KICKING ASHE by Pauline Baird Jones

KICKING ASHE by Pauline Baird Jones

A science fiction romance novel

With hearts and lives on the line, a kiss may be all they have time for...

Time has dumped Ashe on a dying planet and she needs to figure out why before she ceases to exist. Or gets vivisected by some Keltinarian scientists. Or worse.

Vidor Shan might help - since someone somewhere is trying to hose him, too - if she can convince him to trust her. Probably shouldn't have told him that only someone he trusts can betray him. Also wouldn't mind if he kissed her on the mouth.

Vid would love to kiss the girl, but his brother is lost, he's got hostile aliens on his tail, and the stench of betrayal all around him. Can he trust the woman who told him to trust no one?

Then a time quake hurls them to a nasty somewhere and some when...

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PROLOGUE

Ashe unhooked her munitions and strapped them together, while Lurch linked their timers.
We can’t afford a long count down. Lurch knew that, but she thought it anyway. It kept her focused, helped keep panic almost at bay.

It’s ready.

Right. Using the last of the non-sentient drones, she anchored the bundle where—in theory—the main force of the time wave would strike. Lurch triggered the timer as she kicked away. First she felt the drag of the time tsunami and then the stream shuddered around her as if taking a blow from yet another source. The double hit stalled her thrust. She tried to angle sideways, tried going cross-stream, but instead of escaping, she was dragged toward one of the crevasses cutting jaggedly across time’s plain, pulled back into the path of the tsunami.

Dive into it.

For a second more she resisted the nanite’s suggestion, but there was no time to argue, no other option. It couldn’t get worse than the double hit—she relaxed, letting it suck her down, and found that it could get worse. Pressure, counter pressure and the drag from above yanked her in every direction. Only her time gear kept her semi-conscious and that wasn’t a blessing. On some level she sensed the wave gathering time into its giant fist. Counting down with the timer, she imagined the impact as wave met disrupter blast…

Tried to brace for the coming concussion.

Tried to dive deeper.

Failed…

ONE

Expect the unexpected.

Ashe’s painful return to consciousness was not expected and shouldn’t have been. Why would she expect to survive a trifecta that included a time tsunami, their disrupter and a wonky time crevasse? Unless she hadn’t survived? Lurch?

A long, scary long pause ended with the sense of something unfurling inside her, not unlike how it had felt when the nanite first blended with her. Are you all right? He felt as off balance as she did.
I am alive.

He did not feel thrilled by this. She shared that not-thrilled-ness. Should open her eyes, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to see where they were. It didn’t feel great. Hard, lumpy surface under. Hot, humid air over. Achy body in between. And, adding insult to time tsunami injury, the air reeked of sulfur and was thick enough to feel like a blanket she couldn’t kick off. She shifted to ease hard and lumpy—
“It moved.”

It? Outrage popped her eyes open, though they probably shouldn’t until she got a better sense of who thought she was an it. The circle of faces looming over her jerked back, a thicket of weapons sliding into view. Would have been kind of funny if every barrel of every weapon weren’t pointed at her. Seven of them, she noted, hoping her math was wrong as she eased her hands up by her ears into the classic surrender position. Would they recognize or honor her capitulation?

On the ground, flat on her back—if she didn’t count the lumps—gave her a unique perspective on the boys and their guns. The weapons appeared high tech—an interesting contrast with their rustic garb. The boys were all young, square and stocky in build, kind of what she’d imagined dwarfs would be like, except they were too tall and had better noses.

Dopey, Sleepy, Sneezy—

This is not the time. Though she found herself finishing the list because she couldn’t help it when there seemed to be a face for each name…Bashful, Doc, Grumpy and Happy.

“It has eyes.”

It. Again. Their manners needed work, just in case the barrels in her face weren’t enough of a clue polite wasn’t in their skill set.

One of the boys licked his lips. “Do you think it’s dangerous?” His hand tightened on his weapon, the finger on the trigger twitching in a way she couldn’t like. Sucked to be called an “it,” though getting shot while being called an “it” would be worse.

Getting shot is worse than most things.

True. She’d picked a bad time to wake up. My shields?

Off line.

Great.

Indeed.

“I do not know.”

The voice, calm and familiar, came from the region of her head.

Is that who I think it is? Ashe did not mind the distraction from maybe getting shot by Dopey. And she’d rather hoped to run into him again.

Vidor Shan.

Lurch sounded less than thrilled. Not a surprise. He had issues with Shan that trailed back into at least one alternate reality. Possibly more. What’s his problem? I know he’s seen girls before.

You are wearing the Time Service uniform.

Oh. If her shields were offline, then so was her camo, which meant she looked shiny silver from head to toe. The suit’s compression factor made her a sex-less humanoid with eyes. Crap.

On a cracker.



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DREAMSPELL STEAMPUNK VOLUME 1

DREAMSPELL STEAMPUNK VOLUME 1

Enjoy four Steampunk stories in this one anthology.

