Lord Perfect (Carsington Family Series)

From Publishers Weekly In the crowded field of Regency romances, Chase's work ( The Lion's Daughter ) is distinguished by its ironic tone, witty writing and narrative drive; her latest is no exception. Benedict Carsington, the Viscount Rathbourne, has the reputation of a perfect gentleman, which in 1821 London society means controlled, haughty and above reproach. By contrast, Bathsheba Wingate is about as disreputable as a Wingate gets, having been born to the notorious DeLucey branch of the family, a "completely untrustworthy" bunch who have "made themselves famous for their scandals." Widowed by a disinherited man, Bathsheba struggles to make ends meet and to provide every opportunity for her strong-willed daughter, Olivia—who, much to her mother's dismay, absconds in search of buried treasure, accompanied by Benedict's nephew and informal ward. Drawn to each other from the moment they meet, Bathsheba and Benedict strive to suppress their desires as they chase the little rascals right into the pristine stronghold of the disapproving Wingates. Readers will relish the loosening of Benedict's perfect control and the endearing, dry humor with which he and Bathsheba confront their inevitable downfall—as well as their satisfying redemption. (Mar.) Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. From Booklist *Starred Review* Benedict Carsington, Viscount Rathbourne, is in perfect control of his life until he meets Bathsheba, one of the "Dreadful DeLuceys." One encounter with the lovely widow, and he begins to wonder if his life is not so much perfect as boring. Benedict is certain that he can resist becoming involved with her, but he soon finds himself hiring Bathsheba to teach drawing to his nephew, Peregrine Dalmay. Then Bathsheba's impetuous daughter, Olivia, convinces Peregrine to join her quest to find the DeLucey family pirate treasure, forcing Benedict to become even more entangled with Bathsheba. As the two set off across England to retrieve the wayward young fortune hunters, Benedict is forced to admit that he is not as immune to the tart-tongued Bathsheba as he would like to think. With its splendidly original characters, exquisitely sensual romance, and wonderfully witty writing, the third of RITA Award-winning Chase's fabulous historical Regencies to feature the romantic comeuppance of one of the Carsington men is simply perfect. John Charles Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved Review One of the finest and most delightful writers in romance. (Mary Jo Putney)Get ready for the biggest Sensation ever from "One of the Finest Romance Writers of All Time" About the Author Loretta Chase holds a B.A. from Clark University, where she majored in English and minored unofficially in visual art. Her past lives include part-time teaching at Clark and a Dickensian six-month experience as a meter maid. In the course of moonlighting as a corporate video scriptwriter, she fell under the spell of a producer who lured her into writing novels . . . and marrying him. The union has resulted in more than a dozen books and a number of awards, including the Romance Writers of America’s RITA Award.  You can talk to Loretta via her email address Author@LorettaChase.com, or visit her website at www.LorettaChase.com. Read more

Vipers Rule (A Skulls Creek Novel)

Review Praise for the novels of Stephanie Tyler “A raw, sexy world.”— New York Times bestselling author Maya Banks“Kept me on the edge of my seat…breathtaking danger, sizzling romance, and unexpected twists.”— New York Times bestselling author Alexandra Ivy Praise for Vipers Run “Tyler opens the throttle on this fast-moving biker-themed erotic romance.…Tyler brings her polished style to this red-hot page-turner.”— Publishers Weekly “Think Sons of Anarchy with a lot more romance. No one can write a gritty bad boy like Tyler, and here she pulls out all the stops. Readers will find a lot of steamy sex and a raw, dark edginess they’ve never encountered before. An exciting beginning to a new series.”— RT Book Reviews “An exciting and very hot story…a very hot, steamy romance…filled with suspense, excitement, heated sexual scenes, a great couple, and a well-written story.”— The Reading Cafe About the Author Stephanie Tyler is the New York Times bestselling author of the Skulls Creek, Section 8, and Eternal Wolf Clan series. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. PRAISE FOR VIPERS RUN Also by Stephanie Tyler SIGNET ECLIPSE For my MC-loving readers . . . Prologue Heavy metal music blasted through the speakers of the sweet, cherry red Ford Mustang as Tals took the ramp to the parkway in a swift motion and then really let her loose on the open road. It was nearly one in the morning. Maddie wouldn’t notice the car was missing. She might see that the odometer was higher and her gas tank was almost empty, but he had a feeling she didn’t notice things like that. She was surrounded by people who did things for her. He was mostly pissed she wouldn’t let him in to be one of those people. But at sixteen, he knew he was too young to feel that strongly about any girl—though that didn’t stop him from knowing something about him and Maddie was just “right.” Obviously he was thinking about Maddie too much to notice the police car silently trailing him. He did notice when the lights flashed and the sirens wailed, and instinctively, he sped the hell up . . . but there was a cop waiting at the next mile marker, blocking the road. Fuck me. His heart was still racing hours later when Maddie came into the police station, alone. She made eye contact with him while he was handcuffed to the bench with a few drunk and disorderlies. He smirked. Because hey, she’d definitely noticed him, and she’d been working damned hard to pretend she hadn’t. Long dark hair. Hazel eyes. A perfect body for the flowing hippie shirts she always wore with ripped-up jeans. It was summertime, and her flip-flops showed her toenails, which were painted with blue polish. She was so fucking perfect, it made him ache. It was worse when she looked at him, and she did look at him, all the time, when he was supposed to not notice. But it was the oldest story in the book—bad boy from the wrong side of the tracks falls for rich girl who can’t be with him. But she wanted to. And who said the story had to end badly? “Are you pressing charges?” one of the policemen asked Maddie, and she had the damned nerve to consider it. That was the flaw in his plan—he’d never figured she’d make that move. Shit. She shook her head no, a tight expression on her face. She had to sign some papers, and she kept her back to him while she was at the desk. When she walked out, she didn’t make eye contact. She hadn’t sent in her grandmother—or her father. It could’ve been worse. Way worse. Not that getting arrested was ever good. Dad would be proud, though. “Christ,” he muttered out loud as he waited for his ride home. His one phone call had, of course, been to Tenn, who’d been at work and unable to get any messages—or leave the job—until he was finished filming. So Tals had hung out outside the police station, sitting on another bench, watching the faces of the men and women who entered. Prisoners were brought around the back, so these people were here to see loved ones—they had that frazzled look, because they were justifiably worried and had no clue what they’d find beyond those doors. He was familiar with being on both sides, thanks to his father, who regularly put him, his mother and his brother through nights like this. Tals had managed to stay clean until now. That wasn’t to say he hadn’t done things to warrant being inside, but he’d been really good about not getting caught. “Seriously, Tals?” Tals looked up at his brother. They were fraternal twins, although there was no denying they were brothers. Tenn was a little taller, and his eyes were brown instead of blue like Tals’s were. But they had the same facial features that garnered plenty of attention. “Yeah, seriously.” Tenn sighed and together they walked across the parking lot to their mom’s car, an ancient station wagon that she was convinced was too unsafe to drive. She took cabs back and forth to work, and Tals was convinced she had no clue that he and Tenn drove the thing on a regular basis. She had no clue about a lot of things, but hell, talking about her was one of the few things that could get him and Tenn fighting. “Anyway, thanks for coming to get me.” “No problem.” Tenn put the key in the ignition, and both said a silent prayer that the thing would start. After a tense few moments, it did, and they were headed through town, passing the exclusive community called Jessamine, where all the shit had started. “But all that over a girl?” “Over a car,” Tals corrected. “You can bullshit a lot of people, Talon . Pretty much everyone but me.” Tals stewed over that for a minute. “She’s different, Tenn .” It was Tenn’s turn to correct him. “She’s rich. She’s trouble.” “You’re not wrong,” was all Tals could manage. “Don’t tell Preach.” “Which part?” “All of it.” Chapter 1 Fifteen years later Axl Rose’s screaming falsetto screeched through the speakers as Tals drove the rebuilt 1974 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am SD455 nose to nose with the equally hot-rodded 1968 Ford Mustang GT500KR. The cars were important, but the drivers were the real part of this race, and Tals had the lack of fear and love of speed that always gave him the advantage. Miles from home, in a stolen car in an illegal street race was the perfect end to the year. Smoke billowed from his exhaust as the car roared under him. His hands gripped the wheel so tightly he knew they’d ache tomorrow, and the engine alternately purred and rumbled as he took the tight corners on this stretch of now-deserted road. He was never as free as he was during these moments. Treating the streets like a racetrack. These illegal street races were run on a dime, with an eye toward protecting its participants. He wasn’t supposed to be racing like this. Or stealing cars for Havoc. But now that Cage was back as the MC’s XO, the second in charge, Tals was freed up from some of the heavier MC responsibilities and had more free time on his hands. He was back to being enforcer of Vipers, something he excelled at. His rep preceded him, so not too many guys wanted to deal with him flexing his muscles. A bored Tals was a really bad thing. Especially for all the people set to lose major money tonight when he won. Which he would. The course laid out for the race would take no more than ten minutes—ten minutes that would alternately feel like a lifetime and fly by, the last mile stretching straight out in front of him. Although he could never shake off his status as an MC member—never wanted to, either, since he’d fought damned hard for it—tonight he wasn’t Tals from Vipers MC, an enforcer, repo man or ex-Army. Tonight he was completely free. Tonight he was also winning the fucking race, which he accomplished with a heavy foot on the gas, a tight swerve into the final stretch and balls of steel to take on the residential street at 110 mph. His body still shook from the adrenaline when he eased the car to a stop about a hundred feet past the actual finish line. He took a few deep breaths, head back, eyes closed, trying to convince himself the car had stopped moving. It took about that long for the crowds to reach him. When he finally pushed out of the car, he found himself surrounded by the men and women who’d parked their cars along the sides of the finish line—at least forty cars and far more people, all feeling the vibe of the race and feeding off it. Music blasted, women danced on cars . . . and it would all continue until the police got wind of it. Tals gave it twenty minutes and planned to be gone in fifteen. He headed to find Bear, pocketing his winnings along the way and handing the keys back to Mel, who’d been the one to steal the car Tals had raced. “Good job, man.” Mel clapped him on the shoulder. “Always a blast. You taking her back home?” Mel sighed. “Maybe. I’m going to take her for another ride myself before I do, but I knew she’d like you better.” Tals ran his hand along the nearest car’s bumper. “They always do.” “Things good at home?” Mel asked. Tals smiled. “Living the dream.” Mel snorted. “Give my best to Preacher—don’t tell him about the car.” Tals had no intention of doing that, although he didn’t doubt Preach would get wind of tonight’s race. Guy had radar for this shit, especially where Tals was involved. Thankfully, though, things were back to normal at Vipers. And when things were this quiet, it meant more time for him to get into trouble, which was really the kind of shit he lived for. And that’s why he hadn’t been able to think of any better way to ring in the New Year than a fast car, fast cash and heading back to Vipers to share in the celebration. He finally found his fellow MC member—and Bear was having a blast in that way only a red-blooded American male could—without reservations. Unabashed, with no limits. Hell, Tals had been like that once. No, he’d appeared to be like that, and probably most still saw him that way. Except for the MC members he was closest to. Preach, Cage, Rocco and Bear? They all saw through him like he was fucking paper. And although he’d never discussed it with any of them, especially not Bear, the guy still knew. He took care of Tals as much as Tals took care of him. And Tals pretended not to notice . . . and Bear seemed to prefer it that way. “Tals, you got a call from Sal,” Bear told him, handing him his phone. Tals never wanted any distractions while he drove, but now, with his adrenaline roaring, a little repo would work out just fine. “Time to go to work.” But hell, work wasn’t really work to him, and he had several jobs, most of which fell under the Vipers MC umbrella. Repo’ing was one of them, although his main work for the club involved enforcing. Keeping order, imposing rules and justice. He liked that role a lot. “No one else will take this motherfucking job,” Sal was grousing in his ear. “You know anything about that?” “Nope,” Tals said, not bothering to try for innocent—didn’t work, even when he was. “I’ll keep trying.” “Find her.” “Hey, I’m better than nothing.” “Not by much.” Sal hung up in his ear, and Tals sighed. “Where’re we going?” Bear asked. Tals looked down at the money roll, then over at Mel. “You stay and have fun. I’ll take this one—an easy job.” “You sure?” Bear asked, even as he was allowing two women to pull him back into the street-side celebration. Tals grinned, shook his head. “Yeah, I’m sure.” *   *   * The job was several hours outside his usual territory. He’d initially been tagged for it when he was doing a difficult repo close by. Sal said taking Cathy’s car would be an easy reward. There was nothing easy about taking a single mother’s only mode of transportation. And so he’d warned her, had initially walked away from the job, reporting to Sal that the address he had was bad. He’d done that once more, buying her several months, but, like she’d told him, she couldn’t create money from air. “Where the fuck’s your old man?” he’d asked, motioning to the three kids playing on the patch of grass outside the motel room. She’d rolled her eyes. “Prison. Again. Sometimes I think he likes it better in there than out here. You know how that goes.” Yeah, Tals knew that all too well. It was easier for most of them on the inside. And even though he got it, this time he would need to take the car back—she was too far behind in payments and he couldn’t keep other guys off her ass forever. Tals could only threaten so many of them before one of them would ignore him. He’d make them regret it, of course, but she’d be stuck. He knocked on the door softly, because it was so late. And she opened it, in pajamas, her eyes tired. There’d been no New Year’s celebration for her. He gave her credit for opening the door for him. “Gotta take it this time, Cathy.” Her eyes watered, but she refused to let the tears fall. “You bought me a lot of time. I can’t be mad at you.” But she was—and he was on his way to becoming just another in a long line of men who’d disappointed her. She reached to the chair next to the door and handed him the keys. “I’m sure you know where it’s parked.” “Show me. And you’ve got to empty it anyway.” She sighed as she stepped out of the motel room, shutting the door behind her. “I never leave anything in it, since I’ve been waiting for this to happen.” It was parked a few doors down. Tals looked it over, started it up easily and then got out. “Are we all set?” Cathy asked, eyeing the door to the room where the kids slept. “One more thing.” He handed her a set of keys and an envelope. And then he pointed to the car he’d released from the flatbed and parked right in front of her door. It was nothing special to look at, needed a paint job that Mel was supposed to do, but the engine purred like a baby. It was a good, strong car. “Tals, I can’t afford—” “It’s yours. First month’s insurance is paid—it’s registered under your name.” “Tals . . .” “For the kids,” he said roughly. “Don’t fuck it up.” She smiled gently, then touched his cheek like a mother would. Like his mother used to. “You’re a good boy, Tals. Now try to take your own advice.” He couldn’t help it—he laughed. *   *   * He had another three-hour ride back to Skulls Creek—he’d miss the party at the clubhouse, but hell, he didn’t care. Every night could be a party for him, if he wanted it to be. But it was a new year, and things felt different. He wasn’t really sure why. Maybe because Cage was back with Vipers, but nothing had changed within the South Carolina city itself. He dialed his brother’s number now, then pulled the flatbed onto the highway as it rang. He and Tenn had grown up on what was most definitely the wrong side of the tracks in Skulls. But now there really wasn’t a wrong side—just an MC side. Skulls was thriving. There wasn’t violence or squalor, in no small part due to Preacher taking over Vipers. Still, they worked hard to keep out of trouble, mainly in the form of drug-pushing MCs, and Tals knew most of the Skulls community didn’t fully understand or appreciate the Vipers’ role in that. Preach always said he didn’t give a shit, but being treated like he was a criminal definitely got to him. Tals had been looked on as one for as long as he could remember, but he’d also always gotten a lot of interest from the women of Skulls. And the Army. And Vipers. Havoc too. And Havoc allowed him to indulge in stealing and racing cars without bringing the law into Skulls or on Vipers. Vipers relied on vigilante justice. Old-fashioned, but very effective. “Happy New Year, brother.” Tenn’s voice sounded muffled . . . and slightly drunk. And Tenn rarely drank, so Tals wasn’t sure if this was a good sign or not. “You out celebrating?” “I was. Then I caught a job.” “Never ends, right?” Tenn went quiet, but there was obviously a party going on in the background. “How’d you spend your night?” “Threw a party for the guys who weren’t working,” Tenn said. “They invited some friends—it got bigger than I thought. Sometimes I forget how young these guys are.” “Not too young for you,” Tals said. “Yeah.” Tenn’s voice had that far-off quality to it, but true to form, he shook himself out of it before he got too maudlin. “Love you, bro. Be safe.” “Love you, Tenn—be safe.” It was the same every time. Just because they didn’t live in the same house anymore didn’t mean they weren’t as close. It’d been painful when Tenn moved away—Tals swore he felt it physically. Having Cage gone for months had left Tals hanging in the wind, and even though Bear had been there to steady him, it hadn’t been easy. No matter how much he tried to fill the space, it never worked. “I’ll change that this year.” He wasn’t sure how. Maybe he’d give more women a chance—fuck the one-night stands. Try to open his horizons and look for a real old lady. The whole one-night-stand shit hadn’t ever been that easy for him—the mechanics were, because orgasms were never bad, as was finding willing women. But if he added up all the one-night stands—and fuck, that could take a long time—he’d realize something was missing. Hell, he didn’t even have to add them up to know that. It was a space he’d never filled, a hole in his heart that never healed. As much as he tried to wall it up, compartmentalize it, he could never separate it for long. New Year’s Eve always made him think of Maddie . . . no matter what he did since then, what country he was in, whether he was partying, stone-cold sober, in the desert, fighting another MC member or stealing a car, Tals could no more not think about Maddie on New Year’s Eve than he could stop breathing. Chapter 2 The battle cry of “Happy New Year!” echoed all around her, ringing through the air amid the clink of champagne glasses and cheers. Maddie held up her glass of champagne and forced a smile. Maddie Wells had done that so much tonight her face hurt, but at this point it was plastered on. Still was when her husband—Hugh Montgomery—sidled up to her and announced, “Maddie, life of the party—and the most gorgeous woman in the room, as usual.” In actuality, she wasn’t the life of the party, and Hugh always threw in the part about her looks. At this point, it rang hollow. She smiled at him, noted the attention they were receiving, aware of the flashbulbs popping in their faces. Hugh posed, the way he always did. She couldn’t wait to kick her heels off and get out of this room, this building. She was far more comfortable behind the scenes. She never needed the credit. It wasn’t about that. But lately she’d begun to overshadow the work. Maybe she should’ve expected it, since she married a man who owned the company where she’d been climbing the ladder for ten years. But Hugh had been pulling her into the spotlight, no matter how much she protested. Tonight was another example. Suddenly, she was the subject of photographs and nonstop speculation. The more Hugh paraded her out to the press, so seemingly proud . . . the wider the chasm grew between them. She hadn’t realized that it was irreparably broken, or at least had refused to admit it to herself until last month . . . She left a charity dinner hours early to meet him upstate—eschewing the car he’d sent for her in favor of a rental. It wasn’t what she’d pick for herself but rather a staid sedan, but she was in control and alone. Wind in her hair, singing, tank top and jeans—she was in high school again. Not the happiest of times and yet, somehow, at her worst moments, she came back again and again to that time. Mistakes. Regrets. Recriminations. She opened the door, prepared to have a nice dinner with Hugh . . . and ended up surprising him and his other woman. One of them, anyway. On paper they were the perfect couple, the up-and-coming marketing exec—who did everything from picking the new lines to meeting with buyers—falls in love with the CFO of the entire company. Obviously, real life had nothing on paper; real life trumped paper. In fact, real life was a tall, thin redheaded model who trampled over it with her stilettos. And a blonde who fit the same pattern. And, Maddie was sure, if she did some digging, she’d find more—all, of course, of the “she didn’t mean anything to me” variety, according to Hugh. Which was bullshit. “It meant something to me!” she’d told him quietly, and then she’d taken off her ring calmly, surprising herself with her restraint. She’d placed it on the small table between them. And then she’d picked up a vase of flowers and thrown it at his head. When he managed to duck—just in time—she picked up anything else she could find and continued blindly throwing until she was tired and he’d locked himself in his bathroom. Then she’d packed, thrown what she could into large wheeled bags, emptied out her makeup and jewelry (only pieces she’d bought herself) and then she’d called for her own car. “I don’t want anything from you,” she’d told him before she’d moved herself into a hotel. He stared at her oddly, the hurt in his voice apparent when he said, “You never did.” You never did. God, that truth hit her right between the eyes. She had to take some of the blame for this failed relationship, and her part in it had her far more upset than his part. Which was, of course, a symptom of the larger problem surrounding their marriage. Maybe I’m not meant to be married. Or in a relationship. Because she was very much married to her work . . . or at least, she had been, until she’d started feeling restless and unfulfilled last year, in a way she hadn’t been able to articulate or explain. It hung over her like a cloud, until it began to weigh her down. She’d actually begun to call in sick to work, something she hadn’t done in . . . Something she hadn’t ever done, not even when she had been sick. And that’s when the rumors started. No matter how often she denied them to well-meaning friends, no matter how many times she and Hugh stepped out together over the past month in their just-for-show moments—because he’d asked her to stay in New York through the end of the season and this New Year’s Eve Charity Ball the company hosted every year, and she’d complied. She’d put her wedding ring back on. She’d even moved back into their penthouse, and he’d moved into the guest bedroom, or else people would definitely talk. In the meantime, Hugh promised the divorce wouldn’t be contentious. It would remain private, and they’d issue a joint statement. He’d had no idea she’d already been planning on resigning. “I’ve done more than my share for charity,” she murmured to Hugh now, pretended to brush his lapel when really, she was dropping her wedding ring in the pocket with his boutonniere. “Don’t call, don’t write, unless it’s through your lawyer.” On the way out, Maddie passed by Lettie, a woman who, if not exactly a friend, was someone she’d come up alongside in this company. She knew, better than anyone, that Maddie hadn’t slept her way to the top. She was trustworthy. Maddie felt guilty for not telling her that, effective tonight, she was resigning from the company, but at the moment, Lettie’s focus was firmly elsewhere. “Who’s that?” Maddie couldn’t help but ask, since Lettie had locked eyes with a handsome man decidedly underdressed for the occasion—and looking damned good making that statement in a leather jacket and jeans. “Who cares?” Lettie murmured, not tearing her gaze from the man. He smiled at her, motioned to the balcony. In return, she nodded and began walking his way. Maddie pulled her back. “You can’t be serious.” “I’m very serious. And very single. Don’t worry—I’ll keep it PG on the balcony. These corporate stiffs couldn’t handle it.” “Last time I looked, you were corporate.” “Thanks for not calling me a stiff.” Lettie glanced at her, slightly flushed with alcohol. “What’s the problem? You never had a bad-boy phase?” She said, “No,” quickly. Too quickly, since her mind had already gone straight to Tals, as it had more than ever this past month, like she knew her fate was sealed and she was actively avoiding thinking about it until the very last moment. For them it had always been about fate. “You should never, ever play poker. I don’t know how you made it so far in the corporate world, the way you let all your emotions show on your face.” “I do not,” Maddie protested. In truth, she always had, but she’d been better at it before last month. Now she found herself unable to care about the career—the life—she’d so carefully built for herself. Around herself, like impenetrable walls. She’d escaped the family gates, but she’d gated herself in, just the same. Lettie seemed to have forgotten about her own bad boy and was now firmly focused on Maddie. “And you’re lying about the bad-boy phase.” “I never acted on it. Big difference.” Another partial lie about that long-ago New Year’s celebration. “And that’s the problem. You’re with all these high-powered guys who’re too selfish to care about anything in the bedroom but themselves,” Lettie pointed out. Instead of reminding Lettie that she was married (and wasn’t that the biggest irony, that she couldn’t even get the words out any longer?), Maddie asked, “And bad boys don’t do that?’ “Oh honey, no, they don’t.” She thought about Tals . . . the way the girls in school used to preen when he came around on his bike. The way she used to as well—secretly, though. Because she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. “Go for it, Lettie. Have fun for both of us.” “You don’t have to tell me twice.” Lettie made her way to the balcony, and Maddie watched her as the elevator doors closed, effectively cutting her off from the world that had been hers for ten years, and coveted by her for many before that. Her car was already waiting at the valet station. She’d left instructions for it to be pulled around at 12:30 a.m. sharp. It was packed and ready, and she got in, ball gown and all, kicked her heels off and took off in her Mustang GT. She always bought Mustangs, and they were always some variation on cherry red, like the one Tals had stolen. She hadn’t liked the color much when she’d gotten it. After Tals had driven it, though, she swore something happened to the damned car. It was almost supercharged, like it remembered him and wanted to be driven the way he’d driven it. Which was ridiculous. And didn’t stop her thinking it every single time. And didn’t stop her from buying this car again. Vintage model, though. Like that would make it so different. “Time to turn the brain off, Maddie,” she told herself out loud as she cranked the radio up and barreled onto the highway, the car revving, like it was telling her to get her shit together and enjoy the ride. She gripped the wheel with her buttery-soft leather fingerless racing gloves—in bright red—and she systematically unpinned her hair so it hung loosely, tumbling over her shoulders. It got warmer the farther south she drove, and she opened the windows at one point so her hair whipped around her shoulders as she pushed the speed limits. When she’d first planned on quitting her job and moving out—and on from Hugh—she hadn’t been sure of her destination. Not at first. But then “Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around” came on the radio when she was on the way to their house upstate after leaving the New Year’s Eve party . . . and she promptly turned the car around and headed to Jessamine—aka Skulls Creek, South Carolina. If anyone had told her before now that she’d be escaping back to her family home, she’d have laughed. Now she couldn’t think of a better place to go, although it was less about her family and more about the man the song reminded her of: Tals Garrity. You don’t even know if he’s still in Skulls Creek. No, that wasn’t true at all. She did know. Grams had brought him up in their last few conversations, almost like she might’ve predicted this would happen. Like she somehow knew that, no matter how hard she tried to not follow in her mother’s footsteps, Maddie had some of that flightiness, that irresponsibility in her that she’d fought so hard to banish. And maybe she did somehow know that her soon-to-be ex-husband was cheating on her. Because Maddie herself had no goddamned clue. Then again, she’d been working so hard over the past years, it was a wonder she knew his name. So was her marriage everything she’d thought it would be? Definitely not. Had she thought Hugh would cheat on her? Never. She knew he was in the company of young, beautiful women all the time, but for her, marriage was forever. She’d told him that when he’d proposed, and as a child of divorce himself, he’d agreed. So much for that. She hadn’t smiled like this in at least a month, starting with the day she’d discovered her ex was sleeping around with everybody in his path. She wasn’t sure if it would’ve been better had it been one woman for an extended period of time instead of the constant stream of women, all younger than she’d been when they’d first met. She was five years older and wiser . . . and obviously wilder, if taking off like this was any indication. And ten hours later, she was almost . . . home. Her childhood home. Right now she was homeless, almost a guest in her own life. She turned the radio up in response, a Stevie Nicks song coming on when she needed it most. She sang along with it, her voice a throaty rasp into the wind. She wasn’t the best singer, but music had always brought her more comfort than anything. She was free, and it was New Year’s. If that wasn’t fate, she didn’t know what was. Chapter 3 It was close to four in the morning and Tals was on the final stretch to Skulls Creek. As he rounded a sharp turn on the highway, he saw taillights in front of him—taillights to a Ford Mustang GT he’d always been partial to. When he saw the back tire rock, his hands tight- ened, because he knew what was about to happen, and he watched helplessly as the tire blew, making the car fishtail like crazy. It was lucky it happened on a quiet highway. Also lucky that whoever was behind the wheel knew how to handle the car, because it quickly stabilized, slowed and pulled to the side of the road. Tals followed, drove past the car slowly in order to pull ahead of it, in case it needed to be loaded onto the flatbed. He glanced at the disabled car as he went past. “Lookin’ for Love” came on the radio as he recognized the driver. He braked—hard. Stared. Cursed his luck and wondered if the gods were up there laughing their asses off at him. Because talk about all the wrong places. Because Maddie Wells. Of all the women he could possibly run across—and there could be a hell of a lot of them, and many of them would no doubt want to hit him with the tire iron, even though he’d never made any of them promises—why did it have to be the only one who’d ever had his heart? She’d had it, and he wasn’t even sure she’d realized it. What he did know was that she’d never wanted it, and one-sided relationships were the worst. Especially those that had been going on in his head and were still painfully fresh memories in his mind some thirteen years later. He chalked it up to youth. Hormones. The fact that teenagers were dramatic as fuck. So what was his excuse now, when his heart was beating out of his chest and his dick had started to harden. I wonder if she smells the same . . . like citrus and gardenias? Like heaven ? He wasn’t getting close enough to her—or to heaven—to find out. What got him out of the car was what usually did—he had nothing to lose. Nothing he hadn’t already lost. But before he could walk toward her, he noted the text from Bear, asking where he was. He texted back, 10 miles out from Skulls, on highway. Stopped to fix a flat for someone. Bear’s response was immediate. Line of Heathens headed your way in about fifteen. Shit . I’ll be done before that. Just what he needed—his MC’s biggest enemy running into him and Maddie on a dark, deserted road. Fuck fate. Fuck it hard. “Tals? Is that . . . ?” Maddie’s voice sounded the same, that slightly raspy drawl that made her sound sexy, even as a teenager. It ran like lightning up his spine, and he forced himself to look in her direction, all the while hoping that what he’d seen through the car window was an optical illusion . . . No dice—she looked the same. No. She looked even better, and better still when she got out of the car and walked toward him. She’d left a teenager and she was all woman now, softly curved, her skin glowing with health and what looked like very little makeup. She’d never needed it. Her long dark hair was loose, and it was over one shoulder. She made no move to fuss with it. She looked good. Expensive, in a full-length black gown that seemed to glitter, her feet shoved into impossibly high heels that she walked in elegantly. And just like that, his New Year’s went from great to gut-clenching. Although he couldn’t deny that he was happy to see her, the way he’d always been. Even though she’d had him arrested more than once . . . and almost sent him to prison for assault by keeping her mouth closed. Twice. Fuck. Just change her goddamned tire and end this. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone sounding more like a demand. “Visiting my grandmother.” “At five in the morning on New Year’s Day?” She nodded, then blurted out, “I’m getting a divorce.” Small-town gossip was unavoidable, and soon everyone would be talking about this. Some would be happy to see Maddie cut down to size. Tals wasn’t one of them. Hell, all she did was have a career and marry a rich guy. He didn’t see a parallel between the two—she’d always worked hard, been serious. She’d gotten out, and for that alone, a lot of her old Jessamine “friends” would no doubt be particularly happy when they discovered she was being humiliated by her husband. She was married . . . and now she was getting divorced. And she was standing in front of him, no wedding ring in sight. On New Year’s Day. And no, he wasn’t going to get any of his hopes up. She’d be gone soon enough, and then he’d shove this to the back of his mind with all the other old memories that hurt too much to deal with. *   *   * As the famous saying went, there really were no coincidences. At least none worth ignoring, and there’d never truly been a way for her to ignore Tals. Happening upon him was a regular occurrence growing up, but she’d never taken it as a sign of anything beyond that’s what happened in a relatively small city. After all, they’d gone to the same high school—it was inevitable they’d cross paths. Although, not really. They lived on opposite ends of town. Hung out with separate crowds. He grew up within a motorcycle gang—and then officially joined the Vipers MC. “Are you okay, Maddie?” he asked, concern in his low, rough voice. “Fine,” she managed. “A little shaken.” But she was a good driver, and the roads were thankfully dry. “I don’t know what happened.” God, he looked good. Even with only the side glow from the headlights, she could see that he’d aged well, from bad boy to all man. He put the man in the leather jacket and jeans back at the charity ball to shame. His blond hair was mostly tucked under a bandanna, but she could see it was still curled around the back of his neck. He wore a tight-fitting dark thermal Henley, jeans, and black motorcycle boots, his Vipers cut no doubt lying on the seat next to him in the truck marked VIPERS TOWING. “You’re staring, Maddie. You used to be a lot more subtle about it.” Before she could get embarrassed, she shot back, “You never were.” He gave her that wolfish half grin that had gotten sexier over time. “Wasn’t trying to be.” She’d told him about the divorce because she had no doubt he’d see the news reports, Then again, maybe he didn’t check Page Six and the like. Maybe he didn’t concern himself with the gossip, even if it pertained to local families. She’d lived in New York for so long, been such a part of the social scene, that there was a certain amount of ego involved, where she’d begun to feel like every day was a photo op, a chance to sell herself—and her business, by extension. That was the name of the game today, and whether she liked it or not (for the record, she found it exhausting), that was the way the fashion business worked. She was an extension of the brands she curated. She hadn’t realized she’d been drowning until she’d crossed the state line and drew what felt like her first deep breath in years. And now Tals was so close. Too close. And he certainly didn’t seem happy to see her. If anything, there was an air of annoyance as he stalked by her and stared at her back tire while shaking his head. “Ridiculous. These tires are the most expensive pieces of shit.” She almost laughed at that, but she didn’t. Mainly because she was afraid it would come out as a sob. “I can just call Triple A,” she started, but he ignored her. He was moving fast, grabbing tools from his truck. And here she was, a helpless girl with a flat. And she hated being helpless. “I’m okay. I can . . .” “You don’t know how to change a tire.” Tals’s voice was a growl that covered her, part reassuring and part dangerous as anything. “How do you know?” He gave her a sideways glance before grabbing the tire iron and began to take the flat off. “Can you show me how to do this for myself?” she asked. He took in her dress and her heels. “You’ll get filthy.” “I’ll live.” “I don’t like to let women do heavy lifting when I’m around.” He moved past her and knelt on the ground in front of the tire. It was less sexist than protective, but it still rankled her and her reinvigorated quest for independence. “You won’t always be here.” He acknowledged that with a long look, starting at her legs and raking up her body. “That’s a shame.” She was ready to agree. Instead she kicked off her heels and crouched down next to him. He smelled so damned good. Clean. Masculine . . . very much like the adventures she sought. “You ready?” he asked. “More than you know,” she murmured. “Back up before you get hurt,” he told her, in probably the most fitting statement ever, before he took off the blown tire. In what seemed like minutes, he’d put on the full-sized one Hugh had insisted she carry around in her trunk. Tals hauled the heavy tire like it weighed nothing, and when the new one was on, he put the blown one back in the trunk. He’d moved all her bags out of the way . . . and he hadn’t commented on why she had so much with her for a visit. He simply put them all back, closed her trunk, then put his tools back in the truck. And started to get in, calling, “You’re all set. Better get back on the road.” “Tals, I’d like to take you to dinner.” “There’s no charge for this, Maddie.” “I’m not—thank you—but that’s not why I’d like to take you to dinner.” She bit her bottom lip—an old habit that she seemed to revert to only around him. Mainly because he stared at her lips every time she did it, and she liked him staring at her, the way he used to. “Maybe tomorrow night?” “Are you seriously asking me out on a date?” “Why’s that so hard to believe?” He snorted. His only answer to that being, “I think you should head back to New York.” “I’m not going back there. Not for a while,” she told him. “I’m staying in Skulls Creek.” “In Jessamine,” he corrected, like mentioning the split within the city borders would remind her of the split that kept them apart. “Too much water under the bridge. Glad I was here to help with the tire.” Read more

