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Who knew shape shifters exist and they adore curvy, full-figured women?
When Jessi decides to leave her home town for the second time, she and her best friend Kelly devise a plan. They’ve researched six different towns, they’ve drawn the orders of their visits from a hat and they’re determined to stick to the new path they’ve set out for themselves.
When Gareth and Mac set out in search of a mate, they didn’t expect company in the form of two unwanted tag-along friends, and they certainly didn’t expect their sort of well-laid plans to grind to a screeching halt in a town they had never even heard of before.
How did they all end up in the town dubbed Halloween town for the week when none of them had even planned to stop there for anything more than lunch?
“That’s it! I’ve had it.” Jessi snarled as she stalked into the apartment she shared with her best friend, Kelly. “I’ve had it. I am so out of here. Just watch how fast I’m outta here. Your head will spin.”
Throwing her purse on the couch, she stomped to the coat closet and pulled her suitcases out. One by one, she dragged them into her room and hefted them up onto the bed. After hoisting the last one up, she unzipped them and started pulling her dresser drawers out, which she unceremoniously dumped into the open bags.
“What’s the matter?” Kelly leaned against the door frame, her arms crossed, a little crease between her brows. “What are you doing?”
“I’m leaving. That’s what I’m doing.” Jessi waved her hand above her head. “I’ve had it up to here with Billy’s innuendo and Bobby’s pawing. Let them find some other girl to torment. I’m not taking it anymore.”
Tears burned her eyes as she thought about leaving home again. It wasn’t the town she would miss. It was Kelly who would fill her thoughts as she drove away, leaving this town in the dust for the last time. At least she wouldn’t leave Kelly penniless. She’d managed to invest her way into a sizable bank account over the years. While she had a larger bank account than Kelly’s, it wasn’t much larger. The money she’d saved and invested for them both over the time she’d lived and worked in the city, if they continued to invest it wisely, would last the rest of their lives.
“I should have known that I could never come home.” She dashed the tears away with the back of her hand. “Why can’t those jerks just leave me alone?”
For whatever reason, the people in town, mainly the guys she grew up with, wouldn’t forget her wild youth. They reminded Kelly of it constantly. What had made her think that she would be any different?
Every person in town was guilty of doing something they weren’t proud of doing when they were younger. Yet, they constantly reminded her that she wasn’t perfect, and she wasn’t wife material. She and Kelly were good enough to screw any man in town—not that they would do that anymore—but they drew the line at a one-night-stand. Apparently, the men in town had never made it into the modern world. They still held their women to different standards. Jessi hated that.
So what that she’d had low self-esteem when she was younger? What difference did it make that she had done the very thing that every man in town had done at one time or another in their adolescence.
“I just can’t take it anymore.” Jessi shook her head and sighed. A year was already too long to put up with that crap. “This time when I leave, I’m never coming back here.”
Jessi stared at the clothes haphazardly piled in her bags. Her shoulders drooped at the thought of losing her best friend, yet again. She turned to Kelly. “I’ll miss you.” Her voice cracked as she barely kept herself from bawling. She felt like she did fifteen years ago, all over again.
“No you won’t.”
“What do you mean, I won’t miss you? Of course, I will! You’re my best friend.” Did Kelly think she didn’t really care?
“You won’t miss me because…” Kelly paused, then grinned. “I’m going with you this time. If you think I’m going to let you leave me here again, you’re out of your cotton pickin’ mind.”
“B-but why would you leave your home, too?”
Kelly tilted her head and stared at her with a frown. “Do you think those asshats treat me any differently than they treat you?” She shook her head. “I’m sick to death of it, too.” She sat up, clapped her hands together and grinned. “I say we get the hell out of this little Podunk town and find a place where we can really live!” She headed for the doorway, presumably to go pack. “When does our adventure begin?”
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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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?"
Candy Morales is a cosplayer by trade and a picker at heart. She has no problem digging through trash if it means finding a treasure. When a friend leaves her a box full of antique glass eyes in a garbage bin, she decides to dive right in.
Emmett Bradshaw is an alpha wolf shifter ex-Marine with a weakness for curvy females. After ten years of self-imposed exile, he’s come home to take over his pack. One thing he never expected was to find the woman of his dreams rummaging through garbage. Emmett did what any warm-blooded wolf would—slap her tempting, round backside.
Blackrock had undergone a drastic transformation from blue collar town to a bustling hipster community. Gone were the boring gray buildings, replaced by vibrantly-painted storefronts. To say he was surprised was an understatement. Emmett drove down old Morrow Street when something odd caught his eye.
He parked his fully-loaded top-of-the-line sedan and then walked into the empty alley. Sticking out of big old rusty garbage bin was a pair of shapely legs. First thing on his agenda after dropping his gear at the big house was getting laid. Doyle would laugh his ass off if he ever learned how a pair of dummy legs had distracted Emmett. For a moment, they looked real enough. Unable to take the stench of the bins, he headed back to his car. A clanking noise stopped him in midstride.
“Where the fuck are those damn eyes?”
Emmett heard the voice, but couldn’t find its source. It was dammed sexy, husky enough to make his cock twitch. He glanced back in time to see the legs move. How’d he mistaken them for a mannequin? Curious to see the rest of the woman attached to them, he crossed back to the bin and pulled her up.
“Mind telling me what you’re doing head first in a garbage bin?” His balls tightened to a painful knot when her generous ass brushed over his face. It was big and round. Emmett couldn’t stop his hand from smacking it. Hello, sweet cheeks. Where have you been all my life? he thought, swallowing back drool. Today is my lucky day…OohRah!
“Ouch. What the fuck is wrong with you, jerk?” The woman squealed with outrage and tried to pull out of his grip.
He’d no idea why he’d done it. Just a glance at her butt and his hand acted on its own. His rod was so hard he could have drilled a hole through a concrete a wall. Emmett hoped she wasn’t too angry, because he had plans for her later that evening.
