi-normal person would roll his shoulders, but Aiden did nothing. After flipping a few more pages in the book, he put it down and picked up another.

“Any ideas?”

“Yeah, but you’re not gonna like it,” Chuck said.

“Tell me.”

“Fuck no; just meet me in the men’s room two stores to your left. And go with whatever I do.”

Aiden dropped the book and headed out of the store. Chuck could start a fight or act like they were old friends. Twice before he’d worked with Chuck, and everything had gone according to plan. Of course Chuck wasn’t the guy’s name. Hell, none of them knew the real identities of the other operatives, too dangerous.

He passed a group of people and a few other travellers. The eyes of his watcher were on him. The hair on the back of his neck rose as he passed by a squat stocky guy of eastern descent. Pakistani?

Aiden pushed open the bathroom door, surprised when Chuck grabbed his hand and yanked him into the back stall. Chuck turned the flimsy lock on the door, closing them in the small space. Chuck’s hands were on Aiden’s chest, caressing his nipples through his shirt. Anger brewed deep in Aiden’s belly. His phone screeched and he turned it off, checking his watch for the time.

Chuck’s tongue teased Aiden’s nipple through the cloth. Aiden wanted to yank Chuck’s blond wig, pull him away and ask what the fuck he was doing, but the main bathroom door swung open, and the clip-clop of dress shoes echoed in the tiled room.

Was it the guy following them?

Chuck gazed into Aiden’s eyes, and a small smirk tilted his lips before he slanted his mouth across Aiden’s.

What the fuck?

Aiden froze. The extensive shit he’d suffered through in SEAL training, and then with the CIA, helped him keep his cool as the guy invaded his space, kissed him and touched his body like a girl would. Chuck’s tongue probed Aiden’s lips, demanding entrance. For a moment, Aiden wavered on accepting the kiss. He couldn’t do it. It went against everything he’d fought to keep hidden.

His darkest desires were playing out in this kiss. The lust he’d kept in check, the dreams that haunted him, all here, wrapped up in this one fleeting moment of joined lips that was a joke to Chuck, but a fulfillment of desires for Aiden. His breath came in halting gasps as Chuck licked at the slit of his lips. It felt so good. Aiden opened his mouth, admitting Chuck’s thick tongue.


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TORN TO SHREDS by Sara York

TORN TO SHREDS by Sara York

When Lucas Spires goes missing, his brother, Amos, turns to Brett Hutchings, an ex Marine, kicked out for being gay. After Amos betrayed him, forced him out of Lucas’s life and ended his career, Brett vowed to never to speak with, much less help Amos, until the end of eternity. But Brett can’t deny his need to save Lucas, the one guy he’s never been able to get out of his system, even if it means working for Amos.

The trail is cold, with Lucas missing for more than a month. The cops are clueless, unable to find even a hint that the young man was abducted instead of just wandering away. When Brett latches onto a trace of evidence, it looks like he’ll find Lucas, but the clue doesn’t pan out the way he thinks it should.

Lucas can’t take the abuse any longer. He’s at the end of his chain, literally. If he could escape into the mountains, he would, but the sick bastard attached a manacle to his leg, exerting his control physically. Lucas is desperate to escape his captor; all hope has vanished, crushing his spirit. Lucas dreams of a savior, but Brett walked away a long time ago, and he’s the only man strong enough to save Lucas.

Warning: This book contains material that some may find disturbing and is only suitable for mature readers. This book deals with difficult subject matter, including abduction, abuse and murder. While there is no consummation of sex shown in the story, this is a very sensual tale. Enjoy!

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~Excerpt~

The metal cuff dug into Lucas Spires’ ankle as he shuffled across the kitchen, trying to keep the chain dragging behind him quiet. Master would be up soon enough, and he didn’t need to wake the bastard early. Lucas paused and gazed up at the ceiling, searching for help, but knowing he’d find no answers there. Tears welled, threatening to spill down his cheeks; he swiped them away. Closing his eyes, he clenched his fist, willing himself to be strong.

Three weeks. The time in captivity seemed like forever. Three long weeks of hell and abuse at the idiot’s hands. He squared his shoulders and tamped down the pity party, vowing not to cave under the pressure.