Holding Strong (An Ultimate Novel)

Review "A red-hot page-turner." --#1 New York Times bestselling author Kresley Cole on When You Dare"Intense, edgy and hot. Lori Foster delivers everything you're looking for in a romance." -New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz on Hard to Handle"A sexy, believable roller coaster of action and romance." -Kirkus Reviews on Run the Risk"Foster rounds out her searing trilogy with a story that tilts toward the sizzling and sexy side of the genre." -RT Book Reviews on Savor the Danger"The fast-paced thriller keeps these well-developed characters moving...Foster's series will continue to garner fans with this exciting installment." -Publishers Weekly on Trace of Fever"Steamy, edgy, and taut." -Library Journal on When You Dare"Bestseller Foster...has an amazing ability to capture a man's emotions and lust with sizzling sex scenes and meld it with a strong woman's point of view." -Publishers Weekly on A Perfect Storm"Lori Foster delivers the goods." -Publishers WeeklyFoster's writing satisfies all appetites with plenty of searing sexual tension and page-turning action in this steamy, edgy, and surprisingly tender novel."-Publishers Weekly on Getting Rowdy"Foster hits every note (or power chord) of the true alpha male hero...a compelling read from start to finish." --Publishers Weekly on Bare It All About the Author Lori Foster is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author with books from a variety of publishers, including Berkley/Jove, Kensington, St. Martin’s, Harlequin and Silhouette. Lori has been a recipient of the prestigious RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award for Series Romantic Fantasy, and for Contemporary Romance. She’s had top-selling books for Amazon, Waldenbooks and the BGI Group. For more about Lori, visit her Web site at www.lorifoster.com. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Watching her laugh, seeing her tease and flirt, burned his ass big-time. He loved when she laughed and teased with him —not so much when it was with other guys.And therein lay the problem.He had a near-savage lust for her. When he looked at her, when he heard that carefree laugh, he felt dangerously close to losing it.Contemplating decisions and possible mistakes, Denver Lewis sipped his beer. He should look away from her but knew he wouldn't. She was all tits and ass and attitude in a petite frame, and God love the girl, she turned him on.He'd avoided her, refused to be drawn in by her tempting smiles, and all in all given her the cold shoulder since determining they wouldn't suit. He had no right to judge her for having fun elsewhere.But knowing and accepting that as true didn't talk him off the ledge. No, if anything it wound him tighter. Damn, she looked good. The shifting lights in the club played with her dark blond hair and the curves of her lush little body. His buddy Stack, another fighter, drew her into a fast dance. She didn't refuse. Ever.Cherry Peyton was always the life of the party.The loud music competed with the furious drumming of Denver's heart as he monitored her every move. The music's wild tempo kept her body from touching Stack's. They danced around each other and the rest of the crowd on the floor.Every guy there made note of her, seeing her once and then taking a longer look. Her happiness, her laugh and that killer bod all combined for one hell of an impact on the male libido.For over an hour, Denver watched her draw attention and smiles and, no doubt, sexual thoughts. He ignored other women who tried to get his attention, those who came up to him and propositioned him in modest and sometimes lewd ways.Yeah, he wanted to get laid.But he wanted Cherry, not anyone else.It pissed him off that he couldn't get her out of his head. He should have had her before decreeing theirs an acquaintance-only relationship, then maybe he could have some perspective when it came to seeing her with other men.Then again, maybe not—because days after meeting her, he'd known sex wasn't the only thing he wanted. He'd already begun to think of her as his, even though he hadn't even kissed her yet.If only his territorial tendencies didn't clash so badly with her playful party-girl personality.Seeing her accept her third glass of wine, he finished off his beer and called it quits.At least on the alcohol.He stewed while watching her indulge in several dances with too many different guys—never mind that they were all from their group, fighters that she, and he, knew well and trusted as friends. They'd all come down en masse to cheer on one of their own. Fighters from the rec center who sparred and coached together. Men he'd known forever.Men who had befriended Cherry when she'd become roommates with Merissa, another fighter's sister.She was well and truly enmeshed in his life, friends with his friends, a part of their inner group, and if he wasn't denying himself like a freaking masochist he'd be over there with them right now. She'd be laughing and joking with him. Dancing with him.Treating him like everyone else.That she was so well accepted in their circle made it even more impossible to stop thinking about her, because everywhere he went, he saw her.Finally, after a robust dance that had her laughing aloud, Cherry began to fade. She dropped into a chair at a table with three other fighters and a few women.Her gaze never once came his way—almost as if she knew where he was and avoided making eye contact with him.Suited Denver fine. Mostly. Damn it. It wasn't easy, but he made himself look away.Tonight had been an eventful one. They'd all gotten to the local fight venue early, some to grab a bite before the event, others just to ensure they got the best seats. They all enjoyed watching Armie Jacobson fight.They'd enjoy it even more if Armie would accept the offers from the more elite, professional fight organization, the SBC, but for reasons of his own he dodged them, always insisting on sticking with the smaller, more local groups. It wasn't due to a lack of talent.Cannon Colter was a star with the SBC, and both Denver and Stack had recently signed with them. Since they each sparred with Armie, they knew firsthand that he was fast and deceptively strong, slick in a way that bespoke innate talent, something that couldn't be taught or learned but came naturally to a born athlete. Armie knew his shit.If he accepted a contract with the SBC, he'd more than hold his own. Denver believed he would dominate there, as well.But Armie blew them off every time.Speak of the devil… When Denver saw Armie approaching him, he put his elbows back on the bar, glad to finally have a distraction. "How do you feel?""Whaddya mean?" Armie caught the bartender's eye and ordered a whiskey.The competition had been done tournament style so that competitors had to win to advance, and had to fight multiple times. That arrangement wasn't common anymore, and wasn't the way the SBC did things. But the smaller events did what they could to highlight the fighters and drum up excitement.Armie had knocked out his first guy, then submitted the next two—each in the first round. In the second fight, he'd locked in an arm bar so tightly that the other fighter had immediately tapped rather than risk injury. For the third, he'd submitted with a rear naked choke. Each time, he made it look effortless. Hell, he'd walked away with nothing more than a small bruise on his cheekbone and some mat burn on one elbow. That was it. No other injuries. He'd barely broken a sweat. Armie destroyed other fighters with disgusting ease.Soon as the event had ended, most of the competitors and a lot of fans had converged on the nearby club for a promoted after-party. Armie, a fan favorite for the local organization, was sure to be the belle of the ball."You took that last guy apart. He was damn near knocked out when you decided on the arm bar."Armie tossed back the whiskey and asked for another. "Yeah, he must've been new or something."More like Armie was that good, but Denver knew he wouldn't admit it. For whatever reason, Armie shrugged off all opportunities to further his fight career. Because of that, Denver warned him, "Dean Connor was in the audience, scouting out the talent."Only for a second did Armie react, but he shook off the stillness in less than a heartbeat. "Havoc was here?""One and the same." Dean "Havoc" Connor was a legend in the sport, and one of the most revered fighters ever. A while back, he'd switched gears from competing to training. Now, with another well-known veteran, Simon Evans, he ran one of the most successful and sought-after camps—the same camp where their buddy Cannon often trained.And Cannon had an upcoming title fight for light heavyweight, so clearly they were doing something right.Simon and Dean had the inside track with the SBC president and often recommended new recruits to bring under the SBC umbrella.Brows drawn, Armie scoffed. "This gig wasn't exactly the upper echelon of talent. Why would Havoc waste his time with low-level competitions?"Succinct, Denver told him, "You." "Bullshit.""He took a ton of notes while watching you, and as soon as your fight ended he was on the phone making a call."Armie flexed a shoulder. "He was probably here to see Cannon.""He talked with Cannon. Merissa, too."Armie almost fell off his stool. "What?" And then, with a quelling glare, "Why the hell would he talk to Rissy?""She was cheering for you like crazy and I guess that got his attention." Denver shrugged. Cannon's sister often accompanied him to the fights. No big deal with that. "Given she was with Cannon.""Yeah, maybe." Armie tossed back the second whiskey and ordered up a third.Interesting. "Havoc's still here, but Cannon already took off with Yvette and Merissa." Since Denver hadn't yet convinced himself to leave the club, he ordered a glass of lemon water. In two and a half months he'd have his second fight with the SBC, so he'd started watching his diet already. Not that he ever got too far off weight, and not that he couldn't lose fifteen or even twenty pounds easily enough. But overall, he liked to stay healthy. He considered it part of his job requirements."I knew Cannon was booking. We'd already talked.""He didn't mention Havoc?""No, and I'll give him hell for that later." Armie relaxed enough to manage a grin. "Used to be, Cannon would have closed out the place with me. Now, with Yvette, he's always in a hurry to get her alone. The wedding can't happen fast enough for those two.""A few weeks after his next fight," Denver said. If it was up to Yvette, they would have already been married because she didn't care about the fancy wedding.But Cannon considered the guys family and knew they'd want to celebrate with him, so they'd set up the wedding in a way that wouldn't conflict with anyone's competition schedule, most especially Cannon's. "Looking forward to being best man?"Armie snorted. "You all expect me to balk at the sight of a tux, but what the hell, man, you'll be wearing the same monkeysuit."Watching Armie to gauge his reaction, Denver said, "Mostly I expect you to balk at the idea of being in the wedding with Merissa."Looking past Denver, Armie narrowed his eyes. "Who's that dude hitting on Cherry?"Twisting around, he forgot all about harassing his friend—which had probably been Armie's intent. But damn, he hadn't lied. Denver watched Cherry laughingly refuse an insistent guy bent on gaining her cooperation. The slow, thrumming music would have meant a different type of dance and Denver let out a breath when she didn't give in.Seeing her body to body with another man, this time someone he didn't know, would have made him nuts.Stack sat to one side of her, also watching the idiot who refused to take no for an answer.To her other side, Miles started to frown.Suddenly Cherry pushed back her chair and an ugly tension sank into Denver's chest—until she grabbed up her purse and made a hasty getaway toward the restrooms.When the idiot started to follow, Miles blocked his way while Stack spoke close to his ear. Whatever he said made loverboy frown and search the bar.It wasn't until his gaze clashed with Denver's that he gave up and stalked away—in the opposite direction that Cherry had gone.Smiles quirking, Stack and Miles both saluted Denver, then went back to their table and the other women there.He was wondering what Stack had said when Armie shoved him, and Denver almost dropped off his seat. Righting himself, he muttered, "What the fuck?" and shoved Armie back. But since Armie wasn't daydreaming as Denver had been, he barely budged.Snickering, Armie shook his head. "Damn man, get it together or go after her.""No need. Stack got rid of him.""Yeah," Armie said, his tone mocking. "Stack handled it."Sarcasm? "What's that supposed to mean?""We both know Stack just threatened that poor bozo with you.""Me?""Yeah, Predator, you." After emphasizing Denver's fight name, Armie sipped at his third drink. "You have a nasty death stare and you know it. That chump probably felt your evil intent all the way down to his balls.""You are so—" Just then, Denver spotted Havoc scanning the crowd before a group of fans stopped him. "Think he's looking for you?"Armie slunk lower in his seat. "No.""You are so hopeless.""Know what's hopeless? This denial you have where Cherry Peyton is concerned. Give it up already."Denver glared at him. Why the hell did everyone want to butt into his private business? "Why don't you at least talk to the SBC? Maybe—""Why don't you talk to Cherry?" He tossed back his shot and asked for another. "Better yet, don't talk. Take her straight to bed and work off some tension."Armie fought hard, played hard, but usually didn't drink hard. Denver eyed him. "This isn't about Cherry and me.""It's about you trying to avoid talking about you and Cherry." He grabbed a handful of peanuts while waiting for the next drink.Disgusted, Denver said, "Are you going to turn around everything I say?""Know what I'd like to turn around?" Armie nodded at someone. "That."When Denver looked up he saw a stacked redhead coming their way. Lips pursed, eyes big, expression coy.Definitely on the make."She looks ripe to ride doggy style, doncha think?"At times Armie's brazen outspokenness bordered on obnoxious. Often, actually. But in this instance, with that girl's hips, Denver totally got his meaning and even had to grin in agreement.Seeing their humor, the lady narrowed her coal-lined eyes.Thank God it was Armie she'd zeroed in on. "You know her?" Denver asked."Nope. But give me a minute."The redhead stopped in front of Armie and touched a finger to his chest. "You're Armie Jacobson.""Guilty.""So are the rumors true?""Sure."Denver stifled a laugh; Armie hadn't even asked her what rumors she meant. But when it came to Armie, just about anything was possible.Bracing her hands on his thighs, she leaned in more, making sure to put her cleavage on display. "I watched you fight.""Yeah?""You're a beast." With a little shiver, she added, "I think that's sexy." Armie smiled.Denver lifted an eyebrow. He felt like a damn voyeur, but he wasn't about to budge. This was too entertaining."So…" Pretending modesty, she ducked her face while still watching him. "Was it…naughty of me to confront you like this?"Armie stared her in the eyes while murmuring, "Real naughty. And you know what I do with naughty girls?""You…you punish them?"Denver almost choked, yet Armie didn't miss a beat."That's right." Armie's smile had the woman ready to swoon, especially when he added, "Even if they're really, really good."On an indrawn breath she straightened, all but vibrating with excitement."You got a room anywhere close, honey?"Breathless, face flushed and one hand splayed over her upper chest, she whispered, "Right across the street." Read more

Against the Sky (The Brodies of Alaska)

About the Author Kat Martin is the New York Times bestselling author of over 60 books across multiple genres. Fifteen million copies are in print and she has been published in 21 foreign countries, including Japan, France, Argentina, Greece, China, and Spain. Her books have been nominated for the prestigious RITA award and won both the Lifetime Achievement and Reviewer’s Choice Awards from RT Book Reviews . Visit Kat at her website, www.katbooks.com.

On the Run (Sugarland Blue Novel)