“I’m sorry. I thought you were slipping and I tried to grab you. Here, let me help you.” He plastered what he hoped was his charming smile on his face, lying to her without a second thought.
“Keep your hands to yourself, Slappy. I can get out without your help,” she yelled, tugging his arms to try to get free.
Fat chance. She was right where he wanted her. He tightened his grip around her waist, but she screamed bloody murder, bringing everyone within earshot. Now why had she gone and done that and ruined such a romantic moment?
In a town ran by a wolf pack it meant everybody. She squirmed against him, trying to break loose. She gasped before painfully digging her nails into his arms. His wolf growled a warning. I’ve scented my mate. If you hurt her, I’ll make you regret it for the rest of your life.
“Candy, what’s going on? Are you okay?”
Emmett recognized the voice as to belonging to Max Dietz. He remembered him as a little boy genius always trying to build or fix something. Max’s defiant stared told Emmett he wasn’t that little boy anymore. The protective stance he’d taken in front of the woman spoke volumes. His wolf snarled at him, trying to assert his ownership. To the boy’s credit, he flinched but didn’t move.
Emmett looked at his arms. She’d drawn blood. It pooled around her nails. Now that she was out of the bin her scent hit him like a pie on a clown’s face. Mother fucker, she smelled good, even among garbage. The more he tightened his hold, the harder she squirmed, rubbing that ass against his happy cock.
“Oh, hell, no. Are you growling at me? Is that your… Ewww, dude, stop poking me with your shit.”
Boy was she full of spirit, but he had to work on her language. “Stop rubbing your bubble butt against it. You’re making me horny,” he whispered into her ear. To make his point he ground his hips harder.
“You’re disgusting.” She gasped angrily, but Emmett wasn’t fooled. He could smell her. She wanted him.
“Your ass is sweet like your name,” Emmett whispered again, then gave Max a warning growl. The young pup reached for his woman. His? Where the hell had that came from? Startled, he pushed her into Max’s arms. What was wrong with him? He’d never reacted to a woman this way before. She’s human. I can’t get involved with one right now or ever.
After almost losing her uncle Phen during the investigation of her mother's murder, Felicia "Lucky" Fascino cut all ties and ran away, hoping her family would move on and forget the promises they made. Putting the past behind her has never been easy, but Lucky knows working as an assassin is slowly destroying her already fractured psyche. Staying away, especially now that her family is in danger, is the only way to keep everyone safe.
Kenji Zinn, determined to locate his ex-lover, tracks Lucky to a small island with her family's help, and finds her in a miserable and self-destructive condition. Their connection is strained after months apart, but his feelings haven't changed, and he attempts to persuade her to come home, to protect her family and keep her promise. But only Phen is able to convince Lucky that the way to get closure is finding an elusive man named Quimby and take him out permanently.
While her family continues to track their target, Lucky returns to work for the network struggling through each job, aware that pushing her family away won't bring anyone the peace they deserve. As she repairs her shattered relationships, her true feelings for Kenji are tested when she almost loses him completely. Before it's too late, Lucky realizes he's her best ally to help her finish what she started and find Quimby before he strikes again.
Lucky tried to ignore how great Kenji looked. His hair went down to his shoulders, but he kept it tied back at the nape of his neck. He still hadn’t cut it since she mentioned it to him almost a year ago. The slight shadow on his dark jaw made his ice eyes pop on his face.
“What?” she said.
“I would like to talk to you, Felicia.” He was doing more than staring at her appearance. He studied every move she made.
“And I’d like to be lying on the beach in front of my rented villa, but we can’t always get what we want…can we?” She placed a hand on her hip.
“Perhaps after dinner,” he said.
“I’m back, there’s no need for you to stick around. You did your job, collect your money or whatever it is you wanted to get out of finding me and go.”
He lurched forward, keeping tight fists at his side. “You think I have done this for money? Why are you so…?”
“So what?” she taunted before taking another long drink.
“You have an hour to get your shit out of my room.” She didn’t wait for an answer. Lucky pushed by him, went into her room, and grabbed a towel. When she got to the bathroom, she paused without turning around. “And you can tell Elizabeth I won’t be having dinner.”
Lucky shut and locked the door behind her. She sat down on the tub, cradled her head in her hands. The only thing she could do on the flight home to keep from screaming at everyone was to remain silent. Realizing she wouldn’t be able to ignore everyone indefinitely, she had to find some middle ground. If she kept Phen and Bet at bay and just talked business, it may work again.
Long enough to see it through.
Only problem, she had to get rid of Kenji. If he stayed, he’d sidetrack her. She wouldn’t let that happen again. He couldn’t be part of the equation anymore. Her inability to focus while around him had one to many repercussions. Besides, bringing more people into her shitty life was unfair and dangerous.
He’d probably been at the compound since the day she left. Her house became his personal base of operations. That fried her tail. Still, she was more pissed off with Phen for allowing him to stay, and of all places, her room. Lord knows how much Kenji snooped or what he had found. The thought of him going through her photos, letters, or even her sporadically recorded journal sent shivers down her back. Thinking of him sleeping in her bed gave her hot flashes.
Fuck.
Lucky definitely had to stay away from Kenji. He’d try to fix her. Help her. Put the pieces back in order. She didn’t want any part of it. No more distractions. All she wanted was to do her job and leave with a clean slate.
Whisky-swilling vampire Phil has his own reasons for returning to Edinburgh. They don't include rescuing beautiful amnesiac damsels in distress, and yet one night after escaping from an old enemy, that's exactly what he does. At first his motive is curiosity because of Linnie's apparent connection to his enemy, but once he involves his old drinking companion Blair, who comes these days with a gaggle of wacky humans from Serafina's Psychic Investigations, everything gets out of hand.
While hunting his old enemy, Phil gets side-tracked into helping psychic human Sera in her bizarre cases involving a missing child, a designer drug for Holywood celebrities, and a psychotic chef who heals her victims - maybe. But he has mysteries of his own to solve - is Linnie's amnesia real, and if so, how did she lose her memory? Who is she? Why does her blood taste so much more delicious than anyone else's? And why has she interested the reclusive Founder?