Lucas took another step, the chain clanking against the floor. He stopped and almost crumpled to the linoleum, overwhelmed by misery. With gritted teeth, he willed himself to stay strong. The need for Master to secure the knives had passed with the desire to kill himself, and he couldn’t hurt Master. The fucker was too strong, and the zapper he carried delivered a hell of a volt.

The first week, Lucas had tried to escape. The second week, he’d lain on the little pallet Master had made for him and only moved when the beatings hurt too bad to stay still. This week he accepted his slave status; he had no choice in what happened to him. Serving Master was his only option in this new reality. Lucas fought the memories of his past threatening to race through his mind. He wouldn’t think of school or of rushing through the Student Union to meet with his friends over coffee. Letting his thoughts wander to those memories crushed him, making him want to end his pathetic excuse for a life. In some small part of his consciousness he hung onto the hope of making it out of here alive, where he wasn’t held prisoner, somewhere he had freedom.

Hunger clawed at his belly, but the fucker padlocked the refrigerator, only opening the appliance for him to cook. The asshole locked the pantry also. Lucas glanced down at his naked body. His stomach caved in, showing his ribs. His legs were too lean, like a scarecrow. Master fed him enough to keep him alive, but not nearly enough to sustain a healthy weight.

Master opened the bedroom door and Lucas flinched. He tried to keep his knees from shaking, but failed.

“I want eggs. You can have one.” Master opened the refrigerator, taking out the carton of eggs. “Three, scrambled. Don’t fuck ‘em up.”

Lucas stared at the open refrigerator, eyes burning with despair. So much food, and most of it would spoil before Master consumed half. If only...But it didn’t help to have if only thoughts. He ate what master gave him and didn’t complain.

Master watched as Lucas prepared the pan and cracked the eggs into a bowl. He whipped the eggs with a fork and poured them into the hot pan. The sound of the eggs sizzling reminded him of the zapper, and he flinched, his throat tight with emotion. Master hated when he broke down. He had to stay strong, at least until Master went off to work.

Lucas stirred the eggs, watching them grow thicker as the seconds ticked by. His belly hurt for food. One egg would be enough to take the pain away, but not enough to fill him. Never before had he been this hungry, this desperate for food, like all of him would splinter into little pieces if he didn’t eat.

Once Master’s eggs were done, Lucas put them on a plate and delivered them to the table where Master sat. He dismissed Lucas with a wave of his hand, the small reprieve almost caused Lucas to sigh, but he caught himself in time. Lucas went back to the stove and cracked his egg into the pan. He watched as the clear liquid boiled on the surface and turned white. He broke the yoke and flipped the egg, just like his mother had done before she passed away. When the egg turned white, and no yolk flowed from the cut in the center, he took the pan off the burner and ate the egg. No salt, no pepper. The bruises had faded, but the lesson remained; he received no extras.

Master ate the last of his eggs, placing his fork on the plate. Lucas swooped in, clearing the dishes. After rinsing the dirty dishes, he waited for his next set of instructions, hoping like crazy the jerk didn’t want sex. Master said nothing as he went to the bathroom. The sound of water running told him that his abductor had started his shower. Lucas relaxed a bit as he cleaned the kitchen, washed the plates and put them back in the cabinet. The asshole had never demanded sex after showering, Lucas got off easy today.

Since Master was still here, he didn’t even think about opening the refrigerator and sneaking a piece of meat, though his stomach ached as if he hadn’t eaten all week. He stood in the center of the kitchen waiting for Master to leave for work. The door to the bedroom opened and Master walked out dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Lucas had no idea what job Master held, and he didn’t care. All he wanted was for the jerk to leave for the day without asking for sex or touching him.

Without a word, Master fixed his lunch, locked the refrigerator and walked out the door. Lucas went to the window and watched the red truck drive away. No one ever came up the road except Master. They were somewhere in the mountains, that’s all he knew. The despair burning deep in Lucas’s belly came out in a piercing cry, rumbling through the rooms as he screamed and cursed at his situation.

He slumped against the wall, relieved that he was alone for the day. Part of him wished Master had him locked up anywhere but here. Truly alone in this piece of shit house, the isolation taunted him. After he stopped crying, Lucas wiped his eyes and checked out his food for the day.