Review Praise for the Sugarland Blue novels: "With her descriptive storytelling and sharp banter, Davis's way with words will keep the reader hooked."— RT Book Reviews "Scorching hot."— Publishers Weekly "Romance suspense at its best...A wonderful series that has it all."—The Reading Cafe"If you like romance, action, and mysteries, then you will love this book."—Once Upon a Twilight"Jo writes stories that keep you hooked until the very last page and clamoring for the next book to release."—Book Monster Reviews"A smart, sexy, and fast-paced read."—Fresh Fiction“Amazing story and I loved every bit of it. Four and a half stars!” -- Night Owl Reviews Reviewer Top Pick About the Author Jo Davis is the author of the Sugarland Blue novels, including In His Sights , Sworn to Protect and Hot Pursuit , the popular Firefighters of Station Five series, including Ride the Fire , Line of Fire , and Hidden Fire , and the dark, sexy paranormal Alpha Pack series written as J.D. Tyler. She has also been a multiple finalist in the Colorado Romance Writers Award of Excellence, a finalist for the Bookseller's Best Award, has captured the HOLT Medallion Award of Merit, and has been a two-time nominee for the Australian Romance Readers Award in romantic suspense. She’s had one book optioned for a major motion picture. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. PRAISE FOR THE SURGARLAND BLUE NOVELS ALSO BY JO DAVIS SIGNET ECLIPSE Prologue The stench reached his consciousness first. Then the pain. All-over, racking agony that proved he wasn’t dead yet, though he didn’t have a clue how that could be. Awareness of being trapped came next. Buried. But not in the dirt. As he tried to move, various items surrounding him shifted and rolled away. With his fingertips he felt . . . cans. Paper. Slime. Old food? Cold knowledge gripped him, turned his blood to ice. After the bastards finished with me, they threw me in the garbage. Literally . Move, Salvatore. Move or you’re dead. Using his hand, he sought the air. Pushed and clawed, twisting his body in the stinking refuse. The weight on top of him was heavy but not crushing. They’d meant to hide his body, completely confident he wouldn’t wake, or make it out even if he did. He tried not to think they might be right. At last, fresh air. But as he broke through the pile, the heap sloped downward sharply and he was tumbling sideways. For several feet he fell, jabbed and poked by sharp edges until he landed in the dirt at the bottom, the wind knocked out of him. Breathing was almost impossible, his lungs burning. He was hurt inside, and out. His eyes opened to slits, and he tried to peer into the darkness. All he could make out was a sea of garbage. No moon or stars. Worse, little hope. They’d thrown him into the dump miles outside the city, where nobody in their right mind would venture. Don’t give up. Drawing his legs under him, he pushed upward. His legs were like rubber, his strength almost nonexistent. He made it halfway to a standing position before crashing back to the ground with a hoarse cry. God, the pain. His entire body felt hot and cold by turns, and swollen like a balloon. Any second, he would split and spill onto the ground like the plastic bags all around him vomiting their guts. His skin and clothing were wet, too, from head to toe. He knew it wasn’t all from the slime of the trash. Shaking, Tonio crawled forward on his belly, inch by inch. Time lost meaning. An hour or three might have passed, though he didn’t think it had been so long—he would already be dead. Wetness ran down his forehead, down the bridge of his nose. Gradually he grew cold. So cold he knew he’d never get warm again. What was he doing? Too much blood loss. Confusion. He tried to remember, couldn’t. Knew that was the beginning of the end. Anthony. I’m Anthony Salvatore, and I’m a cop. Have to get out of here, get help. Let them know—what? Her name whispered through his mind like a promise. Or a nightmare. He didn’t know which, and now he might never. Angel. Have to let Chris, somebody, know about Angel. Because if I fail . . . Brother or not, Rab would kill her. He would show her no mercy, and she would end up here, in a grave next to Tonio. He couldn’t let that happen. “Angel.” Her name was on his lips, her beautiful face in his mind and the memory of her warm, supple body close to his heart when his strength finally deserted him. He’d wanted years to learn her secrets, her joys, and had been granted only weeks. It would have to be enough. “Be smart, baby,” he rasped. “Stay safe.” Against his will, his eyes drifted shut. And Tonio surrendered to the darkness. 1 Five weeks earlier Detective Tonio Salvatore leaned against the bar in one of his favorite dives where the regulars only knew him by his first name, and sipped his whiskey, neat. They didn’t know what he did for a living, either, and nobody ever asked. He figured that, if anything, they had him pegged for a dangerous thug of some sort, maybe into drugs or fencing stolen goods like three-quarters of the guys there. Dressed as he always was when he came here, in leathers, a tight black Metallica T-shirt, heavy boots, a five o’clock shadow on his jaw and a bandanna around his short raven hair, it was a reasonable assumption. It didn’t hurt that he was six-four and muscular, and looked mean even though he wasn’t unless he had to be. Stroker’s was a rough place with an even rougher clientele, but it suited him despite his job—or maybe because of it. It was the perfect place to keep his finger on the pulse of Cheatham County’s criminal activity without risking being seen and recognized in his nearby city of Sugarland, Tennessee. He wasn’t here in any official capacity, though. He just wanted to relax, incognito. And maybe see some action that involved the weapon in the front of his leathers and not the one strapped to his ankle. Taking another sip of his Dewar’s, he savored the smooth flavor and recalled the sweet little piece of work from last weekend. The blonde, what was her name? Trish? Tess? Didn’t matter. She’d been all over him from the minute she spied him at the bar, and it hadn’t taken her long to maneuver her way between his legs as he sat on the stool, then proceed to check his tonsils with her tongue. His cock stirred as he remembered giving her a ride on his Harley to the motel down the road, his go-to for the one-night stands that provided him and his chosen partners with relief. No way was he taking any of them home. He wasn’t stupid. The blonde had hugged him tightly from behind, pressed her breasts against his back, her hot crotch against his ass, and he’d nearly wrecked trying to get them to the motel. Inside, they’d been naked in seconds and he’d been eating her out, enjoying the moaning and breathy little whimpers coming from her throat. She’d dug her fingers into his short hair and held on for the ride as he’d thrown her onto the bed, slid his cock deep, and fucked her so hard the headboard had cracked the plaster on the wall. Looking around, he hoped she’d be back tonight. “Another round?” the bartender asked. The guy’s name was Rick, and he was as tough as anyone here. Had to be to work in a place like this. Tonio knew for a fact that the man kept a baseball bat behind the counter, and wouldn’t hesitate to use it. “Sure,” he answered. Fuck it, he was off duty tonight. Always made sure he never drank when he was on call, either, and he wasn’t tonight. “Comin’ up.” His night improved when the little blonde with the perky bust and tight jeans strolled through the front door. He turned back to his drink, making sure not to clue her in that he’d noticed her arrival. As he thought it might, pretty soon a warm body sidled close to him, and a woman’s voice whispered in his ear, “Fancy meeting you here, Tonio.” Small teeth nibbled at his ear lobe. “Buy a girl a drink?” “You bet.” Damn, what was her name? “Hey, Tess,” Rick said in greeting. “What’s your poison tonight, baby girl?” Settling on the stood beside Tonio, she brought a long, manicured nail to her lips in thought. Then she grinned. “How about a Screaming Orgasm?” Rick snorted, then smirked at Tonio. “Don’t think you need me for that one, but whatever the lady wants.” While Rick mixed her drink, she swiveled to face Tonio. Leaning over enticingly, she showed every bit of the rosy nipples on display under her plunging blouse and eyed him like a cat ready to pounce on a mouse. They both knew she wouldn’t have to work real hard to catch him. “Watcha been up to, sexy?” she asked. He shrugged. “Not much. Messing with my bike, doing a little business to keep a roof over my head. The usual.” All true, even if he’d just strengthened her perception of him as a criminal. Why he was playing this game, he wasn’t sure. But they were both enjoying it, so what was the harm? He might learn something interesting. “What do you do to keep that roof over your head, hmm?” She grabbed the drink Rick slid over, and took a healthy swallow. He’d stepped into this willingly. But there was no question he had to develop a cover now. Besides Tess, Rick and a couple of other men were very interested in his answer and trying to pretend they weren’t. Who knew, he might luck onto a case that would lead somewhere, eventually to arrests for drugs or something else. Sure, his captain would have his balls for going out on his own, but if it led to something big, he’d forgive Tonio just as fast. “I acquire things,” he heard himself say. “For those who want them.” She arched an eyebrow. “What kinds of things?” “Whatever you want, for a fee.” “Anything?” “Pretty much.” Tess wasn’t fazed. “Good to know. I might be persuaded to pass that along.” “Up to you.” Pulse kicking up a notch, he tossed back the rest of his drink, letting his demeanor say he didn’t give a shit whether she did or not. But he’d gotten a nibble that might lead to something bigger, and the game was on. The high was better than any drug. Almost better than sex. But not quite. After taking another drink, she slid a hand up the thigh of his leathers and brushed her fingers across his tightened crotch. “I can provide something you want, too.” His dick was throbbing in his pants. Hot. “Yeah?” “Oh yeah.” Leaning into his chest, she took his mouth and tangled her tongue with his. Her nipples grazed his chest and peaked to tiny eraser points, rubbing. Driving him crazy. “Want to get out of here?” he asked between heated kisses. “Sounds like a great idea,” a woman’s voice said. And it wasn’t Tess’s. Tonio and his hookup turned toward the woman who’d stalked up to them without either of them noticing—and Tonio’s breath caught. The woman was several inches below Tonio’s height, perhaps five-nine, long-limbed, with a killer body that looked like she’d just stepped from the pages of a skin magazine. Long dark hair fell past her shoulders, almost all the way to her waist. Her eyes were large and green and her nose was a sharp blade above a lush mouth made for sucking cock. Full, ripe breasts pushed at the snug cotton shirt that had been cut with scissors or a knife to make the low V-neck, and made sleeveless as well. She wore tight jeans and black ankle boots with silver conchos studded around them. Encircling her right upper arm was a surprisingly feminine Celtic tattoo. His mouth watered. The look that would have come across as tacky on anyone else was stunning on her. Definitely centerfold material. “What the fuck do you want, Angel?” Tess was clearly less than pleased with the other woman’s presence. “Are you really that stupid?” Angel stared at her, then shook her head. “You know this is Rab’s territory. He’s not going to be happy to find you here again, and he’s not taking you back.” What? Stuck in the middle of Tess trying to make another man jealous? Fuck. “You think I give a shit what that asshole brother of yours thinks or what makes him happy? Maybe it’s you who doesn’t want me here,” Tess said smugly. “He hasn’t said a thing to me.” “I happen to know that’s because he hasn’t seen you.” Angel sighed. “Look, I’m telling you this for your own good. He—crap, too late. Here he comes now.” Angel really did look worried, Tonio had to admit. When Tess glanced toward the door, she did, too. Who was this Rab guy who had the women so nervous? Tonio followed their gazes and cursed inwardly. The man who held their attention was a frigging tank, maybe even an inch or so taller than Tonio himself. He was about thirty, bald, and wore his tats proudly as sleeves down both thick arms. Several pendants bounced against his broad chest, and he wore jeans that emphasized his muscular thighs. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on his frame. Rab headed straight for their group, a steely expression on his face. Tonio slid from his stool and planted himself slightly in front of the women on pure instinct; this wasn’t even his fight, for God’s sake, and he wanted no part of their argument. “Bitch,” the man growled, throwing his sister the barest glance before focusing on Tess. “What the hell are you doing here?” Tonio’s back went up. He absolutely hated any man who addressed a woman as bitch . Only bottom feeders resorted to that kind of talk to make themselves seem like bigger men. “What do you think?” she purred slyly. Curling into Tonio’s side, she wrapped an arm around his waist. “I’m here for a drink, same as you. A little company, too. No harm in that.” “There is when you know goddamn well I don’t want to see your face.” His eyes were dark and cold, like black marbles. He hadn’t acknowledged Tonio at all. “Fine,” she said airily. “I guess I won’t introduce you to my friend Tonio here, who has a special talent.” That icy gaze settled on Tonio for the first time, and inwardly he actually shuddered. That didn’t happen often. There weren’t many people who scared him, but there was something about this man he perceived as dangerous. Even deadly. Maybe it was because he was too still, too calm. As though watching and calculating. “What talent might that be?” Rab drawled, checking him out from head to toe, his disdain clear. “Acquisitions,” Tess said pointedly. And here we go . That caught the other man’s interest. “What’s your specialty?” “Don’t have one. Someone wants something, I get it.” That was taking a risk, not specializing. It might sound too close to fishing on Tonio’s part. Too suspect. Rab studied him for a long moment. Tonio held his gaze, not backing down. Never, ever volunteer more than you’re asked. That’s the first rule of being undercover . Eventually the other man spoke again. “You got a last name?” “Reyes,” he lied. “You got a number?” Shit. He couldn’t give out his real cell phone number—he’d have to get a burner, fast. And have an unpleasant conversation with Rainey first thing tomorrow. He was onto something here, he could feel it. The room had hushed, every single person there tense. Belatedly, Tonio noted the men, all dressed in similar fashion, who’d risen to their feet and moved subtly behind Rab. None of them appeared to be the stereotypical bumbling backwoods yokels. They looked tough, and serious. He’d bet most of them had done hard time. This man was no small-time player. “I’m around,” was his only reply. Several men flexed their fists. Looked to Rab, who held them off with a slight flick of a hand. Jesus . He’d escaped getting the mother-fuck beat out of him by the skin of his teeth, and all he’d wanted was a cold drink and a hot woman. In that order. “I expect you will be,” Rab said, his warning unmistakable. “Same time tomorrow night. Here. We’ll talk.” Dismissing Tonio, the man strode away, taking up residence at a table in a corner of the bar. The only vacant table in the place, which must be reserved for him. Angel stepped closer to Tonio and tilted her head toward the corner. “You’ve got his attention,” she said, sounding less than pleased. And still concerned. “I hope you know what the hell you let in when you opened that door.” “Interesting way to talk about your own brother.” A second of unease flickered in her jade eyes. She glanced around, and apparently decided Rab’s men were no longer listening. “My advice? Don’t come back. Ignore it at your own risk, and my conscience is clear.” “Noted.” Angel, warning him off. He was even more intrigued than before—and he knew he’d be back. Angel turned her attention to Tess. “And you? Don’t let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya.” “Fuck off, Angel.” Angel glanced between them, a smile curving her lips. Without another word, she turned and walked away, joining a couple of women at a different table. Girlfriends of two of Rab’s men, maybe. She didn’t look Tonio’s way again. “Come on,” Tess urged, voice irritated. “Let’s go.” Taking her hand, Tonio led her outside to his motorcycle. His mind kept going back to the mysterious woman, Angel. Sister of the man he might be working undercover against, in order to expose any number of crimes. Certainly off-limits. And yet— No. There was no use going there. Against his back, the little blonde was warm and willing. His libido resurfaced with a vengeance and his cock woke once more. By the time he parked outside the motel, he was so damn hard he could hardly walk. He needed relief, and Tess was pretty. Great in bed, too. After obtaining his key, he dragged her inside and stripped off her top. Her breasts weren’t that full, but they were creamy, the tight peaks pink and lickable. She was a bit skinny, but that hardly mattered as he watched her slip off her jeans and get naked. He stripped off his shirt and she attacked his belt with fervor, unzipping it to expose his aching erection. His shaft throbbed, almost deep purple with want. Then she sucked him into her mouth and began to work him over, and he went up in flames. “ Dios , yes,” he hissed. “Like that. Suck me.” She did, as enthusiastic about it as she was last week. He watched his dick slide between her lips, wet and shiny, and couldn’t help imagining a different woman doing him. One with long dark hair and plump lips. Groaning, he picked up the pace. When he was near the edge, he gently disengaged, chuckling at his lover’s whimper of displeasure. Quickly he removed his boots, finished stripping his pants, retrieved a condom from his wallet, and gloved up. “How do you want it, honey?” he asked, moving in close. He took her mouth in a heated kiss. “Eat me, then fuck the shit out of me,” she demanded breathlessly. “Not a problem.” He winked, liking her giggle. Tess was rough around the edges, and knew some dangerous people. She was dangerous to him because of the company she kept. But she was cute, and in some ways, maybe more naive than one might guess. “Kneel by the bed and lean over the mattress,” he ordered. She hurried to do as he said, and spread her legs wide. Crouching behind her on the carpet, he bent and spread her with his fingers. Then he gave her slit a slow lick, laughing when she squirmed, pushing back, wanting more. He wasn’t a selfish lover. It was important to him that a woman enjoy herself to the fullest, and he set about making sure Tess was satisfied as well as himself. He lapped at her, tasting her essence and loving every second. “Delicious,” he murmured. She gasped. “Shit. Tonio . . .” “Need my cock, honey?” “Yes!” “Say it. Tell me what you want.” He loved to hear the words. “Fuck me,” she breathed. “Please.” Needing no further encouragement, he lined up with her entrance and pushed inside. Her sheath was so hot and tight around him, he almost came like a sixteen-year-old on the first stroke. Holding deep, he calmed the fires a bit, and then began to pump. “Dios, bonita,” he muttered. “Such a sweet pussy.” Her reply was incoherent, just the way he liked. He fucked her slow and deep, at first. Gradually he picked up speed and soon he was shafting her hard. Her trills of pleasure echoed throughout the small room, driving him over the edge. His orgasm exploded and he emptied his release into the condom, filling it. She came down with him, channel spasming pleasantly around his cock. He fucked her a few more times to wring out every last bit of ecstasy for them both, then pulled out gently. After helping her up and onto the bed, he went to the bathroom and tossed the condom, then cleaned up. Then he took her a warm cloth, waiting as she used it, and tossed it into the bathroom. He reached for his shirt, fully intending to leave. “Can’t we have another round?” He studied her, lying on the bed, naked. Inviting. Straight blond hair fell attractively around her face, and she pouted. “Sure, what the hell?” Abandoning his shirt, he climbed into bed and under the covers. And he wondered if this was the first of a very long list of mistakes he was going to make in the imminent future. A short time later, he woke in the night with his hard cock rubbing the curve of her ass. With a groan, he reached between them, fingering her slit from behind. After that, there wasn’t much thinking involved at all. *   *   * “You fucking did what ?” The shouted question froze every single person in the main station outside the conference room more effectively than a blast from a Taser. Captain Austin Rainey looked about two seconds from blowing a blood vessel in his brain as he slammed the door, cutting off the curious stares from the main squad room. “I’ve got a hunch, Cap,” Tonio insisted in his own defense. “This Rab character, he’s looking to take on somebody with acquisition skills. And trust me, these guys aren’t buying antiques or fine art. If they’re into anything legal, I’ll eat my badge.” “You might do that anyway when I shove it down your throat,” Austin snapped. Tonio’s partner on the force, Chris Ford, shot him a look that said I told you so . Tonio ignored him. “Cap, I’m telling you, this group is dirty. They’re—” “I know .” Tonio hesitated. “What do you mean, you know?” “Just what I said, shithead.” Austin swiped a hand down his face and glared at him. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” “Uh-oh,” Chris murmured. Dread seized Tonio’s gut. “No. But I’m sure you’ll enlighten me.” “You’ve just stepped on an ongoing investigation into Robert ‘Rab’ Silva and his merry band of thieves, drug runners, and killers,” Austin said pointedly. “By the City of Langdon PD.” Tonio processed that, heart sinking. He’d seriously fucked up. “They’re outside Langdon’s city limits! How was I supposed to know?” “Oh, let me see? Maybe ask first? They’re outside our city limits, too, but it just so happens they’ve been wanting to take these guys down for a while. You just landed in the shit, and now I’ve got to fix it.” “I’m sorry, Austin,” he said quietly, meaning it. “I just felt I’d stumbled onto something and my instinct kicked in.” “Which creates the question—what the fuck are you doing hanging out in that dump, anyway?” Tonio shrugged. His reasoning seemed so stupid now. “I like going somewhere nobody knows me, fitting in with the crowd. Maybe even learning tidbits we can use. I’ve done that before, when I was with the San Antonio PD. Sometimes it pans out.” “Okay, let me think.” Austin was silent for a moment. “This might work to our advantage. Maybe Langdon could use a man on the inside, something they haven’t been able to make happen. Could be they’ll turn over the case altogether.” Austin left the room without dismissing them, so they waited. In the meantime, Chris gave him shit. “Smooth move, Ex-Lax,” he said, snickering. “Man, shut up. I’m not in the mood.” “You, like, never fuck up. But when you do, you really go for it.” “Chris,” he started, getting pissed. “Hey,” his friend said, holding up a hand. “I’ve got your back, no matter what. You know that.” His partner was so sincere Tonio’s anger evaporated. “Thanks.” About twenty minutes later, Austin walked back into the room and shut the door. “The chief at Langdon is seriously fucking pissed. But they let us take it, since they haven’t been able to get an in with the group.” “Yeah?” Tonio said, brightening. “Yep. Time will tell how lucky a break it was.” He studied Tonio thoughtfully. “Tell me exactly how this meeting came about. Leave nothing out.” So he spared no detail. He wasn’t embarrassed about hooking up with a woman. Hell, he was human. And it wasn’t like he’d intended to fuck the gang leader’s ex—it just happened that way. “He doesn’t think much of women, either,” Tonio mused. “Going by the way he talks to them.” “Speaking of women, you still seeing this woman, Tess?” Tonio shrugged. “Hadn’t planned on it, especially. Why?” One look at the captain’s face, and Chris’s, and he knew where this was going. “Oh, no way. Fuck that, I’m not getting involved long-term with someone.” “You said yourself she’s the way in,” Chris pointed out. “She knows the group, and more important, Rab.” “Yeah, and he could kill me for touching her, even though they’ve broken up.” “Did he seem like it was a problem?” Austin asked. “Well, no,” Tonio admitted. “But—” Austin snorted. “But nothing. You started this, and now you’ve got to keep your cover. Dumping her too soon will set off alarm bells we don’t want clanging, you got that?” “Yes, sir.” Shit and fuck! “Good. Besides, you can have your cake and eat it, too, in this case. Just don’t blow this.” Resignation settled over him. With acceptance of the situation, excitement about bringing down a big player began to fire his blood. “Should I start tonight?” “Might as well, if you’re ready.” “I am, Cap.” “Good. Chris, you’ll have his back. Monitor behind the scenes, keep your partner safe.” “I will, Cap.” “Okay. Get going and report in once a day to me and Chris, nobody else.” Austin left, and Tonio blew out a breath. And just like that, he was undercover working for one of the most dangerous men in the entire state, with an unwanted girlfriend in his bed. Tonio went to sleep that night, and dreamed of a woman with a Celtic tattoo and jade green eyes. 2 Angel paused in her work, leaned the handle of the mop against the bar, and wiped the sweat from her eyes. God, how she wished she could afford a regular cleaning service. But that sort of luxury would have to wait, like everything else on her wish lists of one day and maybe . Glancing around, she tamped down a surge of irritation that Andy, her head bartender, had booked out last night after closing, leaving her to take care of it. She released a sigh, knowing she couldn’t blame him. Rab and his posse had hung around long after she locked the doors last night, something that was becoming an unwanted habit. Andy was terrified of the gang, but Rab most of all. And he should be. Eight months ago, her brother had been paroled. She hadn’t known he was out until forty-eight hours later, when he’d shown up on her doorstep begging for a place to crash. “Just until I get on my feet, sis. I’m a changed man, I swear.” For all the mistakes he’d made, he was family. The only family she had left, except their mother, whom she didn’t talk to much. Less than two weeks after she allowed him to cross her threshold, his buddies had arrived—the ones that weren’t still locked up. That had been the beginning of the end of her hard-won freedom from their parents’ legacy. She saw the past repeating itself now, in her brother. Rab hadn’t been lying. He was a changed man—changed for the worse. All their lives, he’d been a first-class fuckup. An apple right off Dad’s felonious tree, and their mother had been too afraid to stand up to either of them. Rab’s slide into delinquency had started when they were kids, with petty shit like pinching candy from the grocery store. He was the kind of kid who liked hurting small animals, too. Just for laughs. By the time they were in high school, he’d graduated to stealing cars for the hell of it. Then on to selling them. That proved to be so profitable he and his buddies branched out into other goods Angel didn’t want to know about. But the cops got wind, and eventually busted them. Rab went to prison, as hardened and cynical as a man three times his age. If she’d held out a shred of hope that his time inside had resulted in a productive, law-abiding citizen, that prayer had been smashed to bits the instant Rab and his dogs made themselves a fixture in her bar and in her life. They harassed and terrified her employees, drove out the good customers, and attracted birds of a feather. Like that new guy, Tonio. Their presence was becoming a big problem, because the stakes for her brother getting caught this time were much higher—Angel could lose her business. Her freedom. Worst-case scenario, her life. She had to get rid of them. But how? Rab kept her in the dark about the dirty details of his dealings. The couple of times she’d tried to press him for answers, he’d told her in that cool, dangerous voice to mind her own fucking business and she’d be a lot happier. So she had nothing solid to tell the cops, even if she dared. And getting help from the outside? She had no idea whom she could trust. Even cops could be dirty. Not that she knew of any on Rab’s payroll, but still. The scuff of heavy boots on the concrete floor jerked her to the present, and she looked toward the door to see the object of her fears and frustrations bearing down on her. Straightening, she raised her chin and looked Rab dead in the eye. Never give him an inch. Never cower. “You’re up early,” she said, her tone direct. Unwavering. More often than not, it was the best way to handle him. “Did the world explode? Is the sky falling?” He blinked at her, then barked a laugh, the sound rusty. He wasn’t a man who made that noise often. “You think you’re funny, dontcha? Get me a beer.” With that, he sat his ass on a barstool and gazed at her expectantly. She snorted. “Get it yourself. Anyway, what about your drug testing? Fail that, and you’re going back inside.” Is it terrible of me to think that wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen? “Not gonna happen,” he drawled, sliding off the stool. Walking around behind the bar, he grabbed a glass and drew a beer from the tap. “I’ve told you before, it’s all about timing. I’ll be clean when the next test rolls around.” “If your timing was so impeccable, you wouldn’t have been caught and put in prison in the first place.” He stilled and set the glass on the polished counter, eyes narrowing. For a couple of seconds, she thought she’d gone too far, but then his lips turned up. “My sister’s got solid brass balls. I’ve always admired that.” “Thanks. I think.” Rolling her eyes, she headed for the back to put away the mop and bucket. “Hey, it’s a compliment,” he called after her. After putting away the cleaning items, she leaned against the wall with a sigh. Rab was in an unusually good mood, but it wouldn’t last. Never did. The man was a ticking bomb, waiting silently for his moment to detonate. Resigning herself to his presence, she walked back into the main area and busied herself behind the bar. Aware of him studying her, she did her best to ignore him until she couldn’t stand the quiet any longer. “What does bring you by before noon?” she asked, checking the liquor stock. “Got a meeting with the new recruit. Tonio.” “Now?” “Soon.” She frowned. “I thought that wasn’t until tonight.” “I moved it up.” He took a sip of his beer. “How’d you get hold of him?” “He called, left his number with Andy. Anyways, it’s good to keep the men off guard. Plus, I want to feel him out when there’s not a crowd distracting me.” “If you decide to take him on, what’ll you have him doing?” She pretended not to be overly interested in his answer, but he still didn’t bite. “Not your concern,” he said sharply. “You writing a book or something? You’re always asking questions about my business.” She glared at him. “That’s because you’re conducting your illegal business in my place of business, and you could get me shut down. Not to mention all of us thrown in the joint. Then where would we be?” “Relax. Nobody’s going to blame you, especially if you don’t know a thing. So stop asking and you’ll be better off. I’d hate to have to make you.” He winked. Is he serious? Would he actually harm me? Forcing herself to remain calm, she tidied the glasses. “So, what about Tess? She’s fucking the new guy, you know.” “So? I don’t give a shit what that dumb bitch is doing, or who.” But his words had taken on a dangerous edge, belying the truth of them. There was something in his eyes, a nasty gleam she didn’t like. “She stays away from me, we’ll be fine.” “And you don’t care that your new man is with her?” “She’s not a problem, for now. She becomes one, I’ll deal with her. And I’ll make sure Tonio understands this, too.” How will you do that? Rab had never killed anyone—that she knew of. Angel forced herself not to shiver. The door opened, and more footsteps sounded at the entrance. Angel swung her gaze toward the newcomer—and her breath caught in her throat, same as it had last night. Tonio was a big man. All over. Well over six feet of pure muscle, a lot of which was emphasized by his snug black T-shirt. One with white letters spelling SLIPKNOT across his chest, and straining with the job. His torso was flat, and she could see the hint of a six-pack. Long legs were encased in worn jeans with a hole ripped out of one knee, and he wore black shit kickers on his large feet. God, what she could see of his body was a dream, and she wondered what he looked like naked. The very best of his features, however, were his sexy face and short black hair. Neat eyebrows arched over brown eyes so dark they almost blended in with his pupils. His nose was straight, not too big. His mouth was full and wide, his jaw strong and attractively peppered with stubble. He wore no bandanna today, leaving his hair free to feather back from his face. He was the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen. And he was taken. As he approached, his gaze flicked to Angel. Before he returned his attention to Rab, she could’ve sworn his eyes had warmed with male appreciation. If so, he quickly and wisely masked it. “Rab,” he said, holding out his hand. Her brother hesitated before he shook it, and then Tonio gestured to Angel. “I don’t think we got a proper introduction last night.” Rab nodded and spoke in a clipped tone. “This is my sister, Angel. Angel, Tonio Reyes.” “Nice to meet you,” she said. Belatedly, it occurred to her just how ironic those words were, coming from her mouth. When had it ever been nice to meet any of Rab’s thugs? Hadn’t she just despaired over how to get rid of them? “You, too.” Again, there was a flash of heat in his gaze. She hadn’t imagined it, then. Before she could come up with anything more to say, her brother steered the man away, into his usual booth in the corner. As she worked, she kept one ear open, but could only hear the faint murmur of their voices. An occasional word reached her, but no specifics. Since there was no way of getting closer without pissing Rab off, she eventually gave up and took refuge in her small office in the back. Perhaps she could lose herself in making the accounts balance. Anything to forget about salivating over the gorgeous man with the big dark fuck-me eyes. *   *   * Tonio was painfully aware of Angel moving around the bar and dining room. Every step she took, that tight round butt swaying in her jeans. A certain part of him took notice, and he hoped the table concealed his interest. She wore her long dark hair loose again, and the strands brushed over the Celtic tattoo on her arm. To an unpracticed eye, she appeared busy. But he’d gained enough experience over the years in watching people, observing body language, to know that she was tense. And aware of his gaze tracking her every move. She wasn’t unaffected. With an effort, he forced his attention to Rab, who was eyeing him, expression stony. “So, tell me, what can I do for you?” Rab paused. “First, keep your eyes off my sister.” “She’s a beautiful woman,” Tonio replied with a shrug. “I’m not blind.” “The last man who messed with her walks with a cane and is adjusting to life without his spleen.” A cold, glittering gaze let Tonio know he wasn’t joking. “I’m with Tess, remember?” “That slut’s not the kind a guy stays with forever. Especially with a woman like Angel around to tempt him.” Tonio bristled a bit. True, the two women were completely different, but that didn’t make Tess a bad person. “Did I come here to discuss business or are you going to waste my time?” After a moment, Rab sat back in his chair and regarded him thoughtfully. “You said you acquire things but don’t specialize. Give me some examples.” “I fill special orders. Cars, weapons, you name it. I get the merchandise from wherever it’s located and deliver it to the buyer. Sometimes the stuff is boxed or crated and I don’t know what’s inside, but that’s rare. I get paid either way, so I don’t give a shit.” “You don’t know what you’re taking? How does that work?” “Occasionally I’m a middleman. Somebody wants merchandise taken from one place, such as a warehouse, and delivered somewhere else. I just grab the goods. I don’t care what it is.” “But most of the time you’re the acquisitions guy?” “Yeah. I prefer it that way, knowing what I’m after and what the risk is.” “So you specialize in cars. Weapons. What else?” “I’ve run some weed. Coke. Even a few stolen paintings once.” Settling into his role, he gave a laugh. “Don’t care for art myself, but whatever. Money’s green no matter what the load.” Rab nodded. “Anything you won’t do?” Tonio weighed his next words carefully. “Two things. First, I won’t take on human cargo. No trafficking illegals. That’s some sick shit, man. I mean, stuff is just stuff , like the art. But people? Forget it.” The other man took a draw of his beer. Set it down. “I don’t deal in selling people. Too messy, and I like my green to flow from less complicated sources. Besides, I like to play with my toys so much I sometimes break them. It’s how I decompress.” Tonio paused. “Whaddya mean? Break them, how?” “Never mind that for now. What’s the second thing?” Cristo , what else was this crazy bastard into? Tonio let it go for the time being—but he would definitely keep in mind what the man had said. “I’m not a hit man. You got that kind of issue, I’m not the guy you call. I’m in acquisitions and delivery.” Another calculated risk, but Rab didn’t seem bothered. “But I’m willing to bet you’re armed, even now.” “I’m carrying,” he confirmed. No reason to lie about that. “I’d be stupid not to protect myself if necessary, but I don’t go around offing people for thrills.” One corner of Rab’s mouth kicked up. “Me, neither. Hard as it might be to believe, I don’t start that kind of trouble. But I don’t mind finishing it, if I’m forced to.” “Good to know.” “I’m a businessman, like you. My goal is making money, the fastest, easiest ways possible. And socking it all away for a rainy day, like when the government finally falls completely fucking apart and takes the banks down with it.” Sadly, Tonio couldn’t totally disagree with that viewpoint. Just Rab’s methods. “Hell to the fuckin’ yeah,” he said. Apparently that response pleased his new boss . Rab drained the rest of his beer, then said, “You get ten percent of the haul.” “When I take most of the risk?” He snorted. “Twenty.” “You’re dreamin’, man. No way. We all take risks.” “I didn’t set up this meeting, you did,” Tonio pointed out, tapping the table with one finger. “You’re looking for someone to take the heat off. An acquisitions man who knows what he’s doing, and that’s me. I think you’ve got something in mind or I wouldn’t be here right now.” Rab stared at him for a long moment. “Fifteen. I have a big job in mind, but I want to assign you a few trial runs first. See how things go.” “Sure. What do you have in mind?” “What types of vehicles do you have access to for hauling?” “Anything the job requires. Van, eighteen-wheeler, plane . . .” Or I will, as soon as the department loans them to me. One more expense for Austin to get cleared, and won’t he be happy? Shit. “Good. We’re gonna need a semi next Thursday night. I’ll give you the deets once I have them firmed up.” “No problem.” Just then his phone buzzed—the one he’d acquired for the undercover job. Tess . U busy 2nite? He had reservations about giving her the number, because it meant a personal tie he didn’t want. On the other hand, she’d given him an “in” and made his presence in the group seem legit. “Something important?” the other man asked casually. There was the hint of an edge in his tone, though. “Just Tess.” Pocketing the phone, he looked up. “Her hanging around, that going to be a problem? Your sister seemed to think so, last night.” Rab considered this for a few seconds. “Hadn’t been for you, I would’ve tossed her ass out. She can hang as long as she’s with you. But keep the bitch out of my face. Got it?” “Got it.” Asshole . He longed to punch the bastard in the mouth. How he kept the desire out of his expression was a mystery. Rab stood, signaling an end to their discussion. After giving Tonio a knuckle bump, he headed for the door. What Tonio really wanted to do was give him a knuckle bump in the face. “Gotta hit the men’s room. See you,” Tonio called. The other man gave a wave but didn’t look back. Read more