For Linnie, since her accident, every day is one of self-discovery. One of the few things she does know, is to fear vampires. Especially the fun, sexy Phil, who melts her bones and shows her all the excitement she secretly craves.
“Give it a rest, Phil,” she snapped. “Even my people pretend eternal love in order to get what they want. I don’t buy yours either.”
Aengus, she thought stunned, as both name and handsome, careless face rolled into the front of her mind. The first man who’d lied his way into her knickers—as Sera would put it…
“I’m not selling eternal love,” Phil said. “It doesn’t have to be forever to be good, to be exciting, memorable, sweet.” His telepathic murmur sank through her whole body, provoking a sexual response that only made her angrier. “I thought you wanted to live? Isn’t that why you came here?”
Furiously, she tried to elbow him in the ribs. “To give my all to an abomination?” she raged, and kicked out at him, connecting forcefully with his shin. “Absolutely not!”
“I don’t want all of you.” He stopped and hooked his leg around hers, stilling her lashing feet. “Just your blood and your body. Your soul, you keep.”
She didn’t know why she was so angry. Mostly, it wasn’t even aimed at him, but at the stuff rushing back into her mind; stuff she didn’t recognise and didn’t want to. It was all wrong. More than that, she didn’t want it to be true.
She knew she was losing her footing and hung on grimly to his fingers to make sure he fell with her. At the same time, she lashed out with her free hand.
It never touched him. Even as she lost her balance, she found herself not falling but soaring as he leapt through the air with her held in both arms. The wind whipped her hair back, whistled past her ears. There was a jolt as if he’d landed, but she was aware of no more than his powerful arms at her back, his hard body fitted so close into hers that they might have been naked.
Dizzy, she could see only dark sky, the odd distant twinkle and scudding silver swirls of cloud, blotted out by the vampire’s wicked angel face, his intense eyes like impossibly burning ice. And then the world went black, and there was only his mouth on hers, wild and hard and demanding.
She reached up to claw and scratch and hurt, grabbing handfuls of his soft hair between her fingers as he opened her mouth and took her kiss before she even knew she was giving it. An inarticulate moan escaped her, half fury, half helpless want. But she wasn’t helpless. She never had been.
Her fingers closed in his hair, on his scalp, not to hurt now, but to caress. Her mouth opened wide under his. She sucked his tongue greedily, stroking it with hers. His wicked fangs grazed her lips, and she licked and sucked those too.
“Bastard. Total, total bastard,” she whispered incoherently between kisses. They were standing on the ridge of a tenement building, no doubt silhouetted against the sky for anyone who cared to look far enough up. The knowledge made her even dizzier, and she didn’t care about that either.
“Because I want you?” he asked in her head.
“Because you know I want you.”
His lips smiled on hers. His leg moved, caressing her thigh. Without warning, her foot slipped, and she was falling. There was a thud as she landed on top of him, but they both kept sliding down the slope of the roof. Phil didn’t even stop kissing her, and when she tried to break free, if only to save herself some broken bones, he simply rolled her until it was her back pressed into the cold, hard slates, and, abruptly, their descent ended with his weight holding her under him on the sloping roof.
One of his legs was rigid, as if his foot hooked into the guttering or some other hold between slates. She gasped, trying to speak under his mouth.
But he was speaking inside her head. “This is what you want. Danger, risk, love in all its forms. You want to feel.”
Almost involuntarily, she pushed upward into him, gasping for breath, for more. He dragged his mouth over her lips to her jaw and downward to the throat as if inhaling her, tasting every inch of skin. His hair tickled her chin, his lips caressed the length of her neck and closed. His tongue flickered over her skin, her vein, surely, and then his teeth grazed the same path. Sensation swam outward from his mouth until every nerve in her body seemed to sing. She twisted her head around in pleasure, and as if that was the invitation he’d been waiting for, he bit.
She cried out, though not with pain. If there was any, it got lost in fierce, urgent pleasure as his mouth moved on the oversensitised skin of her throat, caressing, sucking. His whole body shuddered on hers. His silent groan vibrated right through her; it sounded like agony, like impossible, unendurable pleasure. Ye gods, yes, that was exactly what it was. Her blood rushed through her veins and arteries, triggering all sorts of pleasure points she hadn’t known she possessed. The vampire drank her in, making love to her vein, to her, and Linnie surrendered utterly.
Sunlight and joy seemed to bombard her mind. Is that you? she wondered with awe.
“Oh yes, that’s me. Sweet Jesus, Linnie…”
Vaguely, she was aware of his urgent hand working between their bodies. She didn’t mind. She wanted him everywhere. A chill blasted her hip, her thigh, as if she were naked. But it wasn’t until he tugged her jeans down over her thigh that she realised what he was about. She tried to speak without knowing what it was she wanted to say. Shockingly cool fingers thrust, bathed in the heat between her barely parted legs, and then something wider, blunter nudged her, pushed, invaded. So big, so cold, so overwhelmingly…necessary.
Whenever John Romero was asked if he was wounded in Vietnam, he always received a confused look when he replied that his eye was lost in Santo Domingo.
A former minor league baseball player with just six weeks left to serve in the Army, John's plans for making a comeback are interrupted when his unit is deployed to the Dominican Republic, and he finds himself in a combat situation. While dodging bullets, he meets a beautiful Dominican woman, the aloof Ramona. She inflames the private passions of the paratroopers that view her from their command post. Romero plots a course to win her affections, but the political intrigue and the carnage in the streets of Santo Domingo conspire to thwart his every move, forcing him to make a drastic decision....
The Goats of Santo Domingo explores the complexity of emotions that arise when one is confronted with a situation in a state of flux, and demonstrates that sometimes doing the right thing can literally blow up in your face.
A coil of concertina wire stretched down the middle of the street between the sandbags Romero stood behind and her turquoise house. Behind him was a schoolhouse that his unit had occupied since their arrival. The old structure reminded Romero of the Alamo.