Master had left a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the counter. Lucas paced himself, taking a small bite then waiting a long while for another, knowing he had all day to finish the meal. He lay on the blankets for a long time then swept and mopped the main room. He ate another bite of the sandwich, ignoring the clawing hunger. Boredom set in so he took a nap then checked the time, praying master wasn’t due back soon. He'd already eaten half the sandwich, but starvation hovered close, never leaving him alone. If he ate the rest now, he would get nothing else until Master returned home. Too long to go without any food.

Lucas turned on the tap and slurped down some water. The gross taste filled his mouth, but felt good when the liquid hit his belly. The temperature dropped even more last night, and he probably wouldn’t survive the winter unless Master gave him clothes. Already the house was a little chilly. At least he had a blanket.

He spent the day cleaning the house like Master demanded. Passing the time with the chores kept him from getting too bored. If only he found a way to communicate with someone and tell them he needed help. With no phone and no computer to hook up to the internet, he was at a loss.

After dusting the house again, Lucas realized he hadn’t eaten all of his sandwich and Master would return soon. He shuffled to the kitchen and heard Master’s tires crunch on the gravel outside. Fear pinged around his body. He stuffed the last two bites of sandwich into his mouth, chewing quickly and swallowing before Master came in. Master would be displeased if he didn’t eat what he was given and then Master would give him less tomorrow. Lucas had played that game earlier, and he hated the results. Master knew how to be cruel enough to motivate him to do whatever the bastard wanted.

Another quick slurp of water from the faucet washed the sandwich residue from his mouth. Lucas did a quick glance around the kitchen, noticing the napkin Master had set his sandwich on still on the countertop. He raced over and grabbed paper, tossing it into the trash before Master walked in.

The key slid into the first of the locks, and Lucas dropped to his knees, fighting back the tears. Another key in another lock, and Lucas settled his ass on his heals. The sharp clink of a padlock dropping to the ground sent fear racing through Lucas’s body. He shivered and bent forward, placing his forehead on the ground, his hands pushed in front of him as though he were bowing to Master.

The position, dictated by Master, left him totally defenseless against Master’s attacks and whims. Lucas choked back the sob threatening to erupt as the door swung open and Master stepped in.

“Slave, I’m home, and I’m feeling good.”

Welcome to hell.

Lucas shut down his mind, no longer allowing himself to think. He wouldn’t spend any more time permitting his emotions to rule. Soon enough, this place would be more than he could handle. When the time came, he’d have a plan. For now, he would exist and pray that somewhere, someone searched for him.

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RIDDLE OF THE DECEIVER by Gilbert M. Stack

RIDDLE OF THE DECEIVER by Gilbert M. Stack

Pembroke Steel: Book 5

When Mitch Pembroke and his bodyguard, Kit Moran, agree to help their housekeeper find her daughter, they get more than they bargained for. Miss Egan is not the only resident of her Maine logging town to have gone missing in recent weeks and her terrified neighbors are desperate for answers.

Are the disappearances really tied up in an old Native American legend or is there a more sinister solution? Time is running out.

Can Mitch and Kit find Miss Egan before they too end up victims of the Deceiver?

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~Excerpt~

It was 11:00 p.m. and Sheriff McCauley was waiting for them behind his desk. The lines in his face and the shadows beneath his eyes spoke of exhaustion and of a deep and abiding concern. A pallet in the corner suggested that the sheriff would be sleeping in the jail house tonight, and possibly had already done so the night before. He stood up and offered each man his hand. “Did Mrs. Egan get settled in all right?”

“She’s talking with Mrs. Baxter now,” Mitch answered.      

The sheriff sighed, returning to his seat. “I guess that’s what I expected. Still it’s a shame to burden that poor woman with more concerns when we still really don’t know what happened.”

Mitch placed a chair in front of the sheriff’s desk and sat in it. Kit came over to stand behind him. He was purposeful, not nonchalant; protective in his movements. The sheriff noticed all of this, then clearly considered how to begin saying what he wanted them to know.

“As I already said, I still don’t know what happened, but there are a few facts in the case. Not cold facts, not hard, but they’re most of what I have to work with.”

Mitch waited expectantly. Kit offered no expression at all. The dichotomy of attitude was already beginning to work on the sheriff—the one man clearly desiring information, the other just as clearly intending to see that he received it. A lesser man might have grown nervous or angry. Sheriff McCauley merely began to share that which he had already intended to give.