Wilde in Love: The Wildes of Lindow Castle

Review Another bright, delightful read from a queen of historical romance. -- "Kirkus Reviews (starred review) on Seven Minutes in Heaven" Another irresistible liaison of lushly sensual romance and deliciously wicked wit. -- "Booklist (starred review) on Seven Minutes in Heaven" Eloisa James' writing is absolutely exquisite. -- "Teresa Medeiros, New York Times bestselling author, on When Beauty Tamed the Beast" Expertly developed characters will draw readers in, and the cliffhanger conclusion is full of promise for future installments. -- "Publishers Weekly" If Shakespeare had written an 18th-century romantic comedy, it might look something like this novel. -- "Publishers Weekly on Desperate Duchesses" This first in James' new Georgian-set series...is full of her signature style: witty repartee between a sensual hero and a smart, unconventional heroine...A charming, romantic, and unexpectedly funny start to a very promising new series. A must for James fans and a sure bet for everyone else. -- "Kirkus Reviews (starred review)" This laugh-out-loud love story has heart and emotional depth that readers crave and pure romance that has us sighing. -- "RT Book Review (4 1/2 stars, Top Pick!)" Written with plenty of wry wit, graced with a brilliantly crafted cast of characters, and imbued with just the right amount of luscious sensuality, Wilde in Love will hit the literary sweet spot of any romance reader. -- "Booklist" --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. About the Author Eloisa James , a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, wrote her first novel after graduating from Harvard, but alas, it was rejected by every possible publisher. After she got an MPhil from Oxford, a PhD from Yale, and a job as a Shakespeare professor, she tried again, with much greater success. In 2013 she won a Rita Award for Best Romance Novella. She teaches Shakespeare in the English department at Fordham University in New York. She is the mother of two children and, in a particularly delicious irony for a romance writer, is married to a genuine Italian knight. Susan Duerden is an actress and an Earphones Award-winning audiobook narrator. Her reading of The Tiger's Wife by Tea Obreht earned her an AudioFile Best Voice Award and a Booklist Editors' Choice Award. She has won ten AudioFile Earphones Awards. Here career spans film, television, theater, voice-overs, and animation. She has played critically acclaimed and award-winning theatrical roles on London's West End and Off Broadway; acted in the features Lovewrecked and Flushed Away ; and held a recurring role on ABC's Lost . --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From the Back Cover Londres est en effervescence - du moins la gent féminine. Lord Alaric, grand explorateur et auteur prolifique de romans épiques, rentre au pays après bien des aventures. N'ayant pas la moindre idée du succès phénoménal rencontré par ses œuvres, il est le premier surpris d'être accueilli avec une telle ferveur, voire franchement agacé par l'adulation que lui vouent ces dames. À l'exception de Mlle Willa Ffynche, qui n'a que dédain pour sa célébrité et ses histoires rocambolesques. Et, bien sûr, il n'y a rien de plus excitant qu'une femme qui se dérobe... --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Read more

Duke of Sin (Maiden Lane, 10)

Review "4 1/2 Stars! Top Pick! Hoyt delivers a unique read on many levels: a love story, a tale of redemption and a plot teeming with emotional depth that takes readers' breaths away. Kudos to a master storyteller!"― RT Book Reviews "[T]his superbly executed historical romance is proof positive that this RITA Award-nominated author continues to write with undiminished force and flair. When it comes to incorporating a generous measure of dangerous intrigue and lush sensuality into a truly swoonworthy love story, Hoyt is unrivaled."― Booklist (starred review) on Dearest Rogue "4 1/2 Stars! Hoyt takes an unlikely pair of characters and, through the magic of her storytelling, turns them into the perfect couple... [A] read to remember."― RT Book Reviews on Dearest Rogue "Hoyt's exquisitely nuanced characters, vividly detailed setting, and seemingly effortless and elegant writing provide the splendid material from which she fashions yet another ravishingly romantic love story."― Booklist (starred review) on Darling Beast "4 1/2 Stars! Top Pick! Darling Beast is wondrous, magical and joyous -- a read to remember."― RT Book Reviews "Richly drawn characters fill the pages of this emotionally charged mix of mystery and romance."― Publishers Weekly on Duke of Midnight "4 1/2 Stars! Top Pick! There is enchantment in the Maiden Lane series, not just the fairy tales Hoyt infuses into the memorable romances, but the wonder of love combined with passion, unique plotlines and unforgettable characters."― RT Book Reviews on Duke of Midnight "I adore the Maiden Lane series, and this fifth book is a very welcome addition to the series . . . [It's] sexy and sweet all at the same time . . . This can be read as a standalone, but I adore each book in this series and encourage you to start from the beginning."― USA Today's Happy Ever After Blog on Lord of Darkness " Lord of Darkness is classic Elizabeth Hoyt, meaning it's unique, engaging, and leaves readers on the edge of their seats, waiting for the next book . . . an incredible addition to the fantastic Maiden Lane series. I Joyfully Recommend Godric and Megs's tale, for it's an amazing, well-crafted story with an intriguing plot and a lovely, touching romance that I want to enjoy again and again and again . . . simply enchanting!"― JoyfullyReviewed.com on Lord of Darkness About the Author Elizabeth Hoyt is the New York Times bestselling author of more than twenty-three lush historical romances, including the Maiden Lane series. Publishers Weekly has called her writing "mesmerizing" and in 2018 she received the RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award for Historical Romance. She also pens deliciously fun contemporary romances under the name Julia Harper. Elizabeth lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota, with three untrained dogs, a garden in constant need of weeding, and the long-suffering Mr. Hoyt.  The winters in Minnesota have been known to be long and cold and Elizabeth is always thrilled to receive reader mail. You can write to her at PO Box 19495, Minneapolis, MN 55419 or email her at Elizabeth@ElizabethHoyt.com.

Sweetest Scoundrel (Maiden Lane, 9)

Review "[T]his superbly executed historical romance is proof positive that this RITA Award-nominated author continues to write with undiminished force and flair. When it comes to incorporating a generous measure of dangerous intrigue and lush sensuality into a truly swoonworthy love story, Hoyt is unrivaled."― Booklist (starred review) on Dearest Rogue "4 1/2 Stars! Hoyt takes an unlikely pair of characters and, through the magic of her storytelling, turns them into the perfect couple... [A] read to remember."― RT Book Reviews on Dearest Rogue "Hoyt's exquisitely nuanced characters, vividly detailed setting, and seemingly effortless and elegant writing provide the splendid material from which she fashions yet another ravishingly romantic love story."― Booklist (starred review) on Darling Beast "4 1/2 Stars! Top Pick! Darling Beast is wondrous, magical and joyous -- a read to remember."― RT Book Reviews "Richly drawn characters fill the pages of this emotionally charged mix of mystery and romance."― Publishers Weekly on Duke of Midnight "4 1/2 Stars! Top Pick! There is enchantment in the Maiden Lane series, not just the fairy tales Hoyt infuses into the memorable romances, but the wonder of love combined with passion, unique plotlines and unforgettable characters."― RT Book Reviews on Duke of Midnight "I adore the Maiden Lane series, and this fifth book is a very welcome addition to the series . . . [It's] sexy and sweet all at the same time . . . This can be read as a standalone, but I adore each book in this series and encourage you to start from the beginning."― USA Today's Happy Ever After Blog on Lord of Darkness " Lord of Darkness is classic Elizabeth Hoyt, meaning it's unique, engaging, and leaves readers on the edge of their seats, waiting for the next book . . . an incredible addition to the fantastic Maiden Lane series. I Joyfully Recommend Godric and Megs's tale, for it's an amazing, well-crafted story with an intriguing plot and a lovely, touching romance that I want to enjoy again and again and again . . . simply enchanting!"― JoyfullyReviewed.com on Lord of Darkness About the Author Elizabeth Hoyt is the New York Times bestselling author of more than twenty-three lush historical romances, including the Maiden Lane series. Publishers Weekly has called her writing "mesmerizing" and in 2018 she received the RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award for Historical Romance. She also pens deliciously fun contemporary romances under the name Julia Harper. Elizabeth lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota, with three untrained dogs, a garden in constant need of weeding, and the long-suffering Mr. Hoyt.  The winters in Minnesota have been known to be long and cold and Elizabeth is always thrilled to receive reader mail. You can write to her at PO Box 19495, Minneapolis, MN 55419 or email her at Elizabeth@ElizabethHoyt.com.

The Study of Seduction (2) (The Sinful Suitors)