“Keep your eye on that house,” Rosen had said to him. “You’ll see her if you get posted at the sandbags; she comes out every morning around nine and reads a book for half an hour—a real beauty queen.” Romero had heard the other men in his squad talking about her. They referred to her as Miss Santo Domingo, the Princess, or the Dominican Damsel.
The door opened on the brightly painted stucco house. She wore a short white skirt, the hem well above the knee. The lawn chair she held was unfolded with a nobility of motion, the way a virtuoso opens his violin case. She sat down, crossed her shapely legs, and opened a book before setting it daintily on her lap. For a confused moment, Romero was convinced she was Carla. He stepped out from behind the sandbags and was a few strides off the curb before the coiled barbs stopped him. The closer view made him see that it wasn’t Carla after all. She was somebody else—a stranger—both mysterious and recognizable. She was perhaps Miss Swanson, his fourth grade teacher to whom he had written his first love letter and hid it in his school bag. There was a bit of Anna about her, too, the little girl who’d lived across the street from him when he was twelve. She was someone who had once held him tight, but not close enough—someone who had left and gone away.
A real Spanish Contessa, he thought.
She wore her black hair up in a beehive, or was it called a French twist? He only knew that he hadn’t seen any other Dominican women wear their hair that way. That style took a lot of hairspray to hold, and hairspray was hard to come by in a city that had been ripped apart by civil war.
She turned a page, and Romero became curious as to what she was reading. He knew he should have waved at her when she first appeared. It would’ve looked foolish to wave after she had opened her book. He stepped back behind the sandbags.
The past two days had been quiet. The latest cease-fire was holding for the most part. Now the mission was to take a defensive position along the northern line of the rebel zone and not fire unless fired upon. The streets were paved, and the buildings were stucco and cinder block. It wasn’t the most prosperous of neighborhoods, but it was better than the dirt streets down by the river where Romero’s squad had cleared out snipers from wooden shacks.
His Spanish Contessa turned another page, and Romero rested his elbows on top of a sandbag and watched. Since the cease-fire, civilian traffic had increased on each side of the wire; mostly vintage American cars and pickup trucks. Three-wheeled scooters throttled past with loads of produce.
The Dominican beauty shifted her weight in the chair. Through the ninety feet that separated them, he could see himself opening the door for her to get into his Buick. They were on a date back home. Romero liked the way she rubbed her hand over the leather upholstery. He introduced her to his buddies, and their noses opened.
A gun jeep from the recon platoon drove by, and the driver waved at Romero. The gun crew gawked at his Contessa. They wore a lewd itch in their expressions. He was wondering what he looked like to her when Sergeant Dixon elbowed him in the ribs.
“Have you been thinking about those drawers, Romero?”
“Too bad she has to live on the other side of the wire,” Romero answered. “Did you ever see a babe that looked so delicate and dangerous at the same time?”
“Dangerous is right—like a black widow. One hump and die.”
"The junkie whore shall save the trinity in the first hour." So spoke the insane Luk, last of the Ancient undead prophets. The enigmatic vampire Dmitriu believes he knows the junkie whore in question, destined to save the daughter of his creator Saloman.
But the Edinburgh prostitute Janine, who once showed Dmitriu kindness, has not only got clean; she's become a vampire hunter, determined never to be helpless in anyone’s power again; and Dmitriu's pretty high on her kill list. Instead of renewing his beguiling sexual relationship with her, he has to kidnap her to force her cooperation. Bombarded with sensual memory and the lust Dmitriu still inspires in her, Janine also has to fight her way through renegade hunters, Dmitriu's rebellious creation, Antonia, the bizarre Militant Church for the Defence of the Holy Trinity and the first anti-vampire protests. It’s too much; the prophecy could be broken.
“Good answer,” he approved. “And about right too. I will do my utmost to save this baby. And I think you’ll want to as well. You smell good.”
She blinked at the sudden change of subject. He didn’t appear to be inhaling her, but his eyes had darkened, and a faint smile played around his lips. He looked—predatory.
Her breath caught. “Like good, fresh meat?” she retorted.
“Like a summer day in the hills,” he said unexpectedly. “It’s an old memory. Can I have the stake now?”
“Fuck off.”
He considered her, his head leaning slightly to one side. “You do know I’m humoring you?”
Her heart thudded once, but she refused to be cowed. “You do know I’m grateful?”
“You should be. Why do you think I killed your other visitors? Just to clear the competition?”
“It crossed my mind,” she said evenly.
His gaze dropped again, this time to her lips, but his next words, although softly spoken, were hardly romantic. “I could have killed you here two years ago. I was tempted, but I didn’t do it. I could have killed you in London, in Essex, or on the train. I could have killed you tonight and still taken out my enemies with my free hand.”
She forbore to mention the vampire she’d killed. And the one who’d run away. She had the lowering feeling that it had made no real difference to the inevitable outcome of the fight.
“I know who you are,” she said coldly.
His lips curved. His head bent closer. “Then say hello as if you remember.”
There was nothing she could do. A quick, instinctive jerk only confirmed his immovable strength. Desperately, she tried to glare at him, but she was concentrating so hard on keeping the fear at bay that God knew what he read in her face as he slowly, inexorably, lowered his mouth onto hers, and fastened.
Jesus, she remembered the soft, tender surface of those lips, a tempting, seductive disguise for the controlling hardness that lurked beneath. Memory, emotion battered at her as he took his kiss and coaxed, gentled, persuaded her mouth to give up its response.
She couldn’t remember much of what had really happened two years ago. She had a vague idea she’d never kissed her ‘clients.’ But she knew she’d kissed Dmitriu, and he’d kissed her like this before. Before he’d taken her to bed. After he’d drunk from her, like a thank-you, as if the orgasm hadn’t been enough.