Steam Time by Pauline B Jones

The man formerly known as Tobias Smith hadn’t planned to ride along with Dr. Everly and his Medicine Show. Grifters gave him a pain their elixirs couldn’t heal. But he was headed to Marfa, too. And Everly’s son turned out to be a really a fine looking damsel—one in distress when the ghost lights of Marfa bump them into an alternate reality complete with an automaton gang and airships. Could he be the good guy? Be the hero, save the day and get the girl?

The Prometheus Engine by Chris Samson

When an airship is shot down over the desolate Kashmir landscape, seven survivors of disparate backgrounds must band together to escape. As a swarm of marauders approaches, the survivors’ only hope lies in the untested Prometheus Engine.

Steambot Rampage by Heather Massey

On the eve of the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition, a no-nonsense secretary and an intrepid reporter join forces to battle a bizarre automaton on a rampage.

Angelina by Linda Houle

Valerie is fascinated with an antique ruby and diamond pendant. Where did it come from and why was it hidden in a makeshift wall safe? An old log cabin on her new husband’s ranch holds the answers and a lot more, but once Val goes through a secret door will she ever find her way back home?

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Excerpt: Steam Time by Pauline B Jones

Ani called him stranger inside her head, because he sure wasn't a "Joe." To his face she didn't call him anything cause she couldn't call him what he wasn't. Hadn't said much of anything to him, not since he'd ridden over the rise three days ago and Pa invited him to ride along with them. He was headed to Marfa, too, though that was all he'd shared about himself of a personal nature. He didn't talk much, which suited Pa, since he talked enough for all of them, and a few more besides.

Wary for reasons she hadn't figured out yet, she'd watched him through her lashes, mostly at night around the campfire, though her gaze might accidentally stray his direction now and again in daylight. She took care not to meet that hard-as-a-drill gaze, since she was supposed to be a boy and she didn't feel like one when she looked at him. And if he looked too close he'd know she wasn't that young. Good thing she took after her blessed Ma, who had looked young until the day she went to her reward.

Ani'd exchanged skirts for pants when they took to the road selling the elixir from the rear of the wagon. Like her Pa, their wagon walked a fine line between serious and spectacle, as did his English accent. He claimed to be gentry, a younger son who'd eloped with the under housemaid and been shipped off to the colonies to remove the stain of his disgrace from the family name. Sometimes she believed it was true. She could talk gentry like him when the situation called for it, which it didn't that much. Mostly she looked peaked and moaned so her Pa could heal her. Her gaze skittered the stranger's way again. Not sure she could do either in front of him.

A lot of men had passed by--or even stopped to buy--since that day they took to the road, but none as interesting as the stranger. Big and likely looking, with a huge helping of tough in him, he had a cool gaze that saw things, though he was also a gentleman--or as much a one as her Pa. She saw it in the way her Pa reacted to him, how much it pleased Pa when the stranger called him "Dr. Everly" with just enough respect so as not to be obvious, heard it in the way he spoke, too.

Pa didn't seem to see the danger that lurked below the stranger's surface though he should. Danger clung like his clothes, fit him as well as they did, mingled with his scent that the night breeze sent her way every now and again. And lurking behind the danger she sensed a deep well of sad.

Unlike her Pa, Ani saw it all. One of them had to. Not everyone liked finding out you couldn't buy a miracle for a dollar. That's why they'd had to avoid Paisano settlement this year. No, what surprised her was how it felt to see those things in him. Made her feel all strange and sad, too, made her want to do something about it, despite the danger. Didn't think the stranger would let her do anything for him though and a good thing that was. Wanting to do something about a man had caught her Ma in the tangle of Pa's life. Ma had loved him to the end, but she saw him clear and told Ani to see him clear, too.

"Illusions are for magic shows," she'd said more than once, "not for living."

Pa, well, he preferred illusions and more than a few delusions. Heaven knew his amazing elixir was mostly both. The stranger? If he'd ever had illusions, she had a feeling he'd lost them long ago.

So Ani kept her head bent over her book, though she peered through her lashes, trying to see the stranger clear, to see past the odd stirring in her chest at the sight of the long limbs stretched toward the fire, and the broad shoulders settled against the wagon wheel. Tried not to note that the shadows on his face weren't all from the need to shave or the low hanging moon. He looked relaxed, well, as much as he could when he looked like he could whip his weight in wildcats.

"Jules Verne?"

It took her a few seconds--and her Pa clearing his throat--to realize the question was for her. She lifted her lashes, taking as long as she could before she had to meet his gaze. Felt a bit of a jolt when she did, a strange mix of cold and hot shivering through her. She nodded her answer, cause her voice caught in her throat and she wasn't sure it would come out low enough for the boy she was supposed to be. Another cough from her Pa got her to hold the book out for the stranger's inspection. He took it, keeping her gaze captive during the exchange, his hand brushing hers long enough to send another round of shivers through her. A relief when the gaze shifted from her to the book, though not enough to unclog her throat.

"The Steam House. Interesting choice."

What did he mean by that? It was sure the right choice for the boy she was supposed to be. Lucky she liked everything Verne wrote, wanted to write something like it, but with a griffin. Pa thought it made her look more like a boy to have a book in hand, boosted her peakedness, too.