About the Author Sabrina Jeffries is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of several Regency-set historical romance series, including the Royal Brotherhood, the School for Heiresses, the Hellions of Halstead Hall, the Duke’s Men, and the Sinful Suitors. When she’s not writing in a coffee-fueled haze, she’s traveling with her husband, caring for her adult autistic son, or indulging in one of her passions: jigsaw puzzles, chocolate, music, and costume parties. With more than nine million books in print in twenty languages, the North Carolina author never regrets tossing aside a budding career in academics for the sheer joy of writing fun fiction and hopes that one day a book of hers will end up saving the world. She always dreams big. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. The Study of Seduction  One London April 1830 “You have lost your bloody mind.” When every member in the reading room of St. George’s Club turned to look at Edwin Barlow, Earl of Blakeborough, he realized how loudly he’d spoken. The place was more crowded than usual, now that everyone was back in London and night was falling. Gentlemen wanted a few drinks before they plunged into the maelstrom that was the Season. With a quelling glance that sent the curious onlookers scrambling to mind their own business, Edwin returned his attention to Warren Corry, the Marquess of Knightford. “This plan of yours can’t possibly work.” “Of course it can.” Warren was Edwin’s closest friend. Really, his only friend, aside from his sister’s new husband, Jeremy Keane. Edwin didn’t make friends easily, probably because he didn’t suffer fools easily. And society was full of fools. That was precisely why Edwin, Keane, and Warren had started this club—so they could separate the fools from the fine men. So they could protect the women in their lives from fortune hunters, gamblers, rakehells, and every other variety of scoundrel in London. In a matter of months, the club had swollen from three to thirty members, all good men eager to share information about which of their peers couldn’t be trusted with women. Until now, Edwin hadn’t realized that so many gentlemen’s female relations needed protecting from sly and not-so-sly attempts on their virtue . . . and fortunes. Warren was clearly taking that mission very seriously. Perhaps too seriously. “Clarissa will never agree,” Edwin said. “She has no choice.” Edwin narrowed his gaze on Warren. “You actually believe you can convince your sharp-tongued cousin to let me squire her about town during the Season?” “Only until I return. And why not?” Warren said, though he took a long swig of brandy as if to fortify himself for the fight. “It isn’t as if she hates you.” “No, indeed,” Edwin said sarcastically. “She only challenges my every remark, ignores my advice, and tweaks my nose incessantly. The last time I saw her, she called me the Blakeborough Bear and said I belonged in the Tower of London menagerie, where ordinary people could be spared my growls.” Warren burst into laughter. When Edwin lifted an eyebrow at him, Warren’s laugh petered out into a cough. “Sorry, old boy. But you have to admit that’s amusing.” “Not nearly as amusing as it will be to watch you try to talk her into this,” Edwin drawled as he settled back in his chair. Rather than giving Warren pause, that made the blasted idiot ask, “Does that mean you’ll do it?” “The point is moot. She’s not going to agree.” “Don’t be too sure. You mustn’t take her pokes at you as anything more than her usual mischief-making. You let her exaggerations get under your skin, which only tempts her to plague you more. You should just ignore her when she starts her nonsense.” Ignore Clarissa? Impossible. He’d spent the past few years trying unsuccessfully to unwrap the mystery that was Lady Clarissa Lindsey. Her barbed wit fired his temper, her provocative smile inflamed him, and her shadowed eyes haunted his sleep. He could no more ignore her than he could ignore a rainbowed sunset . . . or a savage storm. For three months now, she’d been isolated at Warren’s hunting lodge, Hatton Hall, and Edwin had felt every second of her absence. That was why the idea of spending time with her sent his blood pumping. Not with anticipation. Certainly not. Couldn’t be. “What do you say, old boy?” Warren held Edwin’s gaze. “I need you. She needs you.” Edwin ignored the leap in his pulse. Clarissa didn’t need anyone, least of all him. Thanks to the fortune left to her by her late father, the Earl of Margrave, she didn’t have to marry for love or anything else. Apparently, the woman had some fool notion she was better off without a husband, given that she’d reportedly refused dozens of marriage proposals since her debut years ago. But it wasn’t her fortune that had men falling all over themselves trying to catch her eye. It was her quick wit and effervescent personality, her ability to draw a man in and put him off at the same time. It was her astonishing beauty. She was the fair-haired, green-eyed, porcelain-skinned darling of society, and she almost certainly knew it. Which was why he rather enjoyed the prospect of watching Warren attempt to convince her she should go about town with a gruff curmudgeon like himself. “Assuming that she and I both agree to this insanity—how long would I have her on my hands?” “It shouldn’t be more than a month. However long it takes me to deal with her brother in Portugal. I can’t leave Niall stranded on the Continent with all the unrest there right now.” “I suppose she’s already heard why you’re going.” “Actually, no. She doesn’t even know about his letter yet, which was waiting for me when we arrived from Shropshire for the Season. I wanted to be sure you would agree to keep an eye on her before I told her. But once she learns that this involves Niall, she’ll want me to take this trip, and she’ll realize I won’t do that unless I’m sure she’s safe.” “From this Durand fellow.” After all, there was a reason for this charade Warren was proposing. Warren’s jaw hardened. “Count Geraud Durand, yes.” Settling back into his chair, Edwin drummed his fingers on his thigh. “If I’m to do this, you’d better tell me everything you know about this Frenchman.” “Haven’t you met him?” Edwin lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, right. Not your circle of influence. But surely you’ve heard of him.” “He’s the French ambassador’s lackey.” “If he were a lackey, he wouldn’t be a problem. He’s the man’s first secretary. And because the ambassador had to return to France right after Christmas, Durand is now running the embassy as the charge d’affaires. The position gives him a great deal of power.” “Then what the devil does he want with Clarissa?” “A wife. He asked her to marry him in Bath some months ago.” That stunned Edwin. Warren had initially described Durand as an admirer who’d been plaguing her. Not that Edwin was surprised at anyone’s desiring Clarissa to distraction. Most men did. But men in the field of diplomacy generally preferred wives who were . . . well . . . not inclined to speak their minds and flirt outrageously. “She turned him down,” Warren went on. “That’s why we had to return to London. Unfortunately, he followed us here. He seemed to have made it his mission to gain her, no matter what. He was at every public event we attended. Twice, he tried to accost her on the street.” “Accost her? Were those your words or Clarissa’s? Because even you said she’s prone to exaggeration.” “This was no exaggeration.” His lips thinned into a grim line. “The bastard frightened her enough that she started avoiding going out in public, and you know that’s not like her. So after we spent Christmas at your brother-in-law’s, I whisked her and her mother off to Shropshire where I knew he dared not follow, since by then he had to serve as charge d’affaires here. I’d hoped our absence would give his ardor time to cool.” “And has it?” “I don’t know. We’ve only just returned, so it’s not as if I’ve had time to assess the situation. But I’m not taking any chances. She has to be protected while I’m trying to sort out her brother’s troubles.” Edwin cast him a measuring glance. “You don’t mean to bring Niall back to England, do you? They’ll arrest him for murder as soon as he sets foot on English soil.” “I know. Damned fool, fighting a duel over some woman. He ought to have known better.” Frustration furrowed Warren’s brow. “To be honest, I have no idea what to do with him. But I must work out something. He can’t continue abroad like this indefinitely. And I can’t continue to manage my properties and his, even with Clarissa’s help.” Edwin snorted. “Clarissa helps?” “There’s more to her than you realize.” Ah, but Edwin did realize it. Granted, he wouldn’t have expected her to have any skill at estate management, but despite her outrageous manner, he sometimes glimpsed a seriousness in her that reminded him of his own. Or perhaps she merely had periodic bouts of dyspepsia. Hard to know with Clarissa. She was entirely unpredictable. Which was why she always threw him out of sorts. Warren waved over a servant and ordered another brandy. “Honestly, accompanying her won’t be as trying as you think. Don’t you need to go out into society this Season anyway? Aren’t you bent on marrying?” “Yes.” He was bent on siring an heir, anyway, which required wedding someone. Though God only knew who that might be. “You see? It’s perfect. You have to go on the marriage mart. Clarissa wants to enjoy the Season, and I want her to find a husband. It’s an ideal situation.” “If you say so.” How he could successfully court anyone with Clarissa hanging about was anyone’s guess, but he supposed it might improve his stern reputation if he had a lighthearted woman on his arm at the usual balls. Assuming she would even agree to take his arm. That was by no means certain with Clarissa. “You were still recovering from the loss of Jane last Season, so this will be your first real attempt to secure a wife since Jane jilted you. Do you have any particular lady in mind?” “No. I know what I want. But God only knows if I can find a who to go with it. I haven’t made a serious search, because I had my hands full with Samuel and Yvette. And then there was the false start with Jane.” Edwin sighed. “But I suppose I must begin looking.” “And what are your requirements for a wife? Other than that she be of breeding age, I suppose.” Chafing at Knightford’s astute perception that this endeavor was about finding a woman to bear him an heir, Edwin glanced out the window that overlooked Pall Mall. “I would prefer a woman who’s responsible and uncomplicated.” “Like your mother, you mean.” He didn’t answer, preferring not to lie. His mother hadn’t been remotely uncomplicated, but no one knew that except Edwin and his brother Samuel. Not even their sister Yvette was aware of how complicated their mother had been . . . and what had made her so. Edwin had worked hard to spare Yvette that awful knowledge. “I want a woman who’s quiet and sensible,” Edwin went on. “In other words, someone you can keep under your thumb. The way your father kept your mother under his thumb.” A swell of painful memories made acid burn his throat. “Father didn’t keep her under his thumb; he ignored her.” For reasons that Edwin unfortunately knew and had difficulty accepting. “I will never do that to my wife.” “You will if she’s as dull as what you describe.” Warren leaned back in his chair. “When I get around to choosing a wife, I want a lively wench who will keep me well entertained.” He winked. “If you know what I mean.” Edwin rolled his eyes. “Remind me again why we asked you to join St. George’s? You’re as bad as the men we’re guarding our women against.” “Ah, but I don’t prey on innocents. Any woman who lands in my bed jumped there of her own accord. And I daresay that’s true of any number of fellows here.” It probably was. Even Edwin had taken a mistress in his twenties when the turmoil within his family had kept him too busy to look for a wife and his loneliness had grown too acute to endure. That hadn’t, however, been very satisfying. Knowing that a woman was with you only for your rank and money was somehow more lonely than not having a woman at all. Although with Yvette married and out of the house, he’d started to feel the disadvantages of a solitary life. So once more he’d be looking for a wife, always an awkward experience. Women expected a man to gush about being in love, and he simply couldn’t. Love was a fictional construct dreamed up by novelists. His parents’ marriage had proved that. But it wasn’t wise to tell a woman his philosophy. Unfortunately, neither could he lie about it. He wasn’t like his scoundrel brother, who was presently serving a sentence of transportation for kidnapping. Edwin couldn’t spin a clever yarn or hide an opinion beneath a facile compliment. Sadly, most women seemed to prefer facile compliments to blunt truths any day. For that matter, some men were like that. Hence, his dearth of friends and his difficulty finding a suitable wife. “When will you broach this with Clarissa?” Warren looked at his pocket watch. “At dinner, which should be in . . . oh . . . half an hour. I was hoping you’d come.” “Now?” “Why not? Might as well get it over with, eh? And I am leaving for Portugal in the morning.” Devil take it. Edwin would have liked more time to prepare. He wasn’t the spontaneous sort. “Planning to have us join forces against her, are you?” “That wasn’t my intention initially, no.” Warren gulped some brandy. “When we left Hatton Hall for London, I’d hoped that by now Yvette and Keane would have returned from America, and they could simply take her under their wing. Yvette can talk Clarissa into just about anything.” Edwin smiled. His sister could talk anyone into anything, even him. “But I gather they’re still abroad,” Warren said. “It may be a few more weeks before they return. Sorry.” “Well, it can’t be helped. At least my aunt will be there to help persuade her.” Edwin suppressed a snort. Lady Margrave, Clarissa’s mother, was a flighty female who rarely offered sound advice, so Clarissa rarely heeded her. He doubted that this time would be any different. Warren surveyed the reading room. “You know, this place turned out quite cozy. It’s not as sophisticated a setting as some clubs, but it’s comfortable. You and Keane ought to be pleased with yourselves. Between Keane’s artistic eye and your mechanical ingenuity, the place doesn’t even look like a tavern anymore.” “We had plenty of help with the practical aspects of décor from Yvette and her mother-in-law.” “That explains the female touches,” Warren said, “which are refreshing. I mean, the dark woods and leather give it a nice masculine feel, but there’s something to be said for decent draperies, too. The ones at White’s are funereal.” “I’m glad you approve.” Warren’s gaze snapped back to him. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be around to help. And that I have to run off again.” He rose. “So, are you coming or not?” The casual words were belied by Warren’s tight expression. They both knew that Edwin hadn’t yet agreed to the plan. And why hadn’t he? Because the thought of spending weeks in Clarissa’s company put him on edge as nothing else could. But it didn’t matter. Warren was his friend and wouldn’t hesitate to help if the shoe was on the other foot. So neither would Edwin. He stood. “I’m coming.”  As soon as the door to Clarissa’s bedchamber closed behind the servant who’d left a message for her mother, the aging widow turned to her daughter in a panic. “I cannot believe your cousin did this!” She leaned heavily on her cane. “Warren knows better than to invite an eligible bachelor for dinner with no warning. What was he thinking?” Clarissa raised an eyebrow at her mother’s reflection in the looking glass. “He was thinking that it’s just Edwin, whom we’ve known for ages. And who has come to dine before.” “I don’t know if pigeon pie is quite suitable enough for guests,” Mama said, as if Clarissa hadn’t spoken. “Oh, dear, and we are fresh out of Madeira! Edwin loves his Madeira, you know.” “Mama—” “And the pickled onions were entirely too sour the last time we ate them. I was hoping to use them up tonight, but if Edwin is coming—” “Mama, calm down! It’s not as if we’re expecting the Tsar of Russia.” She smiled into the mirror. “Although Edwin would make a fine tsar. All he’d have to do is be his usual autocratic and dictatorial self.” Thankfully, that observation broke her mother out of her fretting. “And he would look quite the part, too, wouldn’t he? All that black hair and that chiseled jaw.” And broad shoulders and regal bearing and slate-gray eyes as coldly beautiful as a Russian night spangled with stars. Clarissa scowled at herself. She must be addled to be thinking of Edwin so poetically. Though he was sinfully handsome. In a sort of standoffish way. And she hadn’t seen him in ages. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and all that. “Why, I can almost imagine him in an ermine cape and one of those tall, furry hats,” Mama said. Clarissa laughed. “Edwin would only wear such a pretentious thing to a coronation, and then only because he had to.” His manner of dress was always correct, but terribly sober. Unlike hers. She examined her gown in the mirror and smiled. Edwin would probably look sternly upon this confection of lace and lavender bows. Secretly it wasn’t her favorite, either—a bit too fussy for her taste—but she’d expected to be dining only with Warren and Mama, and had just thrown on the first thing she’d found in her closet. Oh, well. No time to change, and besides, she would never change her gown for him. Let Edwin give her one of his ruthlessly critical glances; she would not be cowed. Indeed, it was merely force of habit that had her pinching her cheeks until they glowed nicely pink. It was not because she wanted to look pretty for Edwin. No, indeed. “You know, my girl,” Mama said, “if you were a bit nicer to that man, you could probably have him wrapped about your finger in a matter of weeks.” “Oh, I doubt that. Edwin is far too inflexible to be wrapped about anything. More’s the pity.” Clarissa would dearly love to see the woman who could manage that. But it wouldn’t be her. Edwin, of all people, would never accept her as she was, especially once he knew the full extent of her youthful mistakes. And her narrow escape from the obsessive attentions of Count Durand a few months ago had only made her more determined to avoid bending to any man’s demands of what a wife should be. You can never escape me, my dearest Clarissa. A shudder swept her as she thrust the count’s final words to the back of her mind. They were just the sort of dramatic nonsense men thought women wanted to hear. But to her knowledge, he hadn’t hunted for her. He hadn’t been loitering in the street outside Warren’s town house once they arrived. No doubt he’d moved on to another pretty woman. And if he hadn’t? Then she would be firmer in her refusal this time. Years ago she’d allowed a man to bully her, and it had shattered her life. Never again. Pasting a brilliant smile to her lips, she whirled to face her mother. “Shall we go down?” “Not yet, my angel. The servant said the gentlemen are already here, so we should keep them waiting. You must never let a man be too sure of you.” “It’s Edwin, Mama,” she said tightly. “He’s sure of everything and everyone, no matter what I do.” With her usual coaxing smile, she offered her arm to her mother. Mama had broken her hip in her early forties and it hadn’t knitted properly, so navigating stairs was difficult for her. “Come now, I know you’re dying for a glass of wine. I certainly am.” “Oh, all right.” Leaning on Clarissa’s arm, Mama let herself be led to the door. “But you must promise to give him a compliment first thing. Men like that.” “Right,” Clarissa said noncommittally. “And don’t contradict him all the time. Men despise fractious women.” “Uh-huh.” “And do not spout your witticisms incessantly. It’s very mannish. Not to mention . . .” As they made their slow way down the stairs, Clarissa let her mother drone on, only half listening to the usual recitation of little tricks designed to hook a man and reel him in. Those might have enabled her Cit of a mother to snag an earl, but they smacked of deception to Clarissa. If a man couldn’t like her as she was, what was the point? Clarissa could barely hide her true opinions from Mama. How was she to do it with a husband? Not that she ever intended to have a husband. Granted, she wouldn’t mind having children, but that required taking a man into her bed—and the very thought made her hands grow clammy and her throat close up. No. Marriage was not for her. “. . . and do be sure to save the biggest slice of cake for Edwin,” Mama said as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “Nonsense. I’m not saving anything for Edwin.” “That’s only fair,” drawled Edwin from somewhere in the shadows to the right of the staircase. “I’m not saving anything for you, either.” Striving to hide her surprise, she halted as he came into the light. “Edwin!” Mama cried. “My dear boy!” She held out her hand. Dutifully, he came forward to take it. “You’re looking well, Lady Margrave.” He bent to brush a kiss to Mama’s cheek. No kiss for Clarissa, of course. He was too much the gentleman for that. “You’re looking rather fine yourself,” Mama chirped as she drew back to survey him. And Lord, but he was, in his tailcoat of dark-blue wool and his waistcoat and trousers of plain white poplin. Even his cravat was simply tied, which only accentuated the masculine lines of his jaw and sharp planes of his features, so starkly handsome. How had he managed to grow even more attractive in a mere three months? And why on earth was she gawking at him? This was Edwin, for pity’s sake. It would swell his head even more if he knew what she was thinking. Instead, she teased him. “Don’t tell me—you were so impatient for us to come down that you’ve been pacing the foyer in anticipation.” The idea was ludicrous, of course. Impatient wasn’t even in Edwin’s vocabulary. If ever a man believed that slow and steady won the race, it was he. And he clearly recognized the irony, for he flashed her one of his rare smiles. “Actually, I was fetching this from the library. Warren told me he was done with it.” His eyes gleamed in the lamplight as he held out a book. “Of course, if you wish to read it yourself . . .” “Doubtful,” she said. “Any book you loaned him has to be deadly dull.” “You mean, because it lacks gallant highwaymen rescuing virtuous ladies.” “Or virtuous ladies rescuing gallant highwaymen. Either would be preferable to one of your dry tomes on . . . what? Chess? Engineering? Philosophy of the most boring sort?” “Clarissa,” Mama chided. But Edwin merely laughed, as she’d hoped he would. She took great pride in the fact that she could sometimes make him laugh. No other woman seemed able to. No other woman dared try. “Mechanical engineering,” he said. “However did you guess?” “Because I know you all too well, sir.” He sobered, his gaze turning oddly intense even for him. “Do you? I’m not so sure.” The words hung in the air a moment in frozen silence before that was shattered by her cousin’s approach. “I found another book you might enjoy, old boy,” Warren said as he bent to kiss first his aunt, then Clarissa. “It’s about automatons.” She rolled her eyes as Warren handed it to Edwin. Of course, keen interest leapt in Edwin’s face the moment he scanned the cover. The earl did love his automatons, to the point where he even made his own, though Clarissa had never been deemed worthy enough to actually see one. “Looks intriguing, thanks. I’ll get it back to you as soon as I’m done.” “No hurry.” Warren shot her a veiled glance. “As you well know, I won’t need it anytime soon.” Whatever was that about? Before she could ponder it, Warren offered Mama his arm. “Come, Aunt, let’s get you off your feet while we have our wine before dinner. Don’t want to tax your hip overmuch.” “Thank you, my lad,” she cooed, and let him lead her to the breakfast room. “That is ever so thoughtful of you! But then, you always were a dear. Why, I remember when . . .” As Mama prattled on, Edwin was left to come behind with Clarissa. “So,” he murmured, “exactly what were you refusing to save for me?” It took her a moment to remember that he’d overheard her earlier. “The biggest slice of cake.” “I don’t like cake.” “I know. That’s why I’m not wasting it on you. You won’t appreciate it, and you’d probably eat it just to be polite.” He slanted a serious glance at her. “Perhaps I’d give it to you, instead.” “I doubt that, but we’ll never know, shall we?” she said lightly. “I’m saving it for myself, regardless.” “So I heard.” “Because you were eavesdropping.” Mischief seized her. “How rude of you.” As they passed into the breakfast room, he shrugged. “If you don’t want people hearing your pronouncements, you shouldn’t talk at the volume of a dockworker.” Mama paused while settling onto the settee. “A dockworker! For shame, Edwin—what a thing to say to a lady! Have you no pretty compliments to offer?” When he stood blatantly unrepentant, Clarissa said, “If Edwin knew how to compliment ladies, Mama, he would be too popular in society to settle for having dinner with the mere likes of us.” “There’s no settling involved, I assure you,” he said irritably. She was congratulating herself on getting beneath his cool reserve again when Warren stepped in. “Play nice now, cousin. We need him.” “For what?” Clarissa asked. Instead of answering, Warren gestured to the settee. “You’d better sit down. I’ve got something to tell you and your mother.”

Hot in Hellcat Canyon: A Hellcat Canyon Novel

Review “A star herself in the historical-romance world, Long makes a flawless transition into contemporary romance with a wonderfully sweet yet also intensely sexy love story that brilliantly showcases her deliciously sharp sense of humor and rare gift for creating realistically quirky, wonderfully engaging characters.” ( Booklist (starred review) )“Bestseller Long [...] has a brilliant, quirky style that gives her first contemporary a delightful gleam. Her clever phrases make her small-town setting and characters seem fresh and new. [...] This laugh-out-loud treat is warmly emotional and richly satisfying.” ( Publishers Weekly (starred review) )“This book is a treat to read. The author’s love of wordplay is evident in the snappy dialogue [...] and it’s damn sexy. Long’s ability to create a love story that leaps off the page is as impressive [...] Let’s hope she keeps cranking them out for a long time.” ( Kirkus Reviews )“Julie Anne Long’s books are sexy and adorable!” (New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Jill Shalvis)“Julie Anne long is a fantastic writer.” (New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz)“Julie Anne Long’s writing glows with emotional intensity and strong, passionate characterization.” (New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz)Funny, sexy, heartwarming, Long moves seamlessly into the contemporary market. (New York Times bestselling author Lori Wilde)Sizzlingly smart! Long’s fresh new contemporary voice rocks! (NYT bestselling author Susan Andersen)“This is romantic fantasy at its purest [...] JT and Britt are clever and funny, and the book has all the hallmarks of Long’s historical novels ― charming secondary characters, delightful dialogue and a sigh-inducing ending.” (Sarah MacLean for the Washington Post, Named one of the Best Romances of Early Summer) --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. About the Author USA Today bestselling author and Rita® Award winner Julie Anne Long ’s books have been translated into eighteen languages, nominated for numerous awards, and have appeared on dozens of “Best of” lists. NPR named her Pennyroyal Green series as one of the Top 100 romance series of all time. She currently lives in Northern California. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

Naked in Death (In Death, Book 1)