Shame tangled with past and present pleasure. His tongue dipped between her lips, over her teeth, and inside her mouth, caressing, exploring, inviting. Kiss me. Give me your blood, your body. She shuddered beneath his mouth, against his hard, lean frame. She couldn’t escape him; she could only deny him her response, and so she hung in his powerful arms and let him deepen the kiss, devouring her mouth without violence, using only the devastating sensuality of his cruel, tender lips.
She could force herself not to kiss him back, but she couldn’t prevent her body’s arousal. Hot dampness had gathered between her thighs, flooding her with new weakness. She shook with the effort of resisting, of not lifting her free arm to his neck. But she’d never be that willing victim again. Never.
And yet his mouth was so sweet; his body felt so good crushing hers. One of his hands slid down her arm to her naked wrist, feeling her pulse, the bastard… His thumb moved to her fingers, her palm…
And she realized he’d taken her stake.
She gasped into his mouth, jerking against him once more, but he didn’t release her, just took advantage of her further opened mouth to deepen his kiss even more, drawing her tongue into his mouth, stroking, caressing, kissing.
“Bastard,” she whispered against his lips, and they smiled against hers and kissed some more before finally he raised his head. His eyes were impenetrable black, and yet somehow they glittered with naked lust.
His long, cool fingers touched her cheek, the corner of her mouth. “Now you remember me.”
When movie-queen Lennox Cordova threatens to expose the past, superstar Heston Demming's life spirals into a whirlwind of danger, deceit—and murder? Will old secrets be unearthed and lives destroyed? Will unseen forces guide the destiny of the Demming family's entertainment dynasty?
Come join Heston, Poppy, and their children as they seek passion, artistic fulfillment, and spiritual awakening along the sunny shores of wealthy, glitzy, tropical Florida—Naples, South Beach, and the Florida Keys.
In this sequel to A CHANCE TO SAY YES, you'll discover romance, revenge—and redemption? And a rock-music legend to die for...
Excerpt from A Wild Dream of Love by Tina Murray, PH. D., copyright,
2012;
page 22
Wild in an otherworldly trance, shaman Kipp danced in the zone. Dressed in tight
black jeans and sleeveless leather vest, the tall, sinewy singer’s overt
sensuality and craggy face held his worshippers spellbound. Rippling across the
bicep of his right arm was his famous tattoo—planets revolving in a solar
system surrounded by stars. Singing, he was a wormhole to the throbbing
universe.
The anthem came to an abrupt halt, fizzling out in a sparkling light-show
flurry. In the train-crash crescendo, Kipp thrust his pelvis repeatedly at the
cheering crowd, until their annihilation was accomplished and the cacophony
ceased. Drained and spent, he dropped limply to his knees and bowed humbly to
the crowd. He hated that song now. He was glad to be done with it. Breathing slowly in and out, he felt an
ominous current moving through the crowd. Lulled by lust, the rapt onlookers
threatened to erupt in thunderous, random excess.
He knew what they wanted. Dripping sweat, he was too exhausted to resist. He
stared out at the yearning throng. Why should they be satisfied just to ogle
his wiggling ass? If they tore him limb from limb tonight, he would let them.
He wanted them to.
Let’s get this over with.
Springing to his feet, he bowed
again, this time deeply, from the waist, and rising in a flourish, bounded cavalierly
across the stage, microphone in hand. A ripple of anticipation buoyed the
crowd. They knew. As the final encore, he was about to sing his signature song.
Don’t Die Wondering. What they didn’t know was that tonight would be the last
time he would ever sing this or any other song.
Readying his instrument, he drew deep breaths, his hand pressed to his
sleek, gently rounded abdomen. Sober, but fatigued and titillated, he ran his
gaze across the volatile crowd swarming before him in the packed concert hall.
Aroused, he willed his lean, muscular body to relax, but failed. Fans
screamed as he pretended to unzip his black leather pants and massage his
member.
“You need to calm down,” he teased into the microphone. He leered
seductively at the restless audience. Lecherous shouts rang out. One last time,
he felt his power surge...
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!
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.
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!
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.
Prologue
The four pilots strode across the rolling deck of the aircraft carrier. Their postures matched—tall, confident, and filled with subdued excitement. They walked together, and then split, each heading toward an A-7 Skyhawk. Below each plane stood a team of men standing at attention. Each crew saluted its pilot and the pilot responded briskly.
The tallest of the four, a broad-shouldered man with a haze of red framing his head, handed his helmet to the seaman standing at the ladder to the cockpit. He climbed to the cockpit. The seaman followed, waiting until the pilot strapped into his seat to hand the man his helmet. The pilot put the helmet on, checking his oxygen and radio connections. The seaman made a double check of the pilot’s safety harness and jumped to the flight deck.
“It’s a hell of a day at sea, sir!” The comment sounded loud and clear through the intercom.
Marty glanced over the edge of the cockpit and grinned as he pulled his face mask up and spoke.
“By the numbers please, gentlemen.”
“Pixie two.”
“Pixie three.”
“Pixie four.”
“Let’s do it.” Lieutenant Martin McPherson grabbed his checklist off the instrument panel. The ground crew worked in precision with his barked words over the intercom connecting the cockpit with the crew below.
The roar of four engines split the evening air. Intercoms were disconnected, chocks moved from the wheels. The planes, positioned on deck earlier for easy access to the catapult, taxied into place. One at a time, the pilots pushed throttles to the wall and were thrown back in their seats as the aircraft raced down the flight deck, gaining lift under their wings.
The flight deck ended. The plane dipped. The big engine roared. Forward momentum increased and the plane lifted and climbed toward the setting sun.
Thirty quiet minutes later, the Lieutenant flashed his wing lights and they went dark. Three other sets of wing lights disappeared into the moonless night. Each pilot counting, separately, yet in unison, moved into formation.
The wing leader knew the radar at Nam Dinh would pick up their signatures shortly. What the radar would see, however, would only indicate one aircraft. That wouldn’t stop the anti-aircraft fire when they reached land. All four pilots knew that.