The gaze lifted, slow like, and grabbed hers again. Made her want to run, though she couldn't say if it was away or--he couldn't know, could he? The high desert night was chilly, but Ani felt heat storm her cheeks and was glad for the darkness that hid most of the blush. Boys didn't blush, did they? Truth was, she didn't know as much as she should about boys or girls. When they hit a town she had to go into her act. Even after the healing folks tended to keep their distance, just in case.

Beyond the stranger, the first ghost light appeared, down toward the Chinati's. Didn't take it long to split into two, then into four. Showing some color this year. Felt the stranger's gaze pulling at her own, so she pointed at them to distract him, or maybe she needed it. The way he looked at her, made her feel odd, kind of discontented with how things were, how they had to be. How they'd always be? Sad mingled with discontented at that thought.

By the time he looked, there were twelve in the sky. The stranger's brows arched just a bit. "The Marfa lights. So that's what they look like."

Almost seemed he spoke to himself, but Pa grabbed the opening anyway, did some expounding on the differences they'd observed their last three years in the area, on how they didn't always show up in the same place. Her Pa did like spectacle, and so it seemed, did the ghost lights, as they began to scoot around. They didn't always, and this was her first time to see color, though the locals had told them it could happen.

The stranger rose, moved away from the fire, taking her book with him. Ani bit her lip, fighting the urge to go get it, when she knew she should keep her distance from the stranger. I want to finish the chapter is what she told herself when she scrambled to her feet, fighting--for the first time in a long time--to keep the girl from her walk as she eased in beside him.

Be a good thing when they reached Marfa and parted company. A good thing, she repeated, not sure why she felt the need.

This was the first time she'd stood this close, could compare his height with hers. Didn't know why the ways they were different felt kinda right, kinda nice even. He was a border ruffian and dangerous to boot. But she'd lived safe for so long, it felt like life had passed her by. Been put on the shelf before she had a chance to be off it--

"Have you ever followed them to their source?" The stranger shifted to look at Pa, the movement putting a bit more distance between them, though Ani caught a glancing blow as his gaze passed her on its way to Pa's.

Pa rose and came to stand next to her. "Some have tried."

Ani heard the change in his voice, half amused at the notion of chasing lights, half tinged with a bit of longing to try it.

"As a man of science, I would, of course, be able to unravel the mystery, if I didn't have responsibilities to those unfortunate sick who need the healing that I bring to this blighted region."

Translation: he was tired, the night was cold, and the fire helped a mite to ease the ache in his bones from the wagon's jolting.

Pa moved further from the circle of light cast by their fire, as if the ghost lights drew him. Before she could stop it, Ani sent a huffed look the stranger's way. If they started chasing the ghost lights, they'd most likely come in at the little end of the horn this winter. Though, she half glanced at the lights, they did kind of seem to beckon. Almost teasing-like.

"I think I might just take a ride that way," the stranger said, though it sounded like he was talking to himself again.

She felt a pain in her chest at the thought of him leaving. And a good thing, she reminded herself, rubbing the pain spot.

His gaze slanted her way, catching her at it. "Want to ride along?"

Shock, longing, and a desire to hide widened her eyes and muted her voice again.

"Boy would like that." Pa's words didn't help her speaking problem any. "You wouldn't mind a little adventure on this fine night, would you? See the elephant so to speak?"

He wanted her to go with the stranger? Then she figured it out. Didn't want the stranger finding out anything Pa couldn't. If they discovered something, he could take credit later. She half sighed as that odd feeling welled up in her chest again. She had seen the elephant more than she liked with Pa, but--and this was the odd part--seeing it seemed a mite appealing with the stranger at her side. Or maybe she was just weary with being safe. Be better if the elephant turned out to be a griffin though.

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STEAMROLLED by Pauline Baird Jones

STEAMROLLED by Pauline Baird Jones

With all of time at risk, it's a bad time to fall in love...unless it's the only time...

Robert Clementyne is going on a transmogrification machine hunt. He fears finding the machine will be as difficult as pronouncing the name. How can the steam-powered device perform as advertised, and how useful can any information be, coming from a steampunk themed bowling alley/museum?

It's pretty crazy, but he's been there, done that, and thinks he can handle it. And then he meets the proprietor/curator...Emily Babcock.

Emily grew up in crazy, still lives in it - hey, it's her freaking zip code. So no worries when Robert and his team walk into her bowling alley. The first visitors ever to her museum.

But neither of them is prepared for what happens when they open the door to the past...and the future. With a side trip through Roswell...and a face-to-face meeting with an evil genius/wannabe - who is on his way to becoming evil overlord-of-everything...

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Excerpt:

Time is persistent.

And often cranky.

Ashe had learned these immutable truths during her relatively short stint in the Time Service—okay so almost everything was relative in the Service—but inside the stream, with sparks striking off her protective gear, cranky felt like an understatement. Lurch kept her stomach in place through the turbulent spots—one of the benefits of hosting a nanite—but she was glad they were closing on the base. She slowed, preparing for reintegration into base time, then gave a kick that would land her just off square.

Didn’t like arriving where expected.

She sensed Lurch’s mental sigh over her sideslip. He preferred precision to surprise, though he wouldn’t admit it—or concede the wisdom in retaining a small measure of paranoia.