“Last Sunday, that’s April 11, Miss Egan fixed a picnic lunch and went off by herself into Shadow Valley. She had done this a couple of times before, despite suggestions that it wasn’t a good idea. Miss Egan said she liked to get away to work on her lesson plan for the coming week. My deputy went looking and couldn’t find her, but no one was really concerned until she failed to show up at the boarding house for dinner. Mrs. Baxter alerted me, and I organized a search. We scoured Shadow Valley for three days with no sign of Miss Egan.”

Mitch continued to wait expectantly, politely refraining from asking if the sheriff had questioned Deputy Howland. You didn’t have to be a local to see that Howland was infatuated with Emily Egan. And it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to wonder if infatuation—especially if it was unrequited—could have led to something less innocent.

The sheriff changed course. “Well that’s the crux of it as far as Miss Egan is concerned, but it’s only a small part of the larger picture. You see, we’ve had a number of other disappearances in Shadow Valley which look much the same. Well,” he amended, “a number of recent disappearances. People have been disappearing in the valley for the better part of two centuries. It just hasn’t happened quite so regularly before.”

The sheriff swallowed a sort of half laugh, as if what he was about to say embarrassed him, but he was going to say it anyway. “The Abernackie, the local Indian tribe, have known about the place for centuries. They won’t go there. The whole valley is taboo. But white folk have always been too smart to listen to Indians. So we hunt there, and now we log there, or at least we do in the half of the valley that doesn’t belong to the reservation. And the Indians they just turn around and shake their heads, especially when someone disappears.”

“Just how many disappearances are we talking about, Sheriff?” Mitch asked. He had the uneasy feeling that he knew where this conversation was going. Not specifically, of course, but there was an aura of strangeness settling about the office, and Mitch didn’t like the way it felt.

“Six really,” the sheriff answered. “Miss Egan, and five others, all in the past seven months.
 

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MOMENTS IN LIFE by Shanbreen

MOMENTS IN LIFE: A Collection of Short Stories by Shanbreen

Moments in Life is a multi-cultural collection of 15 stories about human lives that coaxes, teases, explores, and entices our emotions to examine the inner-self and scrutinize the lives of those who live around us.

The book flirts with mystery and crosses ethnic boundaries. It touches on women’s issues and confronts abject poverty in India. It focuses on the absorption of American values and the stumbling blocks faced by a segment of the immigrant population. It also relates to everyday life in America and stretches our imagination toward the nature of mankind.

 From social issues to coming out of the closet of a gay heterosexual couple to horror and supernatural to the power of love, this collection challenges and entertains the reader.

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An Excerpt from: Moments in Life
An excerpt from The Emancipation of Anjali
Copyright © 2011 Shanbreen

All rights reserved, Wild Child Publishing.

After they finished packing, Anjali said a prayer for him. She held Raju’s hand while they waited for a cab, and then with a final wave of her hand at the fast disappearing cab, she allowed herself the luxury of tears. “Good-bye, my son, good-bye,” she whispered again and again, as she trudged back into the house.

Anjali had no idea what to do next. She wanted to talk to someone, but she did not know whom to call. She would have loved to call her sister in India, but she did not know the number. Ramesh never let her call long distance, and she had no friends in her own town.

For a moment, she looked at her reflection in the large mirror that hung in their living room. Under the cloudy distortion of her teary-eyed vision, she saw a once beautiful, young girl staring back at her. She remained in awe of her perceived reflection in the mirror, her hand reaching out to touch the youthful face, but the contact of her hand against the cold reality of the mirror made the apparition disappear and brought into focus the shriveled, undignified woman who stared back. She looked away in a hurry and labored her way back to the kitchen where she took two large swigs from the Jack Daniels and poured a generous amount in a glass. This time, she did not bother to refill the bottle with water or cheap whisky.

She sat at the dinette with the large four-finger-deep liquor in her glass, making no effort to conceal it. Her fragile body was shattered by the deep sorrow in her heart—a discarded over-used raggedy doll, pulled and broken, cast away to rot, confined within the walls of the garbage can.

She sat in the kitchen, nursing her drink. A smile teased her lips as if to say, “I have done it. I have dared to defy my destiny. I have climbed the highest mountain. Nothing Ramesh can do will hurt me anymore.”

She sat there for a long time in the dark, not bothering to brush her teeth, or use mouthwash, or braid her hair in a single ponytail. Other than the time when Ramesh and she had visited one of his friends for dinner, this was the first time in their thirty years of marriage she did not bother to cook for her husband.