The quiet in the cockpit of Marty McPherson’s A7 didn’t surprise him or cause him concern. The sound of the huge engine pushing him through the air at 400 knots soothed him, a low, smooth roar that told him everything was well with his aircraft. His entire flight echoed his thoughts at that moment.
He looked to the left and could see the light of coastal villages flickering dimly 100 miles to the west. No lights sailed the sea below him, but he knew boats sailed the Gulf with crews looking up trying to see the jets producing the sounds over their heads.
His instruments indicated they had passed the radar station at Nam Dihn. A touch to the stick, a press on the rudder pedal, and the planes turned from their track of three-eight-zero to two-seven-zero.
A light changed from red to green on his instrument panel. He made the last course correction, easing right in unspoken unison with the rest of his flight.
This is it, Marty thought. And it began.
Tracers flew up from the ground. The anti-aircraft fire had begun. Lights on the outskirts of Hai Phong drew patterns in the partly cloudy sky in search of the aircraft flying overhead. Anti-aircraft units on the ground raced for their guns and aimed at the sound from above. The sound of the aircraft spread wide behind them. The rounds flew upward into the air after the sound. But the four A7’s flew past without harm.
All four men checked their harnesses, scanned their instruments, and said prayers. The dangerous part of their mission was about to begin. Two of them reached up in the dark of the cockpit and touched photos taped somewhere near them.
Lieutenant McPherson saw the small green light indicating contact with a navigational aid near Hanoi. He flipped a switch on the panel; radio silence meant nothing now.
“Let’s hit the deck, gentlemen. Descend to 500 feet on my tail. My favorite formation, on my mark.” His voice had dropped nearly an octave in tone. It sounded like rolling gravel.
“Now, gentlemen!”
He eased the stick forward. The nose dipped and the big hand on the altimeter circled its face frantically, counterclockwise. The stick moved back toward its centerline, and the plane leveled out. The hand on the face of the altimeter slowed and came to rest half way between 0 and 1.
“The target is 12 o’clock, six miles. Do not, I repeat, do not drop over the city. Drop on my mark. Good luck to us all, gentlemen.”
The last line was whispered. They had been chosen for this mission because they were the best, but their chances of success were still slim. It was possible that they'd all be returning to the ship together, but not probable.
* * * *
She saw the cockpit of a fast moving aircraft with only instrument lights showing. A gloved hand wrapped around the stick. Bright light streaked upward around the aircraft. Momentarily, she caught sight of another aircraft, its wing almost touching the wing of hers. She heard herself say, “Target ahead, gentlemen. As close to the center as you can get. Single file, Indian style.”
There seemed to be a pause in the action, everything slowing to half speed. The eyes she looked from focused on the fast approaching brilliant lights ahead. Fear coursed through her, yet she also felt calm and focused.
“Pixie One. One away!”
She felt a hand pull back on the stick and afterburner ignition push her back into the seat. Her mind yelled, Climb! Climb! Climb!
Slowly the big hand on the altimeter moved clockwise around its face. One thousand. Two thousand. Three thousand. She felt some fear break through the controlled mind behind the eyes.
She looked at the left wing. Fire erupted at that moment. Don’t look at it! her mind screamed. The eyes moved to the altimeter. The left hand automatically found a handle on the left side of the cockpit. The right hand grabbed another on the right. It pulled. She felt the thrust and heard the low sound of an explosion. The eyes closed. Blackness. Crushing weight. Breathlessness.
The eyes opened into the dark, starry night. Another small explosion and she felt herself falling, faster and faster. Then, with a sharp jerk, she came to a sudden stop, the harness tightening against her chest. She looked up. In the darkness her body hung, swinging slightly, under a huge grey outline. Relief washed over her.
Then she heard the sound of tearing fabric, followed by the sensation of falling again. As she plummeted to the hard ground below, she heard herself scream...
Katy sat up suddenly in the bed. Her whole body shook as she fought against the blackness attempting to fill her mind. The last sounds she heard as she pulled herself out of the dark void were voices shouting in a language she did not understand. She took a deep breath to calm her shaking, her mind racing between the reality of her bedroom and the dream. Or was it a dream? Only a few months before, she and Marty had talked about the link between their minds, laughing about it.
Katy put her hands over her eyes trying to keep from shaking again. Oh my God! Is this real? Was it a dream? It seemed so real! She threw the covers back and got out of bed. As she paced the floor of the bedroom, her body coming fully awake, her mind began to go over what she had witnessed.
It’s not going away. I actually felt pain. I don’t normally feel pain in dreams. I can still see the stars and smell the explosion from the seat ejection.
She drifted into the living room. Katy took another deep breath, and looked around her. Yes, she was home, but the memory of the hot night air, the sudden stop in mid-air, and the pain of hitting something and stopping suddenly was real.
This can’t be real, she thought as she sat down on the couch and laid her head against the back of it. No! It’s a dream! I have to pull myself out of this. It’s not real!
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?
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.
Claire Wilson's life was never more promising. She had a boyfriend and a budding career as a nature photographer, until an accident robbed her of her sight.
Now with no boyfriend, no career, Claire has chosen to shut the world out. Holed up in her little cottage, she is more than content to let life pass her by. Her dreams for tomorrow were stolen from her along with her vision.
Charming, single father, Jackson Akers has been paid in full for a landscaping job and he intends to see it through to the end - no matter how rude and irritated his new client is. When he learns of Claire's blindness, his creative mind kicks into high gear. She may want to live in seclusion, but he's hoping to change her mind.
Will Claire appreciate the heavily scented flowers and plants, the trickling waterfalls, and the textured paths Jackson has made for her? Claire has shut out the world, but has Jackson found a way in?
This tender sweet love story from Jules Bennett is also available in ebook from Wild Rose Press.
Claire banged her toe on the coffee table. Again. “Ouch, ouch, ouch!” Pain shot through her foot.
Why hadn't she moved that blasted thing from the middle of the floor? Weeks had passed since the accident, and she still ran into things. She hated being so incompetent, so vulnerable. Actually, she hated life and the hand she'd been dealt, but what could she do? Complaining and self-pity wouldn't change the fact.