She softened her knees for the coming jolt against terra firma, but nothing prepared her for a landing on terra that wasn’t firma. She skidded a few feet, even managed to stay upright for several of those feet, before tumbling to a stop against a large tree.

While she deployed a random selection of the billion or so swear words she’d learned from Lurch, he sent repair nanites into areas of her body impacted by the messy landing. When she’d caught her breath, she crawled out from under the tree—not easy with multiple tremors wrenching the terra in several directions at once—and stared up at the multiple, explosive impacts slamming into the protective shields. That explained the tremors, but not the reason for the impacts.

The outpost is under attack.

Really? I hadn’t noticed. When he failed to respond to her completely justified sarcasm, she started to clear her mental throat for round two—outpost? The island on the Kikk Ocean hadn’t been called “outpost” in two, maybe three hundred years. Are you having a senior moment? He was passing his five hundredth Earth year. He didn’t like it when she started adding his age up in Garradian seasons, so she only added those up when he’d seriously annoyed her. And she felt like doing the math, which wasn’t that often, since he declined to assist in that particular process.

We aren’t on the base.

Guess he didn’t like the “senior moment” dig. Well, she didn’t like the implication she’d landed in the wrong time, though she had to concede it was the wrong place. This wasn’t the landing square, or even its close cousin. But, other than the under-attack part, this looked like the base and smelled like the base. I did not miss the mark by several hundred years.

I suspect the mark missed you.

Not helping. No matter what one called it, this island was a fixed point on the planet of Kikk. It’s not like the base had changed that much since its rediscovery—or the many seasons of Garradian time that had passed. It had been timeless before it became the Time Service base. It had even recovered from the battle damage incurred during the conflict with the Dusan five hundred Earth years ago.

Take a closer look.

Overhead, red and gold highlighted the area the shields protected—she frowned, as her brain processed the visual recording. Only the center section of the island appeared to be under attack, which should not be possible.

Ashe started—and quickly stalled—on what to ask. Lurch’s pause was both over long and unusual. In her experience he tended to provide answers before she could think the questions. It wasn’t easy sharing her brain with the venerable nanite and she had to assume it wasn’t easy being in her less-than-venerable head, though he’d never thought it where she could hear it. He’d acquired a lot of tact in the years since he’d achieved sentience. While she didn’t know exactly when it was, she did know it was a tiny fraction of the time behind her, and that she had a ways to go with tact development—and some other stuff.

He tapped into the base’s resources. She felt the connection through him and saw what he saw as he spiked into the tracking screens in the command center—in what had been the command center long before her time. It was a bit like watching a very old news vid, seeing the old style uniforms—the Earth uniforms. Neither the arrangement of ships, nor did their appearance, matched her data-memory of any battle from that time.

They are from Keltinar.

There weren’t any battles with Keltinar. Keltinar was an ally, well sort of, had been for the passing of many seasons. They’d threatened and postured a few times—a stereotypical patriarchal society back then—but in the end made peace. They’d come to this galaxy to solve a resource problem, she recalled, pulling the specifics out of her data memory bank, a female shortage issue because all the guys wanted boy babies. They’d almost taken too long to figure out they required girls to get guys. Time and a trading agreement with an Earth entity called mailorderbrides.com, created just to fill the need, had improved the ratio, then tipped it the other way. Now their world was heavily matriarchal.

They’d found out what the Garradians knew all too well: Earth girls weren’t that easy. She paused, surprised when Lurch failed to follow up on the opening.

The battle is bleeding through a tear in time.

Again, did not know what to ask. It should be impossible, shouldn’t it? Staring at it didn’t help it feel possible when it looked so wrong, but since she was staring at it, it must be possible. She felt Lurch wince. Kind of echoed that wince.

This battle took place a long time ago. In an alternate time line.

He tacked this last on with such obvious reluctance, it suggested he thought she needed to know about a battle that hadn’t happened, but wasn’t happy telling her about it. She could ask him what else he knew, but he already hadn’t told her, so he probably wouldn’t share any more.

You need to move ten meters up island to clear the breach.

No, did not plan to share more. Easy to say she should move, not that easy to do. She longed to jump back into the stream, but what if she got stuck in the alternate time line? Was that possible? No surprise time felt off, the stream out of synch once she got the shock and awe under control enough to notice.

I’m going to have to run for it.

First she’d have to get up off her knees, also easier thought than done. Lurch flowed drones into her muscles and boosted her adrenal function. He also heightened visual acuity, helping her map the best route. She managed upright, found her balance and darted forward.

Are you sure we can pass through the edge of the breach? It was something she should have asked before committing to the run. Lurch’s lack of answer was an answer of sorts. Great.
The edge of the breach shimmered a bit, as if lit by flares of the weapons from the bombardment. Lurch sent another surge through her muscles—trying to increase her physical capabilities as a warning blasted through her mind. She raced toward what could be a wall, while the display inside her head showed a section of the upper shields giving way—the part just above her.

It’s going to be close.

A whistle of something incoming lent wings to her final effort. They were both fully committed as she launched herself at the edge of the breach…and passed through it. Felt the explosion hit against it, but for whatever reason, the wall contained the blast, even though it failed to contain her.