~ ~ ~ ~

Excerpt from the story Marriage of Convenience
For a long time, Sonia sat, as if lifeless, just staring into space. Thoughts travelled around in her head at an unbelievable pace. She had to concentrate hard to hold one tight before it evaporated and another thought took its place. She didn’t understand where Satish was coming from. To her, it was the other way around. It was Satish who had nothing to talk about except their kids, money, and the TV shows he watched. He had, according to her, no interest in politics, or for that matter, in art, culture and history. But she still didn’t say anything, just waited for Satish to get everything out of his system.

Satish sighed when Sonia did not respond to his accusations.

Sonia caught his hesitancy, knowing he was confused. The way his gaze darted from her to the floor, not quite knowing where to rest it. But he continued, apparently deciding her silence was a green light, so to speak, for him to go on.

“Sonia,” he said, “you project sensuality, but to me you seem perched on a glass pedestal that would come crashing down if I approached you in an intimate fashion.”

Oh, thought Sonia, here he comes back to his main topic of interest, ‘sex’. This was not where she wanted the conversation to head. So far, in their lives, they had never analyzed their sex life, although she knew he would have, if given the chance.

“Sonia, for you, ‘sex’ is an obscene word. You have too many headaches and are forever tired. Tired of doing what, I ask? Every time I try to talk about it, we have a fight, and then we don’t speak to each other for days.”

Sonia was about to defend herself when Satish stopped her. “Over the years, I have conditioned myself to stop thinking about sex,” he continued. “It has taken some doing on my part to lie next to you and do nothing. At first, masturbation kept me going, but that did not provide me with the mental release I needed. Fortunately for me, I no longer feel the burning need for you,” he said.

Sonia stared at him, her mouth agape, saying nothing. How could he be so cruel? Her defences rose, she could give as good as she was getting, but before she could say anything he spoke again.

“After all these years, sleeping next to you with very few intimate moments, I can in all honesty say you have succeeded in making me, if not completely impotent, at least semi-impotent,” he finished with an audacious smile.

Sonia badly wanted to change the conversation, take it away from sex to things she believed were the real issue. But she could not bypass the opportunity presented to take a jibe at him. “Well, since that’s taken care of, let’s not talk about it anymore and get back to what happened today,” she said.

But Satish did not give up on it. “Tell me,” he asked, “do you have sexual needs or does the once in a while thing do it for you?”

“Oh, God! Sex! Sex! Sex! Is that all you can think of? Seems like that’s all you can talk about. For a person who has been made impotent by me, you still seem to be thinking about it all the time. Anyway, let’s get it out of your system. To answer your question…no, I am not frigid, if that’s what you mean.”

“Are you seeing someone?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Then what do you do for it? Masturbate?”

“Stop being crude. But since you asked, I have my ways.”

She didn’t tell him her need for sex was not that great, and when she did need it, it was he who took care of it. She knew how to arouse him when she wanted to. It was not that bad in a dark room, where in her mind, she could make her husband take on the guise of George Clooney or Saif Ali Khan.

~ ~ ~ ~

Excerpt from the story ...And the Old Man Cried
The old man was so thin it was easy to count his ribs under the stretched-out translucent skin that seemed to have shrunk in proportion to his flesh. His Dilentin levels were getting harder to control. The varying concentrate of the medicine in his blood stream had caused him to lose his balance a few times or have epileptic attacks in the most unfortunate places—when he was in the bathroom or in a crowded place such as a restaurant, a shopping mall, or a country fair. The results of his falling down had led to two broken bones and a hip replacement.

The irony of it all was his eldest son had also died and left him alone. After his son’s death, there was no one to look after him in Dubai. It had taken quite some doing, after he fell and sprained his wrist, for his other sons and daughter to convince him to come and live with them in America.

The old man could not understand this country. It wasn’t just the strange culture of “these people” that he didn’t get, but he also found it difficult to converse with them. He tried, but his English was not that good. Why did his children always ask him to say “thank you” every time he was given something that was his to have in the first place, and why should he have to say “sorry” for such trivial things as dropping the spoon while eating? He had not dropped the spoon with an intention to be difficult or annoying, and besides, was he not making an effort to eat with silverware instead of using his right hand as he was accustomed to do? To top it all off, there was this “tone modulation” his children insisted on. What was the difference in saying, “Please, give me food,” in a soft or a loud voice? It seemed that even when he said “please,” his Americanized children were not always pleased.