She was blind. Every time the thought crossed her mind, her throat seized.
Had her mind not been preoccupied with the new, Mr. Smooth-Talking Landscaper and this useless project, she could've focused on maneuvering through her living room.
Claire flopped down onto her cushy sofa and propped her bare feet on the squatty table. She couldn't wait for Amy's promised visit. She had a thing or two to say to her friend. Oh, the girl meant well. At one time in her life, Claire had been sweet like that. Then fate smacked her in the face and she had taken on a whole new outlook on life.
They had one night. That's all Shelby Brookes would allow herself to indulge in with Luke Tulane. Yes, he's gorgeous and yes, he's the greatest guy she knows, but he's her best friend's brother for crying out loud! And she's pretty sure there are rules against sleeping with friends' brothers.
Then Shelby discovers she's pregnant. And Luke's determined to do the right thing - down to the bended knee proposal and the meeting at the altar. As tempting as his offer is, Shelby's convinced she's not the marrying kind. She's bound to hurt him and that's definitely against the rules of friendship. Still, she doesn't count on how persuasive Luke can be when he really wants something...her.
This book in Kay Stockham's Tulanes of Tennessee Series was chosen an RT Top Pick and given 4 1/2 stars.
Excerpt
Tossing one’s cookies on gorgeous Italian leather shoes had a way of ruining a girl’s day.
Shelby Brookes gasped for air and glared down at the offending footwear, glad she knew better than to spend her hard-earned cash on overpriced shoes that wore the same as the regular-priced ones. But Luke Tulane had been raised with the best of everything and he obviously didn’t realize no woman liked seeing a man wearing better shoes than she owned herself.
“Sorry.”
The word came out as a gasp. A choked, oh please, not again, groan of undisguised misery as her stomach muscles flip-flopped like circus clowns on a trampoline. This could not be happening.
“Bad day?”
Her head whirled, the ground jiggled in strange, wavy patterns, but the anger in his tone registered. The why-didn’t-you-just-pick-up-the-freaking-phone-and-return-my-messages-the-five-times-I-called-you snap of a bruised male ego. Can you blame him?
As Shelby swallowed and tried to hold onto what was left of her lunch, thoughts filed through her head in rapid succession. Luke had flown home to Beauty, Tennessee, to attend the first family wedding back in June when his older brother, Garret, had married Darcy Rhodes. Now it was nearing the end of August and Luke had flown home again, this time because his twin brother, Nick, had found love with Jennifer Rose.
But instead of avoiding Shelby like any normal person would do in such an awkward situation, Luke had repeatedly sought her out--because of what had taken place between them behind the scenes after Garret and Darcy’s rehearsal dinner.
You brought this on yourself, you know. You kissed him, not the other way around. You weren’t complaining then.
Maybe not, but she regretted it. Didn’t that count for something?
She’d tried to do the right thing by keeping her distance and avoiding him. It was after the fact, sure, but she’d tried. Yet here Luke stood toe-to—knee, and--there was no ducking him now. I puked on your shoes. Your shoes! Haven’t you had enough?
“Last night catch up to you?”
Oh, of all the— Even though she’d felt like she could’ve used the fortification, she hadn’t had a single drink last night, knowing her twelve hour shift would be hard enough to handle given the huge possibility she’d run into Luke. Besides, she never drank much when she did occasionally indulge, having seen how alcohol influenced her mother’s behavior. Following in her mother’s footsteps wasn’t Shelby’s idea of a good time. It was bad enough her mother gave the town gossips so much fodder, Shelby wasn’t about to add to it.
You mean like now?
She didn’t raise her head, not when the slightest movement made the waves of nausea buffeting her that much worse.
How much worse could it be? You’re on your hands and knees at the man’s feet!
Yeah, well, if embarrassment killed, she would’ve been dead a long time ago. Growing up with a mother who played the drama queen to the hilt at every opportunity would’ve seen to that.
“Come on, I’ll help you inside.”
Inside? To gossip-central? No thank you. “G-go away.”
“Shelby, I can’t leave you here like this.”
He had to. She didn’t want him laughing at her misery because he was angry with her. And why wouldn’t he be when she was so upset with herself? How could she have been so stupid? Shagging her best friend’s brother? That ranked right up there with—with— Well, she didn’t quite know what but it was huge! “Cont-tagious.”
She had no idea if she was contagious or not, but she’d tell Luke she had the Bubonic Plague before she’d allow him to drag her anywhere, much less into the wedding reception. The wind created by the gossips’ mouths flapping would blow the roof off the building.
Shelby inhaled and got a nose-full of roses and wild onions from the woods nearby. Oh, help me.
The smell had her stomach rolling again and she struggled to hold back a moan.
A white silk handkerchief appeared before her eyes. “Here. Take it.”
When all she did was stare, Luke released a long-suffering sigh, a noise she’d heard him issue many, many times over the years. Usually it was in respect to his sister and her best friend, Alex, though. Not her.
“Quit being so stubborn. Take it.”
Since it boiled down to using either the handkerchief, her shirt, or the country club’s crested employee jacket, she let go of her death grip on the manicured lawn and accepted the pristine material, finding perverse pleasure at wiping her mouth on the length.
Cheese Curls and silk—what a combination.
Another wave of nausea flooded her at the thought of her favorite snack and Shelby clamped her mouth shut, afraid she’d embarrass herself even more than she already had.
“I’ll go get Ethan.”
“No.” She prayed to disappear. Where was a sinkhole when a girl needed one? “I’m f-fine.”
Oh, what a whopper that was. Her arms hurt from holding herself up, geeky-sexy Luke Tulane stood over her watching—and all she could see in her mind was how he’d looked naked.
You are so screwed up.
“Somehow I don’t believe you.”
Shelby scrambled for a comeback and called herself lame when nothing came to mind. “Something’s been g-going around. A twenty-four hour thing.”