Possibly because the battle belongs in that reality and we don’t.

Ashe rolled several times, bumping against a pair of legs.

Not that much better than a tree.

“Cadet.” The word sounded more sigh than anything.

Council Head Carig had resisted letting her into the service, despite indications women had been wardens at some point ¬either in the past or the future—another one of those relative effects one had to wrap one’s brain around in the Time Service. Not that she wanted to wrap her brain around him. He was a fossil in looks and attitude. And he had a serious hate for her family, even though he was supposed to have left it behind when he became a member of the governing Council.

Of course, she shouldn’t know his name—no one wanted those traversing time to know who they were or when they were—but Lurch never forgot a face or a name.

She scrambled up, grateful to Lurch for erasing the aches and pains yet again. Her protective headgear retracted automatically as she came to attention. A pity he couldn’t remove the signs of the various impacts from her outer person. Carig’s gaze found and paused to note each violation of the uniform code. It didn’t help to know her uniform was silver, shiny, fitted—like some perverse, centuries old Earth science fiction movie creature. It would have horrified the Council had any of them bothered to watch one of those old vids though possibly not enough to alter the uniform design. No surprise that change was slower than time in the Time Service.

“Do I want to know the reason for that rookie arrival?” He sneered down his nose at her, even though they were almost the same height. If he was looking at her chest, he had to be disappointed. Her uniform flattened her chest to just shy of concave.

She opened her mouth, a tart response about the breach making it to the tip of her tongue, before Lurch yanked it back. A good move, since tart could get her kicked out. She might not like the cut of her uniform, but she was proud to have earned the right to wear it. She tried to frame a less tart response about the tear. Lurch yanked that back, too.

He doesn’t know about the tear. He can’t see it.

Actually, she couldn’t see it anymore either. That left her nothing but a pseudo-respectful silence.

“You’re late.”

She wasn’t—and how could she be late when they were out of time’s flow—but one didn’t argue with the Head of the Time Council. Besides, they had worse problems than a tardy cadet. Now that she was back in base time tremors—not weapon’s fire—slammed into the time shields that hid them from the larger universe and protected them from changes. In theory, the shields also enabled them to ensure time’s continued integrity. Ashe hoped they held better than the shields in the time tear.

Do you know what’s happening?

Rather than answer the question, Lurch began to feed her data he could access now that they were free of the breach. She didn’t know everything Lurch could do—a successful hosting was only possible if both sides respected the other’s privacy—but she knew that if he wanted to know something, there was no one within the Council hierarchy who could stop him from finding it out. The data was interesting and disturbing, and it boiled down to one simple conclusion: time was seriously out of whack.

Just in case she hadn’t noticed.

Look at this. Lurch brought the tracker log to her attention.

That can’t be right. No way that many trackers would be overdue all at the same time.
It sounds less threatening than “missing.” Lurch sounded as if he were still searching through data streams. The missing are all top-tier trackers. Some mid-level, too. There are some not yet overdue but if they show, I’ll be surprised.

Lurch, as she well knew, was rarely surprised.

Ashe had only recently left rookie status, so no one knew how good she was at tracking—in large part thanks to Lurch—so it wasn’t a shock she hadn’t been targeted. It’s always better to be underestimated was another family axiom.

It’s not all me, he told her, a touch dryly. You’re a natural.

The rare compliment left her mentally speechless.

Could you try to focus?

Lurch felt about as not happy as Ashe had ever felt him feel before. It was a lot of unhappy. She felt another shock wave hit the perimeter, harder than the last one, but Carig seemed unaware of it. Unclear if he was oblivious or bluffing.

He can’t see or feel time. In all my existence, I’ve never been hosted by someone who processes time the way you do. Who sees time the way you do. Still the base sensors should be detecting something.

She didn’t ask the obvious question, because if he knew he’d tell her unless he didn’t want to tell her, which he wasn’t or couldn’t.

Sometimes you make my circuits hurt.

Sorry.

“Report to the Chamber immediately.” Carig barked the command. Since barking was his usual tone, it was hard to tell if he was worried.

She left Carig, with a half-hearted attempt to hide her relief, turning toward the main building. It was inside what had been the breach, but whatever had caused the problem seemed resolved. She crossed the boundary with no problems. The sky above stayed clear and calm. No more shooting-at-them-ships.

Any ideas? Theories? Wild guesses?

That Lurch hesitated yet again was troubling. Based on known theory, this level of turbulence can have two causes. Someone is messing with time.

The missing trackers appeared to support that thesis. And the other?

Time could be repairing itself. It is…persistent.

I had heard that. Only three million or so times since she entered the Service, but who was counting.

I have experienced time repairing itself. It was…challenging.

Challenging?

And nearly life extinguishing.

Which could also explain the missing trackers, she realized. Ashe knew a lot of ways to express worry verbally, thanks to Lurch, but only one Earth word seemed right for the moment.

Crap.

Indeed.