Review Praise for Naked in Death “Truly fine entertainment.”— Publishers Weekly “Fast-paced fun.”— People “Superstar Nora Roberts dons a new pseudonym and proves why she is one of the world's most remarkable storytellers in this ground-breaking novel of life and death in the 21st century...Superbly suspenseful and strikingly original.”— RT Book Reviews “Danger, romance...a masterpiece of fine writing.”—Rendezvous “Eve, Roarke and the rest of the cast will enchant you, and the murder plots will enthrall you.”— The State (Columbia, S.C.) More Praise for the In Death series “Robb is a virtuoso.”— Seattle Post-Intelligencer “It’s Law & Order: SVU —in the future.”— Entertainment Weekly “J. D. Robb’s In Death novels are can’t-miss pleasures.”—#1 New York Times bestselling author Harlan Coben   “Anchored by terrific characters, sudden twists that spin the whole narrative on a dime, and a thrills-to-chills ration that will raise the neck hairs of even the most jaded reader, the J. D. Robb books are the epitome of great popular fiction.”— New York Times bestselling author Dennis Lehane About the Author J. D. Robb is the pseudonym for a #1 New York Times bestselling author of more than 200 novels, including the bestselling In Death series. There are more than 500 million copies of her books in print. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. What’s past is prologue. —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE Violence is as American as cherry pie. —RAP (HUBERT GEROLD) BROWN chapter one She woke in the dark. Through the slats on the window shades, the first murky hint of dawn slipped, slanting shadowy bars over the bed. It was like waking in a cell. For a moment she simply lay there, shuddering, imprisoned, while the dream faded. After ten years on the force, Eve still had dreams. Six hours before, she’d killed a man, had watched death creep into his eyes. It wasn’t the first time she’d exercised maximum force, or dreamed. She’d learned to accept the action and the consequences. But it was the child that haunted her. The child she hadn’t been in time to save. The child whose screams had echoed in the dreams with her own. All the blood, Eve thought, scrubbing sweat from her face with her hands. Such a small little girl to have had so much blood in her. And she knew it was vital that she push it aside. Standard departmental procedure meant that she would spend the morning in Testing. Any officer whose discharge of weapon resulted in termination of life was required to undergo emotional and psychiatric clearance before resuming duty. Eve considered the tests a mild pain in the ass. She would beat them, as she’d beaten them before. When she rose, the overheads went automatically to low setting, lighting her way into the bath. She winced once at her reflection. Her eyes were swollen from lack of sleep, her skin nearly as pale as the corpses she’d delegated to the ME. Rather than dwell on it, she stepped into the shower, yawning. “Give me one oh one degrees, full force,” she said and shifted so that the shower spray hit her straight in the face. She let it steam, lathered listlessly while she played through the events of the night before. She wasn’t due in Testing until nine, and would use the next three hours to settle and let the dream fade away completely. Small doubts and little regrets were often detected and could mean a second and more intense round with the machines and the owl-eyed technicians who ran them. Eve didn’t intend to be off the streets longer than twenty-four hours. After pulling on a robe, she walked into the kitchen and programmed her AutoChef for coffee, black; toast, light. Through her window she could hear the heavy hum of air traffic carrying early commuters to offices, late ones home. She’d chosen the apartment years before because it was in a heavy ground and air pattern, and she liked the noise and crowds. On another yawn, she glanced out the window, followed the rattling journey of an aging airbus hauling laborers not fortunate enough to work in the city or by home-links. She brought the New York Times up on her monitor and scanned the headlines while the faux caffeine bolstered her system. The AutoChef had burned her toast again, but she ate it anyway, with a vague thought of springing for a replacement unit. She was frowning over an article on a mass recall of droid cocker spaniels when her tele-link blipped. Eve shifted to communications and watched her commanding officer flash onto the screen. “Commander.” “Lieutenant.” He gave her a brisk nod, noted the still wet hair and sleepy eyes. “Incident at Twenty-seven West Broadway, eighteenth floor. You’re primary.” Eve lifted a brow. “I’m on Testing. Subject terminated at twenty-two thirty-five.” “We have override,” he said, without inflection. “Pick up your shield and weapon on the way to the incident. Code Five, lieutenant.” “Yes, sir.” His face flashed off even as she pushed back from the screen. Code Five meant she would report directly to her commander, and there would be no unsealed interdepartmental reports and no cooperation with the press. In essence, it meant she was on her own. Broadway was noisy and crowded, a party where rowdy guests never left. Street, pedestrian, and sky traffic were miserable, choking the air with bodies and vehicles. In her old days in uniform she remembered it as a hot spot for wrecks and crushed tourists who were too busy gaping at the show to get out of the way. Even at this hour there was steam rising from the stationary and portable food stands that offered everything from rice noodles to soydogs for the teeming crowds. She had to swerve to avoid an eager merchant on his smoking Glida-Grill, and took his flipped middle finger as a matter of course. Eve double-parked and, skirting a man who smelled worse than his bottle of brew, stepped onto the sidewalk. She scanned the building first, fifty floors of gleaming metal that knifed into the sky from a hilt of concrete. She was propositioned twice before she reached the door. Since this five-block area of Broadway was affectionately termed Prostitute’s Walk, she wasn’t surprised. She flashed her badge for the uniform guarding the entrance. “Lieutenant Dallas.” “Yes, sir.” He skimmed his official compu-seal over the door to keep out the curious, then led the way to the bank of elevators. “Eighteenth floor,” he said when the doors swished shut behind them. “Fill me in, officer.” Eve switched on her recorder and waited. “I wasn’t first on the scene, lieutenant. Whatever happened upstairs is being kept upstairs. There’s a badge inside waiting for you. We have a Homicide, and a Code Five in number Eighteen-oh-three.” “Who called it in?” “I don’t have that information.” He stayed where he was when the elevator opened. Eve stepped out and was alone in a narrow hallway. Security cameras tilted down at her and her feet were almost soundless on the worn nap of the carpet as she approached 1803. Ignoring the handplate, she announced herself, holding her badge up to eye level for the peep cam until the door opened. “Dallas.” “Feeney.” She smiled, pleased to see a familiar face. Ryan Feeney was an old friend and former partner who’d traded the street for a desk and a top level position in the Electronics Detection Division. “So, they’re sending computer pluckers these days.” “They wanted brass, and the best.” His lips curved in his wide, rumpled face, but his eyes remained sober. He was a small, stubby man with small, stubby hands and rust colored hair. “You look beat.” “Rough night.” “So I heard.” He offered her one of the sugared nuts from the bag he habitually carried, studying her, and measuring if she was up to what was waiting in the bedroom beyond. She was young for her rank, barely thirty, with wide brown eyes that had never had a chance to be naive. Her doe-brown hair was cropped short, for convenience rather than style, but suited her triangular face with its razor-edge cheekbones and slight dent in the chin. She was tall, rangy, with a tendency to look thin, but Feeney knew there were solid muscles beneath the leather jacket. More, there was a brain, and a heart. “This one’s going to be touchy, Dallas.” “I picked that up already. Who’s the victim?” “Sharon DeBlass, granddaughter of Senator DeBlass.” Neither meant anything to her. “Politics isn’t my forte, Feeney.” “The gentleman from Virginia, extreme right, old money. The granddaughter took a sharp left a few years back, moved to New York, and became a licensed companion.” “She was a hooker.” Dallas glanced around the apartment. It was furnished in obsessive modern—glass and thin chrome, signed holograms on the walls, recessed bar in bold red. The wide mood screen behind the bar bled with mixing and merging shapes and colors in cool pastels. Neat as a virgin, Eve mused, and cold as a whore. “No surprise, given her choice of real estate.” “Politics makes it delicate. Victim was twenty-four, Caucasian female. She bought it in bed.” Eve only lifted a brow. “Seems poetic, since she’d been bought there. How’d she die?” “That’s the next problem. I want you to see for yourself.” As they crossed the room, each took out a slim container, sprayed their hands front and back to seal in oils and fingerprints. At the doorway, Eve sprayed the bottom of her boots to slicken them so that she would pick up no fibers, stray hairs, or skin. Eve was already wary. Under normal circumstances there would have been two other investigators on a homicide scene, with recorders for sound and pictures. Forensics would have been waiting with their usual snarly impatience to sweep the scene. The fact that only Feeney had been assigned with her meant that there were a lot of eggshells to be walked over. “Security cameras in the lobby, elevator, and hallways,” Eve commented. “I’ve already tagged the discs.” Feeney opened the bedroom door and let her enter first. It wasn’t pretty. Death rarely was a peaceful, religious experience to Eve’s mind. It was the nasty end, indifferent to saint and sinner. But this was shocking, like a stage deliberately set to offend. The bed was huge, slicked with what appeared to be genuine satin sheets the color of ripe peaches. Small, soft focused spotlights were trained on its center where the naked woman was cupped in the gentle dip of the floating mattress. The mattress moved with obscenely graceful undulations to the rhythm of programmed music slipping through the headboard. She was beautiful still, a cameo face with a tumbling waterfall of flaming red hair, emerald eyes that stared glassily at the mirrored ceiling, long, milk white limbs that called to mind visions of Swan Lake as the motion of the bed gently rocked them. They weren’t artistically arranged now, but spread lewdly so that the dead woman formed a final X dead center of the bed. There was a hole in her forehead, one in her chest, another horribly gaping between the open thighs. Blood had splattered on the glossy sheets, pooled, dripped, and stained. There were splashes of it on the lacquered walls, like lethal paintings scrawled by an evil child. So much blood was a rare thing, and she had seen much too much of it the night before to take the scene as calmly as she would have preferred. She had to swallow once, hard, and force herself to block out the image of a small child. “You got the scene on record?” “Yep.” “Then turn that damn thing off.” She let out a breath after Feeney located the controls that silenced the music. The bed flowed to stillness. “The wounds,” Eve murmured, stepping closer to examine them. “Too neat for a knife. Too messy for a laser.” A flash came to her—old training films, old videos, old viciousness. “Christ, Feeney, these look like bullet wounds.” Feeney reached into his pocket and drew out a sealed bag. “Whoever did it left a souvenir.” He passed the bag to Eve. “An antique like this has to go for eight, ten thousand for a legal collection, twice that on the black market.” Fascinated, Eve turned the sealed revolver over in her hand. “It’s heavy,” she said half to herself. “Bulky.” “Thirty-eight caliber,” he told her. “First one I’ve seen outside of a museum. This one’s a Smith & Wesson, Model Ten, blue steel.” He looked at it with some affection. “Real classic piece, used to be standard police issue up until the latter part of the twentieth. They stopped making them in about twenty-two, twenty-three, when the gun ban was passed.” “You’re the history buff.” Which explained why he was with her. “Looks new.” She sniffed through the bag, caught the scent of oil and burning. “Somebody took good care of this. Steel fired into flesh,” she mused as she passed the bag back to Feeney. “Ugly way to die, and the first I’ve seen it in my ten years with the department.” “Second for me. About fifteen years ago, Lower East Side, party got out of hand. Guy shot five people with a twenty-two before he realized it wasn’t a toy. Hell of a mess.” “Fun and games,” Eve murmured. “We’ll scan the collectors, see how many we can locate who own one like this. Somebody might have reported a robbery.” “Might have.” “It’s more likely it came through the black market.” Eve glanced back at the body. “If she’s been in the business for a few years, she’d have discs, records of her clients, her trick books.” She frowned. “With Code Five, I’ll have to do the door-to-door myself. Not a simple sex crime,” she said with a sigh. “Whoever did it set it up. The antique weapon, the wounds themselves, almost ruler straight down the body, the lights, the pose. Who called it in, Feeney?” “The killer.” He waited until her eyes came back to him. “From right here. Called the station. See how the bedside unit’s aimed at her face? That’s what came in. Video, no audio.” “He’s into showmanship.” Eve let out a breath. “Clever bastard, arrogant, cocky. He had sex with her first. I’d bet my badge on it. Then he gets up and does it.” She lifted her arm, aiming, lowering it as she counted off, “One, two, three.” “That’s cold,” murmured Feeney. “He’s cold. He smooths down the sheets after. See how neat they are? He arranges her, spreads her open so nobody can have any doubts as to how she made her living. He does it carefully, practically measuring, so that she’s perfectly aligned. Center of the bed, arms and legs equally apart. Doesn’t turn off the bed ’cause it’s part of the show. He leaves the gun because he wants us to know right away he’s no ordinary man. He’s got an ego. He doesn’t want to waste time letting the body be discovered eventually. He wants it now. That instant gratification.” “She was licensed for men and women,” Feeney pointed out, but Eve shook her head. “It’s not a woman. A woman wouldn’t have left her looking both beautiful and obscene. No, I don’t think it’s a woman. Let’s see what we can find. Have you gone into her computer yet?” “No. It’s your case, Dallas. I’m only authorized to assist.” “See if you can access her client files.” Eve went to the dresser and began to carefully search drawers. Expensive taste, Eve reflected. There were several items of real silk, the kind no simulation could match. The bottle of scent on the dresser was exclusive, and smelled, after a quick sniff, like expensive sex. The contents of the drawers were meticulously ordered, lingerie folded precisely, sweaters arranged according to color and material. The closet was the same. Obviously the victim had a love affair with clothes and a taste for the best and took scrupulous care of what she owned. And she’d died naked. “Kept good records,” Feeney called out. “It’s all here. Her client list, appointments—including her required monthly health exam and her weekly trip to the beauty salon. She used the Trident Clinic for the first and Paradise for the second.” “Both top of the line. I’ve got a friend who saved for a year so she could have one day for the works at Paradise. Takes all kinds.” “My wife’s sister went for it for her twenty-fifth anniversary. Cost damn near as much as my kid’s wedding. Hello, we’ve got her personal address book.” “Good. Copy all of it, will you, Feeney?” At his low whistle, she looked over her shoulder, glimpsed the small gold-edged palm computer in his hand. “What?” “We’ve got a lot of high-powered names in here. Politics, entertainment, money, money, money. Interesting, our girl has Roarke’s private number.” “Roarke who?” “Just Roarke, as far as I know. Big money there. Kind of guy that touches shit and turns it into gold bricks. You’ve got to start reading more than the sports page, Dallas.” “Hey, I read the headlines. Did you hear about the cocker spaniel recall?” “Roarke’s always big news,” Feeney said patiently. “He’s got one of the finest art collections in the world. Arts and antiques,” he continued, noting when Eve clicked in and turned to him. “He’s a licensed gun collector. Rumor is he knows how to use them.” “I’ll pay him a visit.” “You’ll be lucky to get within a mile of him.” “I’m feeling lucky.” Eve crossed over to the body to slip her hands under the sheets. “The man’s got powerful friends, Dallas. You can’t afford to so much as whisper he’s linked to this until you’ve got something solid.” “Feeney, you know it’s a mistake to tell me that.” But even as she started to smile, her fingers brushed something between cold flesh and bloody sheets. “There’s something under her.” Carefully, Eve lifted the shoulder, eased her fingers over. “Paper,” she murmured. “Sealed.” With her protected thumb, she wiped at a smear of blood until she could read the protected sheet. ONE OF SIX “It looks hand printed,” she said to Feeney and held it out. “Our boy’s more than clever, more than arrogant. And he isn’t finished.” Eve spent the rest of the day doing what would normally have been assigned to drones. She interviewed the victim’s neighbors personally, recording statements, impressions. She managed to grab a quick sandwich from the same Glida-Grill she’d nearly smashed before, driving across town. After the night and the morning she’d put in, she could hardly blame the receptionist at Paradise for looking at her as though she’d recently scraped herself off the sidewalk. Waterfalls played musically among the flora in the reception area of the city’s most exclusive salon. Tiny cups of real coffee and slim glasses of fizzling water or champagne were served to those lounging on the cushy chairs and settees. Headphones and discs of fashion magazines were complementary. The receptionist was magnificently breasted, a testament to the salon’s figure sculpting techniques. She wore a snug, short outfit in the salon’s trademark red, and an incredible coif of ebony hair coiled like snakes. Eve couldn’t have been more delighted. “I’m sorry,” the woman said in a carefully modulated voice as empty of expression as a computer. “We serve by appointment only.” “That’s okay.” Eve smiled and was almost sorry to puncture the disdain. Almost. “This ought to get me one.” She offered her badge. “Who works on Sharon DeBlass?” The receptionist’s horrified eyes darted toward the waiting area. “Our clients’ needs are strictly confidential.” “I bet.” Enjoying herself, Eve leaned companionably on the U-shaped counter. “I can talk nice and quiet, like this, so we understand each other—Denise?” She flicked her gaze down to the discreet studded badge on the woman’s breast. “Or I can talk louder, so everyone understands. If you like the first idea better, you can take me to a nice quiet room where we won’t disturb any of your clients, and you can send in Sharon DeBlass’s operator. Or whatever term you use.” “Consultant,” Denise said faintly. “If you’ll follow me.” “My pleasure.” And it was. Outside of movies or videos, Eve had never seen anything so lush. The carpet was a red cushion your feet could sink blissfully into. Crystal drops hung from the ceiling and spun light. The air smelled of flowers and pampered flesh. She might not have been able to imagine herself there, spending hours having herself creamed, oiled, pummeled, and sculpted, but if she were going to waste such time on vanity, it would certainly have been interesting to do so under such civilized conditions. The receptionist showed her into a small room with a hologram of a summer meadow dominating one wall. The quiet sound of birdsong and breezes sweetened the air. “If you’d just wait here.” “No problem.” Eve waited for the door to close then, with an indulgent sigh, she lowered herself into a deeply cushioned chair. The moment she was seated, the monitor beside her blipped on, and a friendly, indulgent face that could only be a droid’s beamed smiles. “Good afternoon. Welcome to Paradise. Your beauty needs and your comfort are our only priorities. Would you like some refreshment while you wait for your personal consultant?” “Sure. Coffee, black, coffee.” “Of course. What sort would you prefer? Press C on your keyboard for the list of choices.” Smothering a chuckle, Eve followed instructions. She spent the next two minutes pondering over her options, then narrowed it down to French Riviera or Caribbean Cream. The door opened again before she could decide. Resigned, she rose and faced an elaborately dressed scarecrow. Over his fuchsia shirt and plum colored slacks, he wore an open, trailing smock of Paradise red. His hair, flowing back from a painfully thin face echoed the hue of his slacks. He offered Eve a hand, squeezed gently, and stared at her out of soft doe eyes. “I’m terribly sorry, officer. I’m baffled.” “I want information on Sharon DeBlass.” Again, Eve took out her badge and offered it for inspection. “Yes, ah, Lieutenant Dallas. That was my understanding. You must know, of course, our client data is strictly confidential. Paradise has a reputation for discretion as well as excellence.” “And you must know, of course, that I can get a warrant, Mr.—?” “Oh, Sebastian. Simply Sebastian.” He waved a thin hand, sparkling with rings. “I’m not questioning your authority, lieutenant. But if you could assist me, your motives for the inquiry?” “I’m inquiring into the motives for the murder of DeBlass.” She waited a beat, judged the shock that shot into his eyes and drained his face of color. “Other than that, my data is strictly confidential.” “Murder. My dear God, our lovely Sharon is dead? There must be a mistake.” He all but slid into a chair, letting his head fall back and his eyes close. When the monitor offered him refreshment, he waved a hand again. Light shot from his jeweled fingers. “God, yes. I need a brandy, darling. A snifter of Trevalli.” Eve sat beside him, took out her recorder. “Tell me about Sharon.” “A marvelous creature. Physically stunning, of course, but it went deeper.” His brandy came into the room on a silent automated cart. Sebastian plucked the snifter and took one deep swallow. “She had flawless taste, a generous heart, rapier wit.” He turned the doe eyes on Eve again. “I saw her only two days ago.” “Professionally?” “She had a standing weekly appointment, half day. Every other week was a full day.” He whipped out a butter yellow scarf and dabbed at his eyes. “Sharon took care of herself, believed strongly in the presentation of self.” “It would be an asset in her line of work.” “Naturally. She only worked to amuse herself. Money wasn’t a particular need, with her family background. She enjoyed sex.” “With you?” His artistic face winced, the rosy lips pursing in what could have been a pout or pain. “I was her consultant, her confidant, and her friend,” Sebastian said stiffly and draped the scarf with casual flare over his left shoulder. “It would have been indiscreet and unprofessional for us to become sexual partners.” “So you weren’t attracted to her, sexually?” “It was impossible for anyone not to be attracted to her sexually. She . . .” He gestured grandly. “Exuded sex as others might exude an expensive perfume. My God.” He took another shaky sip of brandy. “It’s all past tense. I can’t believe it. Dead. Murdered.” His gaze shot back to Eve. “You said murdered.” “That’s right.” “That neighborhood she lived in,” he said grimly. “No one could talk to her about moving to a more acceptable location. She enjoyed living on the edge and flaunting it all under her family’s aristocratic noses.” “She and her family were at odds?” “Oh definitely. She enjoyed shocking them. She was such a free spirit, and they so . . . ordinary.” He said it in a tone that indicated ordinary was more mortal a sin than murder itself. “Her grandfather continues to introduce bills that would make prostitution illegal. As if the past century hasn’t proven that such matters need to be regulated for health and crime security. He also stands against procreation regulation, gender adjustment, chemical balancing, and the gun ban.” Eve’s ears pricked. “The senator opposes the gun ban?” “It’s one of his pets. Sharon told me he owns a number of nasty antiques and spouts off regularly about that outdated right to bear arms business. If he had his way, we’d all be back in the twentieth century, murdering each other right and left.” “Murder still happens,” Eve murmured. “Did she ever mention friends or clients who might have been dissatisfied or overly aggressive?” “Sharon had dozens of friends. She drew people to her, like . . .” He searched for a suitable metaphor, used the corner of the scarf again. “Like an exotic and fragrant flower. And her clients, as far as I know, were all delighted with her. She screened them carefully. All of her sexual partners had to meet certain standards. Appearance, intellect, breeding, and proficiency. As I said, she enjoyed sex, in all of its many forms. She was . . . adventurous.” That fit with the toys Eve had unearthed in the apartment. The velvet handcuffs and whips, the scented oils and hallucinogens. The offerings on the two sets of colinked virtual reality headphones had been a shock even to Eve’s jaded system. “Was she involved with anyone on a personal level?” “There were men occasionally, but she lost interest quickly. Recently she’d spoken about Roarke. She’d met him at a party and was attracted. In fact, she was seeing him for dinner the very night she came in for her consultation. She’d wanted something exotic because they were dining in Mexico.” “In Mexico. That would have been the night before last.” “Yes. She was just bubbling over about him. We did her hair in a gypsy look, gave her a bit more gold to the skin—full body work. Rascal Red on the nails, and a charming little temp tattoo of a red-winged butterfly on the left buttock. Twenty-four-hour facial cosmetics so that she wouldn’t smudge. She looked spectacular,” he said, tearing up. “And she kissed me and told me she just might be in love this time. ‘Wish me luck, Sebastian.’ She said that as she left. It was the last thing she ever said to me.” chapter two No sperm. Eve swore over the autopsy report. If she’d had sex with her killer, the victim’s choice of birth control had killed the little soldiers on contact, eliminating all trace of them within thirty minutes after ejaculation. The extent of her injuries made the tests for sexual activity inconclusive. He’d blown her apart either for symbolism or for his own protection. No sperm, no blood but for the victim’s. No DNA. The forensic sweep of the murder site turned up no fingerprints—none: not the victim’s, not her weekly cleaning specialist, certainly not the murderer’s. Every surface had been meticulously wiped, including the murder weapon. Most telling of all, in Eve’s judgment, were the security discs. Once again, she slipped the elevator surveillance into her desk monitor. The discs were initialed. Gorham Complex. Elevator A. 2-12-2058. 06:00. Eve zipped through, watching the hours fly by. The elevator doors opened for the first time at noon. She slowed the speed, giving her unit a quick smack with the heel of her hand when the image bobbled, then studied the nervous little man who entered and asked for the fifth floor. A jumpy john, she decided, amused when he tugged at his collar and slipped a breath mint between his lips. Probably had a wife and two kids and a steady white-collar job that allowed him to slip away for an hour once a week for his nooner. He got off the elevator at five. Activity was light for several hours, the occasional prostitute riding down to the lobby, some returning with shopping bags and bored expressions. A few clients came and went. The action picked up about eight. Some residents went out, snazzily dressed for dinner, others came in to keep their appointments. At ten, an elegant-looking couple entered the car together. The woman allowed the man to open her fur coat, under which she wore nothing but stiletto heels and a tattoo of a rosebud with the stem starting at the crotch and the flower artistically teasing the left nipple. He fondled her, a technically illegal act in a secured area. When the elevator stopped on eighteen, the woman drew her coat together, and they exited, chatting about the play they’d just seen. Eve made a note to interview the man the following day. It was he who was the victim’s neighbor and associate. The glitch happened at precisely 12:05. The image shifted almost seamlessly, with only the faintest blip, and returned to surveillance at 02:46. Two hours and forty-one minutes lost. The hallway disc of the eighteenth floor was the same. Nearly three hours wiped. Eve picked up her cooling coffee as she thought it through. The man understood security, she mused, was familiar enough with the building to know where and how to doctor the discs. And he’d taken his time, she thought. The autopsy put the victim’s death at two A.M. He’d spent nearly two hours with her before he’d killed her, and nearly an hour more after she’d been dead. Yet he hadn’t left a trace. Clever boy. If Sharon DeBlass had recorded an appointment, personal or professional, for midnight, that, too, had been wiped. So he’d known her intimately enough to be sure where she kept her files and how to access them. On a hunch, Eve leaned forward again. “Gorham Complex, Broadway, New York. Owner.” Her eyes narrowed as the date flashed onto her screen. Gorham Complex, owned by Roarke Industries, headquarters 500 Fifth Avenue. Roarke, president and CEO. New York residence, 222 Central Park West. “Roarke,” Eve murmured. “You just keep turning up, don’t you. Roarke?” she repeated. “All data, view and print.” Ignoring the incoming call on the ’link beside her, Eve sipped her coffee and read. Roarke—no known given name—born 10-06-2023, Dublin, Ireland. ID number 33492-ABR-50. Parents unknown. Marital status, single. President and CEO of Roarke Industries, established 2042. Main branches New York, Chicago, New Los Angeles, Dublin, London, Bonn, Paris, Frankfurt, Tokyo, Milan, Sydney. Off-planet branches, Station45, Bridgestone Colony, Vegas II, FreeStar One. Interests in real estate, import-export, shipping, entertainment, manufacturing, pharmaceuticals, transportation. Estimated gross worth, three billion, eight hundred million. Busy boy, Eve thought, lifting a brow as a list of his companies clicked on-screen. “Education,” she demanded. Unknown. “Criminal record?” No data. “Access Roarke, Dublin.” No additional data. “Well, shit. Mr. Mystery. Description and visual.” Roarke. Black hair, blue eyes, 6 feet, 2 inches, 173 pounds. Eve grunted as the computer listed the description. She had to agree that in Roarke’s case, a picture was worth a couple hundred words. His image stared back at her from the screen. He was almost ridiculously handsome: the narrow, aesthetic face; the slash of cheekbones; and sculpted mouth. Yes, his hair was black, but the computer didn’t say it was thick and full and swept back from a strong forehead to fall inches above broad shoulders. His eyes were blue, but the word was much too simple for the intensity of color or the power in them. Even on an image, Eve could see this was a man who hunted down what or who he wanted, bagged it, used it, and didn’t bother with frivolities such as trophies. And yes, she thought, this was a man who could kill if and when it suited him. He would do so coolly, methodically, and without breaking a sweat. Gathering up the hard data, she decided she’d have a talk with Roarke. Very soon. By the time Eve left the station to head home, the sky was miserably spitting snow. She checked her pockets without hope and found she had indeed left her gloves in her apartment. Hatless, gloveless, with only her leather jacket as protection against the biting wind, she drove across town. She’d meant to get her vehicle into repair. There just hadn’t been time. But there was plenty of time to regret it now as she fought traffic and shivered, thanks to a faulty heating system. She swore if she got home without turning into a block of ice, she’d make the appointment with the mechanic. But when she did arrive home, her primary thought was food. Even as she unlocked her door, she was dreaming about a hot bowl of soup, maybe a mound of chips, if she had any left, and coffee that didn’t taste like someone had spilled sewage into the water system. She saw the package immediately, the slim square just inside the door. Her weapon was out and in her hand before she drew the next breath. Sweeping with weapon and eyes, she kicked the door shut behind her. She left the package where it was and moved from room to room until she was satisfied she was alone. After holstering her weapon, she peeled out of her jacket and tossed it aside. Bending, she picked up the sealed disc by the edges. There was no label, no message. Eve took it into the kitchen, tapping it carefully out of its seal, and slipped it into her computer. And forgot all about food. The video was top quality, as was the sound. She sat down slowly as the scene played on her monitor. Naked, Sharon DeBlass lounged on the lake-size bed, rustling satin sheets. She lifted a hand, skimming it through that glorious tumbled mane of russet hair as the bed’s floating motion rocked her. “Want me to do anything special, darling?” She chuckled, rose up on her knees, cupped her own breasts. “Why don’t you come back over here . . .” Her tongue flicked out to wet her lips. “We’ll do it all again.” Her gaze lowered, and a little cat smile curved her lips. “Looks like you’re more than ready.” She laughed again, shook back her hair. “Oh, we want to play a game.” Still smiling, Sharon put her hands up. “Don’t hurt me.” She whimpered, shivering even as her eyes glinted with excitement. “I’ll do anything you want. Anything. Come on over here and force me. I want you to.” Lowering her hands, she began to stroke herself. “Hold that big bad gun on me while you rape me. I want you to. I want you to—” The explosion had Eve jolting. Her stomach twisted as she saw the woman fly backward like a broken doll, the blood spurting out of her forehead. The second shot wasn’t such a shock, but Eve had to force herself to keep her eyes on the screen. After the final report there was silence, but for the quiet music, the fractured breathing. The killer’s breathing. The camera moved in, panned the body in grisly detail. Then, through the magic of video, DeBlass was as Eve had first seen her, spread-eagled in a perfect x over bloody sheets. The image ended with a graphic overlay. ONE OF SIX It was easier to watch it through the second time. Or so Eve told herself. This time she noticed a slight bobble of the camera after the first shot, a quick, quiet gasp. She ran it back again, listening to each word, studying each movement, hoping for some clue. But he was too clever for that. And they both knew it. He’d wanted her to see just how good he was. Just how cold. And he wanted her to know that he knew just where to find her. Whenever he chose. Furious that her hands weren’t quite steady, she rose. Rather than the coffee she’d intended, Eve took out a bottle of wine from the small cold cell, poured half a glass. She drank it down quickly, promised herself the other half shortly, then punched in the code for her commander. It was the commander’s wife who answered, and from the glittering drops at her ears and the perfect coiffure, Eve calculated that she’d interrupted one of the woman’s famous dinner parties. “Lieutenant Dallas, Mrs. Whitney. I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, but I need to speak to the commander.” “We’re entertaining, lieutenant.” “Yes, ma’am. I apologize.” Fucking politics, Eve thought as she forced a smile. “It’s urgent.” “Isn’t it always?” The machine hummed on hold, mercifully without hideous background music or updated news reports, for a full three minutes before the commander came on. “Dallas.” “Commander, I need to send you something over a coded line.” “It better be urgent, Dallas. My wife’s going to make me pay for this.” “Yes, sir.” Cops, she thought as she prepared to send the image to his monitor, should stay single. She waited, folding her restless hands on the table. As the images played again, she watched again, ignoring the clenching in her gut. When it was over, Whitney came back on-screen. His eyes were grim. “Where did you get this?” “He sent it to me. A disc was here, in my apartment, when I got back from the station.” Her voice was flat and careful. “He knows who I am, where I am, and what I’m doing.” Whitney was silent for a moment. “My office, oh seven hundred. Bring the disc, lieutenant.” “Yes, sir.” When the transmission ended, she did the two things her instincts dictated. She made herself a copy of the disc, and she poured another glass of wine. She woke at three, shuddering, clammy, fighting for the breath to scream. Whimpers sounded in her throat as she croaked out an order for lights. Dreams were always more frightening in the dark. Trembling, she lay back. This one had been worse, much worse, than any she’d experienced before. She’d killed the man. What choice had she had? He’d been too buzzed on chemicals to be stunned. Christ, she’d tried, but he’d just keep coming, and coming, and coming, with that wild look in his eyes and the already bloodied knife in his hand. The little girl had already been dead. There was nothing Eve could have done to stop it. Please God, don’t let there have been anything that could have been done. The little body hacked to pieces, the frenzied man with the dripping knife. Then the look in his eyes when she’d fired on full, and the life had slipped out of them. But that hadn’t been all. Not this time. This time he’d kept coming. And she’d been naked, kneeling in a pool of satin. The knife had become a gun, held by the man whose face she’d studied hours before. The man called Roarke. He’d smiled, and she’d wanted him. Her body had tingled with terror and sexual desperation even as he’d shot her. Head, heart, and loins. And somewhere through it all, the little girl, the poor little girl, had been screaming for help. Too tired to fight it, Eve simply rolled over, pressed her face into her pillow and wept. “Lieutenant.” At precisely seven A.M., Commander Whitney gestured Eve toward a chair in his office. Despite the fact, or perhaps due to the fact that he’d been riding a desk for twelve years, he had sharp eyes. He could see that she’d slept badly and had worked to disguise the signs of a disturbed night. In silence, he held out a hand. She’d put the disc and its cover into an evidence bag. Whitney glanced at it, then laid it in the center of his desk. “According to protocol, I’m obliged to ask you if you want to be relieved from this case.” He waited a beat. “We’ll pretend I did.” “Yes, sir.” “Is your residence secure, Dallas?” “I thought so.” She took hard copy out of her briefcase. “I reviewed the security discs after I contacted you. There’s a ten minute time lapse. As you’ll see in my report, he has the capability of undermining security, a knowledge of videos, editing, and, of course, antique weapons.” Whitney took her report, set it aside. “That doesn’t narrow the field overmuch.” “No, sir. I have several more people I need to interview. With this perpetrator, electronic investigation isn’t primary, though Captain Feeney’s help is invaluable. This guy covers his tracks. We have no physical evidence other than the weapon he chose to leave at the scene. Feeney hadn’t been able to trace it through normal channels. We have to assume it was black market. I’ve started on her trick books and her personal appointments, but she wasn’t the retiring kind. It’s going to take time.” “Time’s part of the problem. One of six, lieutenant. What does that say to you?” “That he has five more in mind, and wants us to know it. He enjoys his work and wants to be the focus of our attention.” She took a careful breath. “There’s not enough for a full psychiatric profile. We can’t say how long he’ll be satisfied by the thrill of this murder, when he’ll need his next fix. It could be today. It could be a year from now. We can’t bank on him being careless.” Whitney merely nodded. “Are you having problems with the rightful termination?” The knife slicked with blood. The small ruined body at her feet. “Nothing I can’t handle.” “Be sure of it, Dallas. I don’t need an officer on a sensitive case like this who’s worried whether she should or shouldn’t use her weapon.” “I’m sure of it.” She was the best he had, and he couldn’t afford to doubt her. “Are you up to playing politics?” His lips curved thinly. “Senator DeBlass is on his way over. He flew into New York last night.” “Diplomacy isn’t my strong suit.” “I’m aware of that. But you’re going to work on it. He wants to talk to the investigating officer, and he went over my head to arrange it. Orders came down from the chief. You’re to give the senator your full cooperation.” “This is a Code Five investigation,” Eve said stiffly. “I don’t care if orders came down from God Almighty, I’m not giving confidential data to a civilian.” Whitney’s smile widened. He had a good, ordinary face, probably the one he was born with. But when he smiled and meant it, the flash of white teeth against the cocoa colored skin turned the plain features into the special. “I didn’t hear that. And you didn’t hear me tell you to give him no more than the obvious facts. What you do hear me tell you, Lieutenant Dallas, is that the gentleman from Virginia is a pompous, arrogant asshole. Unfortunately, the asshole has power. So watch your step.” “Yes, sir.” He glanced at his watch, then slipped the file and disc into his safe drawer. “You’ve got time for a cup of coffee . . . and, lieutenant,” he added as she rose. “If you’re having trouble sleeping, take your authorized sedative. I want my officers sharp.” “I’m sharp enough.” Senator Gerald DeBlass was undoubtedly pompous. He was unquestionably arrogant. After one full minute in his company, Eve agreed that he was undeniably an asshole. He was a compact, bull of a man, perhaps six feet, two hundred and twenty. His crop of white hair was cut sharp and thin as a razor so that his head seemed huge and bullet sleek. His eyes were nearly black, as were the heavy brows over them. They were large, like his nose, his mouth. His hands were enormous, and when he clasped Eve’s briefly on introduction, she noted they were smooth and soft as a baby’s. He brought his adjutant with him. Derrick Rockman was a whiplike man in his early forties. Though he was nearly six-five, Eve gave DeBlass twenty pounds on him. Neat, tidy, his pin-striped suit and slate blue tie showed not a crease. His face was solemn, attractively even featured, his movements restrained and controlled as he assisted the more flamboyant senator out of his cashmere overcoat. “What the hell have you done to find the monster who killed my granddaughter?” DeBlass demanded. “Everything possible, senator.” Commander Whitney remained standing. Though he offered DeBlass a seat, the man prowled the room, as he was given to prowl the New Senate Gallery in East Washington. “You’ve had twenty-four hours and more,” DeBlass shot back, his voice deep and booming. “It’s my understanding you’ve assigned only two officers to the investigation.” “For security purposes, yes. Two of my best officers,” the commander added. “Lieutenant Dallas heads the investigation and reports solely to me.” DeBlass turned those hard black eyes on Eve. “What progress have you made?” “We identified the weapon, ascertained the time of death. We’re gathering evidence and interviewing residents of Ms. DeBlass’s building, and tracking the names in her personal and business logs. I’m working to reconstruct the last twenty-four hours of her life.” “It should be obvious, even to the slowest mind, that she was murdered by one of her clients.” He said the word in a hiss. “There was no appointment listed for several hours prior to her death. Her last client has an alibi for the critical hour.” “Break it,” DeBlass demanded. “A man who would pay for sexual favors would have no compunction about murder.” Though Eve failed to see the correlation, she remembered her job and nodded. “I’m working on it, senator.” “I want copies of her appointment books.” “That’s not possible, senator,” Whitney said mildly. “All evidence of a capital crime is confidential.” DeBlass merely snorted and gestured toward Rockman. “Commander.” Rockman reached in his left breast pocket and drew out a sheet of paper affixed with a holographic seal. “This document from your chief of police authorizes the senator access to any and all evidence and investigative data on Ms. DeBlass’s murder.” Whitney barely glanced at the document before setting it aside. He’d always considered politics a coward’s game, and hated that he was forced to play it. “I’ll speak to the chief personally. If the authorization holds, we’ll have copies to you by this afternoon.” Dismissing Rockman, he looked back at DeBlass. “The confidentiality of evidence is a major tool in the investigative process. If you insist on this, you risk undermining the case.” “The case, as you put it, commander, was my flesh and blood.” “And as such, I’d hope your first priority would be assisting us to bring her killer to justice.” “I’ve served justice for more than fifty years. I want that information by noon.” He picked up his coat, tossed it over one beefy arm. “If I’m not satisfied that you’re doing everything in your power to find this maniac, I’ll see that you’re removed from this office.” He turned toward Eve. “And that the next thing you investigate, lieutenant, will be sticky fingered teenagers at a shop-com.” After he stormed out, Rockman used his quiet, solemn eyes to apologize. “You must forgive the senator. He’s overwrought. However much strain there was between him and his granddaughter, she was family. Nothing is more vital to the senator than his family. Her death, this kind of violent, senseless death, is devastating to him.” “Right,” Eve muttered. “He looked all choked up.” Rockman smiled; he managed to look amused and sorrowful at once. “Proud men often disguise their grief behind aggression. We have every confidence in your abilities and your tenacity, lieutenant. Commander,” he nodded. “We’ll expect the data this afternoon. Thank you for your time.” “He’s a smooth one,” Eve muttered when Rockman shut the door quietly behind him. “You’re not going to cave, commander.” “I’ll give them what I have to.” His voice was sharp and edged with suppressed fury. “Now, go get me more.” Police work was too often drudgery. After five hours of staring at her monitor as she ran makes on the names in DeBlass’s books, Eve was more exhausted than she would have been after a marathon race. Even with Feeney taking a portion of the names with his skill and superior equipment, there were too many for such a small investigative unit to handle quickly. Sharon had been a very popular girl. Feeling discretion would gain her more than aggression, Eve contacted the clients by ’link and explained herself. Those who balked at the idea of an interview were cheerfully invited to come into Cop Central, charged with obstruction of justice. By midafternoon she had spoken personally with the first dozen on the client list, and took a detour back to the Gorham. DeBlass’s neighbor, the elegant man from the elevator, was Charles Monroe. Eve found him in, and entertaining a client. Slickly handsome in a black silk robe, and smelling seductively of sex, Charles smiled engagingly. “I’m terribly sorry, lieutenant. My three o’clock appointment has another fifteen minutes.” “I’ll wait.” Without invitation, Eve stepped inside. Unlike DeBlass’s apartment, this one ran to deep, cushy chairs in leather and thick carpets. “Ah . . .” Obviously amused, Charles glanced behind him, where a door was discreetly closed at the end of a short hallway. “Privacy and confidentiality are, you understand, vital to my profession. My client is apt to be disconcerted if she discovers the police on my doorstep.” “No problem. Got a kitchen?” He let out a weighty sigh. “Sure. Right through that doorway. Make yourself at home. I won’t be long.” “Take your time.” Eve strolled off to the kitchen. In contrast to the elaborate living area, this was spartan. It seemed Charles spent little time eating in. Still, he had a full-size friggie unit rather than a cold cell, and she found the treasure of a Pepsi chilling. Satisfied for the moment, she sat down to enjoy it while Charles finished off his three o’clock. Soon enough, she heard the murmur of voices, a man’s, a woman’s, a light laugh. Moments later, he came in, the same easy smile on his face. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” “No problem. Are you expecting anyone else?” “Not until later this evening.” He took out a Pepsi for himself, broke the freshness seal from the tube, and poured it into a tall glass. He rolled the tube into a ball and popped it into the recycler. “Dinner, the opera, and a romantic rendezvous.” “You like that stuff? Opera?” she asked when he flashed a grin. “Hate it. Can you think of anything more tedious than some big-chested woman screaming in German half the night?” Eve thought it over. “Nope.” “But there you are. Tastes vary.” His smile faded as he joined her at the little nook under the kitchen window. “I heard about Sharon on the news this morning. I’ve been expecting someone to come by. It’s horrible. I can’t believe she’s dead.” “You knew her well?” “We’ve been neighbors more than three years—and occasionally we worked together. Now and again, one of our clients would request a trio, and we’d share the business.” “And when it wasn’t business, did you still share?” Read more