“Shelby--”
“I’ll be fine. Don’t make a fuss. Mr. Long is watching me like a hawk.” Or a buzzard. Which one had the long beak of a nose? Focus. “It took me three interviews--” Oh, those onions were awful! “--to get this job.”
And she knew why she’d succeeded. Luke’s parents and grandmother had gone to bat for her. There was no other explanation.
And you repaid them how?
She ignored the snippy voice in her head shaming her for her jumping Luke’s bones, and concentrated on feeling better. “I can’t lose it.” Mr. Long was a fountain of restaurant managerial experience, something she needed to soak in like a sponge. Getting fired was not an option.
Luke squatted down beside her, well out of range, and placed his hand on her back. “What can I do? Would you like something to drink?”
She nodded, willing to agree to just about anything to get him away from her. That night in June she’d considered Luke the perfect person to distract her from her horrendous day. But now what she needed was someone who’d distract him. “A-a soda.”
“You shouldn’t drink that stuff. It’s not healthy.”
Shelby rolled her eyes and regretted the movement because of the pain it caused in her pounding head. He’d told her that more than once but she happened to like caffeine and sugar.
"It settles my stomach.”
The air from his gusty sigh cooled the sweat on her neck. “I hate leaving you here. The least I can do is help you to a--”
“Don’t touch me!” Weren’t his shoes enough? “Luke, just go.” She sounded desperate, close to pleading, but she was. What woman wanted to do this in front of--
An amazing one night stand?
Uncomfortable, I-can’t-believe-we-did-that memories filled her head, but thankfully her order to leave worked because Luke’s footsteps faded away. Feeling better now that she was alone, Shelby lifted her head and watched as Luke disappeared around a statue. When he was out of sight, she slowly pushed herself upright and sat back on her heels.
The boxwood hedges provided a nice shield from prying eyes, but how long would it be before someone came for a stroll? The gazebo in the center of the garden had been a trysting place for more than a few couples over the years. Rumor even had it Luke’s grandmother, Rosetta Tulane, had conceived one of her children there.
Imagining a younger version of Luke’s spunky grandmother getting it on in a public place brought a smile to Shelby’s lips despite the nausea still churning her belly. Seconds passed, and little by little she felt more human. Until she spied her uniform pants. “No! Oh, no. Oh, crap!”
They were ruined! Why on earth would anyone choose white linen as the required uniform for the working class?
Because hugging the grass and hurling isn’t in your job description?
Shelby groaned and ignored the quivering inside her body. She grabbed her purse and shoved herself onto her wobbly legs, moving like a hundred twenty-eight year old instead of twenty-eight, which gave her plenty of time to take in the bright green stains decorating both knees.
“Fifty bucks down the drain.”
Maybe she could have the pants altered and convince Mr. Long to let her wear them as elegant summer shorts? Hearing his clipped, British response in her head, she brushed the grass blades sticking so stubbornly to her clothing and waited for the world to stop spinning. She couldn’t worry about her pants now. She had to get out of there before Luke came back and things got…sticky.
They were hot and sticky that night and you didn’t seem to mind.
Shut. Up!
She’d walked that embarrassingly painful mental path every day since they’d slept together, asked herself why repeatedly. Why hadn’t she gone home and taken her upset and frustration out by baking? Why hadn’t she done something constructive that would’ve helped her meet her goal? Why had she made such a horrendous mistake with her best friend’s brother? Why, why, why?
Because you liked it, her mind taunted, you really liked it.
Her entire body flushed with heat. Yeah, she’d liked it—until it was over and the consequences of her actions had walloped her a good one upside the head. Alex would be beside herself if she found out. Her best friend was most protective of Luke, closer to him because of the divide that had developed between Luke and his twin, Nick, growing up. But while Luke might have updated his geeky glasses to the kind worn by business studs photographed for magazine ads and lost the boring shirts his mother had always bought for him, Luke was still Alex’s favorite brother because Alex claimed he was more sensitive than the rest, more caring and astute than the siblings Alex sometimes referred to as ‘blockheads.’
Shelby stumbled across the grounds around the backside of the club, trying ineffectively to shove the memory of doing Alex’s favorite brother from her mind. It was over. Done. A mistake that would not be repeated. It was past time to stop worrying about something she couldn’t change and just put the incident behind her. She couldn’t let what happened cloud her thinking--or make her so nervous she got sick. As soon as she got home she’d…call Luke and apologize?
Swear him to secrecy? Beg him to keep his distance?
How about all of the above?
Shelby made her way to a pea-gravel path, her heels sinking with every step. It would’ve been a lot quicker to have traveled straight through the middle of the country club, but she chanced running into Luke or Alex, or worse yet, Mr. Long. Throwing up at home was bad enough, but in public wearing full makeup?
Her foundation was probably gone, her eyes raccooned. Plus her stomach was still rolling like a fun park coaster.
“Just keep moving.” The thought of Luke behind her, closing in and demanding to talk to her now made her put one foot in front of the other. She didn’t want a scene, couldn’t risk someone overhearing Luke demanding answers for her behavior or her having to tell him she’d do anything to take it all back. The night had been wonderful. Perfect. It was the fact that it was Luke that bit the big one.
Shelby rounded the corner of the club and continued downhill to the employee parking lot. She’d almost made it to her car when her three-inch heel skidded on a rock. “Ow! Oh, ow.” Just what she needed. What else was going to happen?
She hobbled the rest of the way and fell inside, absurdly thankful that the pain helped clear her head. Hurry. She had to hurry. She’d practically lived with the Tulanes growing up. If they found out she’d kissed Luke in places his mama hadn’t seen for nearly thirty years, nothing would ever be the same.
Shelby fastened her seatbelt and took the exit farthest from the clubhouse, checking her rearview mirror for any sight of Luke’s tall form and rubbing at the mascara smeared down her cheek.
All she wanted to do was go home, get out of her icky clothes, take a quick shower and--strangely enough--eat more cheese curls.