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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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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TANGLED IN TIME by Pauline Baird Jones

TANGLED IN TIME by Pauline Baird Jones

Colonel Carey (from The Key and Girl Gone Nova) takes a test "flight" through the Garradian time-space portal, but an unexpected impact lands him somewhere and some when. As he attempts to get to Area 51, he crosses paths with Miss Olivia Carstairs, who could be Mary Poppins' twin sister. Or maybe her cousin. Olivia's got a transmogrification machine powered by steam and a mouth he'd like to kiss like it was his job. Can he convince her to join forces before she shoots him with her derringer?

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Excerpt:

Braedon Carey, Col. USAF, was used to waking up in strange places.

He wasn't used to waking up nose-to-beak with a buzzard.

He stared at the buzzard. The buzzard stared at him.

It dawned on him he had a buzzard on his chest.

He yelled. He may have waved his arms at it as he scrambled to his feet. With an air of offended dignity, it retreated to a chunk of rock. Carey retreated, too, and did an SA--situational awareness--assessment. It didn't take long.

He knew where he was supposed to be and this wasn't it.

He'd flown over, driven through, and trained in and around, Area 51. He knew it as well as he knew his Dauntless. This is what he got for playing test pilot without a ship. No surprise it had turned into a Charlie Foxtrot right off the launch pad--or in this case, right out of the Garradian portal. At least the pucker factor was low with that buzzard gone from his chest. He'd been fine when he left the Kikk Outpost, but now his ribs hurt, a sign he'd bent them on something inside the wormhole. Was that possible? He shifted gingerly. His ribs said it was. His brain was neutral on any subject that involved physics--not that he knew this was a physics problem. His skill set involved pointing, shooting and blowing things up. Until this moment, he'd also have said he was good at getting from point A to point B, but he hadn't been driving. The doc and her geek team had been on the stick for this trip.

He picked up his cap and slapped it against his leg before settling it on his head. He pulled out his GPS, but it couldn't get a signal. If the GPS wasn't working, then the SAT phone probably wouldn't either, but he tried it anyway. He gave it a shake and tried it again. Something was gooned up. Had he bent his tech the same time he bent his ribs? The tech didn't look bent. He shook both. Didn't sound bent. He tried them again, just to be sure. Still no joy.

He extracted his compass next. It found a pole, but it had found a pole on Kikk. Some tech had no loyalty to their home planet. He eased the bill of his cap up some and did a slow circle, taking care not to make eye contact with the buzzard. Could the doc have dropped him on the wrong planet? She'd seemed to know what she was doing, while admitting she might not, he recalled now. Kind of like those drug commercials. This will work great unless something goes wrong, which it might. Could the misfire goon up his retrieval? The doc had been confident while managing to not be confident about that part, too.

He caught the buzzard looking at him like he was a buffet opening soon. It took flight, rising in a series of slow circles that kept him at the center, so Carey wouldn't get to thinking he'd lost interest. With that red noggin and turkey-like build, it could be a turkey vulture. If he recognized the buzzard, maybe he'd recognize something else. There'd been a few years in there, until Carey got too cool to go tripping with his old man, where they'd visited every national and state park within driving distance. He'd seen a serious chunk of the USA on those road trips. Could this be one of those chunks? He gave the chunk his undivided attention.

Looked like he'd landed in a long valley, a cut between two offset peaks. The incline was brutal going up and down. Toward what could be the west, was a long desert plain, and rising from it, a set of peaks that looked familiar. Was it hopeful thinking? Two peaks. Two ears...mule ears? They looked kinda like mule ears. Mule Ears Peak. He'd seen them before, but where? He needed to get higher. Couldn't see crap in this valley. Up always improved SA. His ribs grumbled dissent.

He could make his ribs happy, sit tight until his extraction--if it came. Not the place he'd have picked, but he had water and energy bars for a few days. The buzzard's shadow passed over him. On the other hand, maybe he ought to keep moving. Ribs didn't feel broken--he'd know--so they could man up. Bad idea to give a buzzard false hope.

Sun rode low in the east. A bit of a chill in the air. Based on the ground cover, he'd guess it was early spring. He was supposed to have arrived in late fall and in another state--not that he was complaining, because who would he complain to? The buzzard that wanted to eat him?

He started up, using the scrub as handholds to keep from taking an involuntary down turn, while his ribs groused at him. He'd spent too much time in space, he decided. He shouldn't be puffing this hard. Couldn't even blame it on the altitude. This mountain wasn't any higher than Area 51. About one hundred yards shy of the peak, he topped a slight rise and the ground leveled out enough to let him catch his breath. He didn't sink to his knees. He had his pride--and that buzzard was still stalking him. With his eyes on the ridge line, he almost didn't notice the bogey.

When he did--he blinked--it couldn't be for real. He rubbed his eyes--it had to be a mirage--but it didn't go away. It didn't waver around the edges either. He looked both directions, half expecting a camera crew to pop out from behind a rock, but that was even crazier than the big ass bogey. He eased in for a closer look. Kind of oblong in shape and metallic in appearance, it sat close to the mountain wall on the only bit of semi-flat real estate around. It looked like a mutation of a car and an upside down train, with a little rocket thrown in just for fun. An inverted fan of dark metal covered the area where a view port or window shield should be. Or eyes. It kind of looked like it should have eyes.