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THE LONESOME LAWMEN TRILOGY by Pauline Baird Jones

LONESOME LAWMEN TRILOGY by Pauline Bard Jones

Three great romantic suspense novels and a bonus short story in one ebook!

The Last Enemy 

A lawman rescues a romance writer, but can she rescue his heart?

Two men need her. One needs her dead. Author Dani Gwynne must plot her own survival, working against time, terror and her fear of heights. Deputy US Marshal Matthew Kirby is the lawman in charge of finding Dani - before she's killed by elusive killer who has never missed his mark...until now. With the clock ticking down on their macabre game of hide and seek, Dani must defeat a killer who won't stop until he gets what he wants. Or he destroys them all trying…

Byte Me 
A lawman meets his perfect match. Too bad she’s a high tech thief…

Deputy US Marshal Jake Kirby is a top tracker, who always gets his fugitive. Now he's hot on the trail of a gang of cyberthieves with an unusual agenda. That trail takes him to Colorado and a country and western bar managed by the sexy, mysterious Phoebe Mentel. Instant attraction quickly complicates this high tech chess game between two people who don't know how to lose and are afraid to fall in love.

Missing You 
A lonely lawman finds love again. If only she could remember her name…

Denver Homicide detective Luke Kirby is looking for some peace and quiet when he heads up to the family cabin in the mountains. Instead he finds trouble. A beautiful and mysterious woman has taken refuge in his cabin as a storm moves in. She's lost her memory but not the trouble on her trail. While Luke tries to help her figure out who she is, his brothers arrive in town, needing his help with a murder and a missing secret military project. Now the brothers Kirby must join forces when she disappears…

Lonesome Mama
Debra Kirby's boys aren't lonesome anymore, and now the long time widow finds herself pining for a bit of adventure and romance in her life. When Donovan Kincaid offers a plane ride to a friend's wedding, neither of them expect trouble, but that's just what they get. Now the "lonesome mama" is having her own adventure and her own romance - if she can survive.

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** Each book is available separately in ebook, Kindle and Print - click on the titles for details.

Byte Me

 By

Pauline B. Jones

 

Prologue

 

Overhead, tiny pinpoints of light gave depth to the moonless night sky, while thirty stories down, miniature streetlights made a path for the occasional car to follow. The silence was so deep, Phoebe Mentel heard her own breath whispering in and out of her lungs. She leaned on the parapet and studied the tower across from her and her companion, taking the moment to find her focus and quiet her mind. 

 "You ready?" he asked. She turned as he dropped his bundle of equipment at her feet and knelt to extract the rocket launcher. He was dressed to steal in deepest black. Only his eyes gleamed out of the dark, eyes far too blue to be true.

            Lucky for her, she didn't need true. She needed there. 

"I was born ready." She spoke softly, but her voice, lightly laced with her mother's Southern charm, sounded loud in her ears. Also dressed to blend with the night, she'd covered her chin length hair with a black stocking cap and smeared her face with blacking until only her brown eyes were visible.  

His smile came fast and white, cutting into his dark silhouette like a lost Cheshire cat before fading back into the night. He readied the launcher, then used the parapet to steady his arms as he sighted in on the shadowy outline of the tower opposite.

A pop. A hiss. A double strand of rope snaked across the gap between the two buildings in a gleaming, silver arc. A muffled clunk found its way back to their ears. 

He tugged on the rope until the grappling hook resisted. He tested it for give. There was none. He leaned back, using his full weight to tug again. It still held. He secured their end with brisk, practiced economy, then bent to check his climbing harness. When he’d shouldered his pack and was securely anchored to the rope, he looked at her.

Phoebe adjusted her earpiece. "You receiving?"

He nodded. "You?"

"Soft and clear."

"Catch you on the flip side." He gave her a cheeky salute and vaulted over the parapet into space. The double rope sagged but held as he disappeared into the night. After a time the tension on the rope eased.

"It's a go." His voice in her ear confirmed what her eyes saw. Her turn to step up and do or die.

In a perfect mimicry of his actions, Phoebe took her place at the parapet. A confident vault, her body kept angled against a gravity more imagined than felt, then the slide into darkness. Moving slowly at first, she quickly picked up speed. The side of the building formed out of shadow. She curled her legs and thrust out with her feet, using the resulting bounce to swing up and hook the edge of the roof. Her partner, programmed to be gallant, reached down and pulled her up beside him.

Phoebe shed her pack and knelt by the grill over the building’s airshaft and quickly removed it, while he got out their equipment, all of it the latest in high-tech gadgetry. When she'd exposed the alarm wires bypassed them, they roped up again and started down the shaft, following a route laid out in her head. It was a gift, a talent, an instinct that was as much a part of her physiology as her eyes and hair and what she'd heard was her father's nose. If there was a way to get to something, a path to follow, she could find it.

Deep in the building's bowels, cutting-edge technology opened the wall they needed to access as easy as a whore spread her legs, giving them the prize they sought. They lost two minutes when a guard broke routine, but made up the time on the trip back to their starting point. Phoebe released the rope and drew it in with a sigh of relief. 

"I think that was our best time yet," her companion said, the English accent giving the words more importance than they deserved.  

Phoebe frowned. "If we could shave off another sixty seconds¾“

The muffled shrill of her telephone, followed by the harsh whine of two computers attempting communication, cut across her words with a warning that her virtual reality game was about to be invaded.

Phoebe looked around, wondering where, from which direction, the invasion would come, but when Phagan spoke, his voice, disembodied and synthesized, came at her from the star studded night "sky."

"Playing with Steele again, Pathphinder?"

"Phagan." Phoebe touched a button on her headset, deleting the virtual Remington Steele she'd used as her partner-in-crime. She crossed virtual arms. "Coming down? Or are we playing God tonight?"

It was his favorite role, in virtual or real reality.

The darkness to her right rippled, and a figure stepped out from behind a ventilation stack. On Phagan's cue, not Phoebe's, the moon rose to light his entrance as Deputy US Marshal Samuel Gerrard from “The Fugitive.”

She grinned inside her headset. Trust him to crash her B&E game with a lawman. The boy had always had a dark and wicked sense of humor.

"My enemies, and some of my friends, say I can only play Lucifer," he drawled, his voice only slightly less disembodied now that he was "earthbound.”

"I'll pretend to disagree if you've cast me decently this time." Phoebe trusted Phagan with her life but not her dignity. Never with her dignity.

He walked a circle around her, his purloined visage showing a wicked appreciation for the female form. "I'm feeling benign tonight, with a taste for Meg Ryan."

"I look like Meg Ryan?"

He arched "Sam's" brows. "Do you mind?"

"Why should I? She's cute and her thighs are smaller than mine."

Phagan laughed, throwing "Sam's" head back. The faint, artificial light was kind to the craggy face and dark tumble of stolen hair. Sam seemed amazingly real—as long as Phagan kept his mouth shut. When he didn't, he sounded like the android from hell. Phagan never used his own voice. Like God, he preferred a mouthpiece.

She'd been playing his games for seven years and still couldn't put an actual face or a voice to him. Sometimes, in her real world, she'd study the faces around her, wondering if one of them belonged to him. There were things he’d said, things he did that told her he'd seen her more than once.

"You do it?" he asked, nodding in the direction of the building across the way.

"Despite you wanting the timing tighter than Meg Ryan's thighs."

"You needed a challenge. The last one was too easy."

"Not my fault," Phoebe said. "You're the wizard of virtual world."  

He straddled a ventilation pipe, sat and flashed his stolen grin. 

She smiled back, but absently. She had to tell him, but she didn't want to. She wanted to keep the past at bay, but she couldn't. It nicked her present like paper cutting skin, welling scarlet from the breach, burning like acid. 

"What?"

Instead of speaking, Phoebe produced a couple of virtual cigars, handing one to him and "lighting" hers. Virtual smoke was no threat to her lungs and it gave her something to do with her hands. A wise precaution, since even in virtual world Phagan could read them like a Gypsy.

With a purloined brow cocked, he took his and lit up, blowing smoke out in a stream before asking, "We celebrating something?"

Phoebe looked at Phagan but "Sam's" cool dark stare deflected her ability to read him, even as she felt his X-ray scrutiny rake her from top to toe. She blew a series of perfect smoke circles, with a little help from the computer program, before saying as flatly as she could, "I found him."

Phagan stood up, took a drag of the cigar, then rolled the brown cylinder between his fingers as he considered her words. "You sure?"