The wheels on the mongrel machine were as whacked as the whole of it. Looked like old stage coach wheels, but metal and black. There was no road for it to drive up, even if the wheels touched the ground, which they didn't. Whoever built this bad boy had a great sense of humor or his elevator didn't go all the way to the top.

He approached with caution, half expecting it to dissolve when he touched it, but it didn't. It felt cooler to the touch than he'd expected, though he wasn't sure why he expected anything. Up close, the surface was black and appeared to be made from sheets of metal fastened together with rivets. In addition to the wheels it had a series of fins along the side and front. He touched one and it moved, like they retracted and extended. He tugged one until it stopped. They extended pretty far, but fifty of them couldn't put this hunk of junk in the air. Might improve the aerodynamics, but that was another physics problem. Still didn't do those. No sign of windows or openings down the left side, though he did find something that could be vents. On the right side of the bogey, an open hatch door had three fancy looking steps hanging off the edge.

It looked like--a cartoon version of a Jules Verne space ship or submarine, which seemed to support the mirage theory. Only it refused to fade like a good, big mirage.

It hadn't crashed here. There were no impact indicators. Could've been built there, he supposed, but how had it been built in a place with no roads or signs of human intrusion? And why? Besides, the metal wasn't corroded or aged and there was very little grit on the surface. It didn't look dug in, more like it had recently arrived. Only thing breaking ground around it was his footprints.

And someone else's

It shouldn't be a shock. He had noted the opening in the side. But it still gave him a jolt to see them. Instinct had him reaching for his side arm, but the sound of a gun cocking off to his right changed his mind. He raised both arms, taking it non-threatening slow, and turned toward the sound. His jaw dropped.

It was Mary Poppins' twin sister, holding an umbrella and a gun.

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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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DO WAH DIDDY DIE by Pauline Baird Jones

DO WAH DIDDY DIE (aka I LOVE LUCI – WHEN I DON'T WANT TO KILL HER)
A romantic suspense by Pauline Baird Jones

Luci Seymour - sexy & free spirited - returns to steamy New Orleans in search of the father she's never met. She finds murder, mayhem, love and adventure when her timing puts her directly in the sights of an elderly hit couple and a con man's last scam.

Available in multiformat including kindle/nook/sony etc. from Fictionwise and in print.

What others have to say about Do Wah Diddy Die:

"When it comes to creating stories with offbeat humor and outrageous situations, Pauline Baird Jones is in a class by herself. A most excellent experience!" Jill Smith, Romantic Times; 4 Stars.

"Once again, Pauline Jones has managed to write a book that rivals anything other comedy writers have put out there for the discerning reader. Ms. Jones' tongue-in-cheek writing style will appeal to anybody, with or without a sense of humor. I spent half my time roaring with laughter and the other half enthralled with the mystery of 'whodunit'. This book is a must read of the highest caliber for anyone who just loves a great book, a good laugh and a fantastic story." Ariana Overton for Midnight Scribe, Murder List, WordWeaving, Tracy's Book Reviews, ebookconnections.com and Sharpwriter

"I could hardly bear to put this book down for anything. I kept wading through dead bodies to discover the tie in and get this mystery all figured out. I look forward to more hilarious reading from Pauline Baird Jones." Five thumbs up from Kathy Boswell, Kathy's Faves and Raves
Pauline Baird Jones has definitely carved a niche for herself in the category of romantic comedy, with talent that rivals the best and a sense of humor that is sure to leave readers breathless with laughter. If you love romantic comedy and haven't had a chance to read DO WAH DIDDY . . . DIE, you don't know what you're missing. This one is a must read! —Reviewer's Choice Award from Scribes World

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Excerpt:

An ancient radio was scratching out a Sousa march when Fern Smith unlocked the door of the seedy hotel room and found Donald posing in front of the cracked mirror with an AK-47 held at a military angle across his chest and a bandana knotted around his mostly bald head. His long, thin neck merged into plump jowls, making his head an uncertain rectangle, with the wispy remains of his hair trailing around three sides. A hang-dog expression adorned the fourth side. His puny shoulders were jaunty and self-satisfaction gleamed from close-set eyes as he regarded the speckled image in the substandard mirror. Donald was neither tall nor short--though he could appear either, depending on where he belted his pants across his beer belly--so his attempt at Rambo fell sadly short of the mark.

Fern pushed the door closed with her shoulder and dumped the sacks she carried onto the lumpy surface of the less-than-double bed. When she snapped off the radio, her voice broke flatly into the sudden silence. "I still think we should have bought the Uzi."

Donald froze like a deer in headlights, then spun to face her. He grabbed the bandana and stuffed it in his back pocket, then produced a wide, hopeful smile as he peered up at her, exposing the gap where his plates didn't meet his gums.

Fern was a tall woman, narrow everywhere but the hips, with stooped shoulders and long arms that made her look like a caricatured bird of prey. Her muddy gray hair, as wispy as Donald's, was drawn up in an off-center bun. Her narrow mouth, having long ago given in to the force of gravity, sagged on either side of her pointed chin.