Phoebe lowered her cigar, her hands a work of rock-steady art.  "I'm sure."

Phagan turned his virtual high beams on her, waiting for more. With a vaguely frustrated sigh, she gave it to him. "He's had some work done on his face. But I'd know his eyes if he'd turned himself into a woman."

"Sam" looked thoughtful. He sent some smoke rings out to ambush hers, before asking as if it didn't matter, "Where?"

She looked at him, feeling a brief moment of real amusement take the edge off her angst. "Denver."

Phagan had Sam do surprise. "No shit? How'd we miss him?"

"He's been playing Howard Hughes recluse."

Phagan crushed out the cigar. "So how'd you spot him?"

"Apparently he's decided to come out. Caught his mug in the newspaper. It seems--" Phoebe couldn't stop the quiver in her hands from playing out in front of Phagan, "he's almost got himself engaged to a prominent widow."

"Sam's" gaze got sharper. "Kids?"

"Two." Phoebe licked her dry lips inside the VR helmet. "Girls."

He nodded slowly. "Right. I'll contact Ollie. Make sure he's ready to move when you are."

"I'm ready." Inside the headset where he couldn't see, Phoebe's mouth curved in a smile seared by her acid past. "He made me ready."

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SHATTERED by Ericka Scott

SHATTERED by Ericka Scott

Do you really know the people you love?

Karen Ferguson has it all. She's on the verge of graduating, has an enormous trust fund, and she's newly married to a gorgeous man. Life is wonderful until a letter arrives for her husband Tony: His mother has died and he's inherited a run-down but beautiful country house.

Karen expected Tony to be upset. He wasn't. In fact, Tony's curious reaction to his mother's death bothers Karen so much that she goes in search of answers. Once she unearths the first clues at the farmhouse, she begins to wish she'd left well enough alone. But it's too late, and what she discovers will forever change the way Karen looks at life, at men, and especially at her husband...

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Excerpt:
We slept in Tony’s old bedroom. After making love, I dropped off to sleep almost immediately. Around three o’clock in the morning, I woke up alone. Where was Tony? Perhaps in the bathroom. When twenty minutes had passed, I went in search of him. He was nowhere in the house, but when I looked out the window, I could see a light on in the garage.

Poor guy must have been looking for the box of his mom’s stuff. I really needed to go help him find it. I’d had the workers put some of the furniture out in the garage, and they had probably buried the box. I pulled on my robe and found my way downstairs.

Buster whined from his dog run, and I paused to pat his head. Hopefully Tony would warm up to the pooch and I could let him run free tomorrow.

Through the half-open garage door, I could see Tony. He was picking up things and throwing them. I jumped at the sound of glass shattering. He bent down and picked up an object. I recognized it as the answering machine. It was an old one that used a cassette tape to record the messages. As I watched, he tried to pry the flap open with his fingers, but it was jammed shut. In a fury, he heaved the machine against the wall. It dropped, unopened. To my dismay, he dropped his head into his hands, and I saw his shoulders shake. He was crying. I started forward and then stopped. He hated any show of emotion, especially tears. He’d never forgive me if he knew I’d seen him cry. He wouldn’t believe that it made me love him more and not less. So I turned and crept back to the house, leaving him alone with his grief.

Poor Tony.

Had he ever called his mother? He had to be haunted by the thought that she was lying there, alone and dying, perhaps listening to someone leave a message and unable to tell them she needed help. Tears prickled the inside of my lids.

A dark shadow fell over me. Tony. I was glad I had my eyes closed.

His weight shifted the bed as he crawled in beside me. I hoped he couldn’t tell from my breathing that I was only pretending to be asleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about that answering machine. Would unscrewing the bottom of the unit expose the tape? After Tony had thrown it against the wall, it wouldn’t matter if I ruined the machine by taking it apart.

It seemed like hours, but finally Tony’s breathing evened out. I slipped out of bed. It only took a minute to find the screwdriver in the kitchen drawer where I’d put a few tools. I turned on the light in the garage and went to work on the answering machine.

I was right. There were six or seven screws, but once they were loosened, the whole machine came apart in my hands. The tape slipped to the floor, and I bent to retrieve it, resisting the urge to pump my fist in the air in victory. My delight was short-lived, for suddenly I couldn’t breathe.

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