"Teddy said--"

"I'm sure what Teddy said had nothing to do with the price." Fern's expression gave no quarter. "If you hadn't let Artie lay out the hit--"

Donald tenderly deposited the AK-47 on the dresser top, retrieved the bandana from his pocket and rubbed his fingerprints off the AK's. "His tab, his call."

Fern's sigh was silent, but it ruffled the back of what was left of Donald's hair as she reached around him to pick up the photograph of the target. She studied the face. There was something about her eyes, something deep in the mysterious green slits barely visible beneath drooping lids, that made Fern nervous. She tossed the picture down beside the gun.

"His way overdue tab, don't you mean?"

With a triumphant look, Donald pointed at something behind her. She turned and examined the beat up shoebox sitting on the table, its mailing label directing it to Reggie Seymour at a New Orleans address. With some reluctance she lifted the lid and found neat rows of envelopes also addressed to this Reggie. Inside one envelope was...

"A dollar bill?" She picked up the box, checked out other envelopes and found each contained a single dollar bill. "This is his down payment? A shoebox full of ones?"

Donald shifted his feet. "Ones or twenties, what does it matter as long as it's real?"

"No way there's half here--"

"He's good for it," Donald cut in, adding, "He's lucked into the perfect scam this time, Fernie. You should see him. Dressed to the nines, even has a Rolex watch. Said he'd cut us in on it. We pull this off and we can go to Disneyland in Japan if we want to! And that's just for starters."

"I thought marriage was his scam?" Fern tossed down the box with a snort of disgust. She'd never been able to see what all those women saw in Artie. "If he's willing to cut us in, there's more at stake than his new wife finding out about his other wives."

She wasn't surprised when Donald's gaze slid away from hers, though he tried to cover it by using his bandana to rub the stock of the AK-47.

"He's just had a spot of bad luck, that's all. He needs to move something before the wedding, but won't be able to if she comes--I don't know. It's complicated."

"With Artie it always is." Fern frowned. "Let's just forget the cut and take our fee--"

Donald twitched. Only once, but it told the rest of the story.

"He doesn't have it, does he?"

"He will. If we do the job." She raised a skeptical brow. He tried to trump her raise with a whine. "He's good for it," but his voice lacked the conviction. They'd both known Arthur Maxwell for too long. Of course, only an idiot stiffed a bopper. The fact that Artie was the biggest idiot she'd ever known, she tried to suppress.

A stray bit of sun found its way through a spot on the dirty window and fell across the polished AK-47. Fern gave another soundless sigh. A pity Donald had fallen so hard for it. There was no persuading him to take the cute little Uzi once he'd made up his mind. He was the hit man, so he got to choose the gun. It was even possible he knew what he was doing. It hadn't been that long since their retirement. She watched him hitch his pants up over his sagging belly, then swagger to the bruised cooler stashed in the corner of the room, his knee joints popping with each step.

Then again...

"And when we're doing time--" she began.

"We done time before." He extracted a cold one, popped the top and took a noisy swig. At least he hadn't used his teeth. With their financial hopes riding on an AK-47, they couldn't afford to replace his plates.

Fern crossed her arms. "Not in this state."

He had to think about that for a moment as he ran down the list of places where they had done time. "Do you good to make new friends."

He sank into a sagging armchair and gave her a hopeful look.

"We got enough trouble with your old friends."

Donald scowled. "Don't start on Artie again--"

"I ain't stopped--" She shook her head. "You shoulda popped him the first time he poked his face in the door."

Why did Donald put up with him? What was the deal with men and their crib mates? Just because they pissed in the same pot, they had to be friends for life? Only bright spot, Artie didn't pop up that often because he was usually in stir making new friends. She'd feel more comfortable about the whole hit if she could just figure out why Artie wanted the Seymour woman out of the way so bad that he was willing to pay them to do it--if he paid them.

"I don't like it. Too much that can go wrong."

"It's not what I'd choose," Donald admitted. "But there's logic to it. Really," he insisted when she arched her brows again. "Drive-by isn't what I'd choose myself. But then, I've always liked the high ground." He took another noisy drink before adding, "I've had time to think and it's not as bad as it seems. First place, there's your element of surprise. Look how good the St. Valentine's Day massacre worked." He directed a triumphant look at Fern. "Taking someone out with a bang is a fine, old tradition."

He had to be joking, but a cursory examination proved her wrong.

"Come on, Fern. We can do this. You drive the car. I'll point the gun. It's what we do--"

"It's what we did--"

"When it's over, we're rolling in scratch."

She was familiar with the look in his eyes. A mixture of calculated entreaty and seedy charm, mixed with greed. She was too old to stop giving in to him--or to stop trusting his well-honed survival instinct. She sighed, trailing her finger the length of the AK-47. It was cool and smooth--like she used to be.

Hadn't she always done everything she could to avoid the dreary anonymity of her parents' lives? Their walk-up apartment in Dayton wasn't a mirror of her parents' suburban hell in Jersey, but there were similarities when she let herself see them. Bingo at McDonald's instead of bridge at the country club. The occasional bus tour with other down-and-out senior citizens instead of summers at the seaside. Her parents had never lived wild or gone somewhere exotic. They had always been content with the mainland U.S.

"Enough to go to Disneyland."

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