Zero To Hero Crypto Guide:

Soft Foods for Easier Eating Cookbook: Easy-to-Follow Recipes for People Who Have Chewing and Swallowing Problems

From Publishers Weekly When patients have difficulty eating due to illness, surgery, an injury or medical treatments like chemotherapy, they're often advised (or forced) to alter their diets. Those patients are likely to welcome this primer and recipe collection from dieticians Woodruff (an RD) and Leah Gilbert-Henderson (a PhD). Gilbert-Henderson didn't just talk the talk, but committed herself to months on a pureed diet, informing her work with valuable perspective on the difficulty and monotony of a soft-foods diet. Since restrictions vary from patient to patient, the authors approach the subject with multiple needs and appetites in mind. Recipes range from the expected (smoothies, custards, scrambled eggs) to more involved, flavorful fare like Baked French Toast, Sweet Potato Soup with Cilantro Pesto, and Burgers with Barbecue Sauce. In addition to simple instructions, each recipe offers nutritional information and ways to increase or decrease calories and to remix dependable standbys. Packed with tips and tricks from those who've been there, this is a vital work that opens a vista of flavors to those whose options are severely limited. Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. Review "[ Soft Foods for Easier Eating Cookbook ] is a vital work that opens a vista of flavors to those whose options are severely limited." ― Publishers Weekly About the Author Sandra Woodruff, MS, RD, LD/N, has a master’s of science in food and nutrition from Florida State University. She specializes in diet-related health problems, and is the best-selling author of many health-related cookbooks, including Soft Foods for Easier Eating Cookbook. Leah Gilbert-Henderson, PhD, received her doctorate in nutrition science from the University of Tennessee. After moving to Tallahassee, Florida, Leah became a full-time clinical dietitian at a subacute hospital and long-term care facility. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. If you or a loved one has recently been told that myou must follow an easy-to-chew, soft, or smooth diet, we know that you are going through a difficult time. Whether the problem is long-term or only temporary, it will require change and the ability to learn and accept a new way of eating. This book was written to help you through this challenging period and to convince you that chewing or swallowing difficulties do not mean the end of good-tasting food, nor do they mean hours of slaving in the kitchen. Easy-to eat dishes can also be easy to prepare and easy to enjoy. This book will show you how it’s done.You will be amazed by the variety of tastes and visual delights that can be created while keeping it smooth. Hospitals frequently make puréed diets by simply putting whatever they are cooking for their main course into a food processor. They may add a little liquid and thickener, but otherwise, they are simply blending a food that we don’t normally eat in puréed form. Because the results are not very appetizing, people often refuse these foods even when chewing or swallowing problems make a special diet necessary. But if you avoid foods that are easily eaten and digested, you may be unable to maintain a healthy weight and give your body the best chance of healing.There is an alternative. You can compensate for the variety you lose in texture by emphasizing a range of tastes and colors. Throughout the world, countless dishes featured in gourmet restaurants are not only soft or smooth in texture, but also rich in both taste and visual appeal. This book will show you simple ways to create delicious and appetizing foods so you can more fully enjoy eating.Part One of this book highlights basic strategies for living with dysphagia, or difficulty in swallowing, as well as other problems that require a mechanically altered diet. You will learn about the conditions that can benefit from a soft or smooth diet, and you will find tips for dealing with added difficulties such as nausea, diminished appetite, and altered taste. You will then learn how to stock your pantry and equip your kitchen so that you can make soft and smooth foods with ease―and, when necessary, at a moment’s notice. Part One also includes special sections on puréeing and thickening, simple techniques that you may need to master not only as you follow the recipes in this book, but also as you convert family favorites into easy-to-eat dishes. Finally, you’ll find guidelines that will help you keep your diet healthy as you meet your special needs.Part Two puts principles into practice with over 150 delicious soft and smooth recipes that cater to a wide range of tastes and dietary needs. From smashing smoothies and sumptuous soups to hearty entrées and sensational sides, you will discover how to prepare healthful and appealing meals. In addition to offering simple step-by-step instructions, each recipe provides comprehensive nutritional information, including diabetic exchanges, and specifies whether the dish is suitable for easy-to-chew, soft, or smooth/puréed diets. In many cases, tips have been included to help you boost or decrease calories, cut fat, or otherwise modify the recipe so that it is right for you in every way.We realize that putting together meals can be a challenge to someone who’s new to easy-to-chew, soft, and smooth diets. That’s why, in addition to the recipes, we include several days of menus that will help you create satisfying and nutritionally balanced meals by joining home-cooked dishes with ready-toeat foods. Also included is a list of manufacturers that can provide you with nutritional supplements, special ingredients such as thickeners, and prepared meals that are suitable for even the smoothest of diets. A list of helpful organizations is offered as well, enabling you to find further information about health, diet, and more.An easy-to-swallow diet does not have to mean a decline in the quality of life. Rather, it can signal the beginning of new cooking adventures. We wish you health, happiness, and many satisfying meals to come. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. If you or a loved one has recently been told that myou must follow an easy-to-chew, soft, or smooth diet, we know that you are going through a difficult time. Whether the problem is long-term or only temporary, it will require change and the ability to learn and accept a new way of eating. This book was written to help you through this challenging period and to convince you that chewing or swallowing difficulties do not mean the end of good-tasting food, nor do they mean hours of slaving in the kitchen. Easy-to eat dishes can also be easy to prepare and easy to enjoy. This book will show you how it’s done.You will be amazed by the variety of tastes and visual delights that can be created while keeping it smooth. Hospitals frequently make puréed diets by simply putting whatever they are cooking for their main course into a food processor. They may add a little liquid and thickener, but otherwise, they are simply blending a food that we don’t normally eat in puréed form. Because the results are not very appetizing, people often refuse these foods even when chewing or swallowing problems make a special diet necessary. But if you avoid foods that are easily eaten and digested, you may be unable to maintain a healthy weight and give your body the best chance of healing.There is an alternative. You can compensate for the variety you lose in texture by emphasizing a range of tastes and colors. Throughout the world, countless dishes featured in gourmet restaurants are not only soft or smooth in texture, but also rich in both taste and visual appeal. This book will show you simple ways to create delicious and appetizing foods so you can more fully enjoy eating.Part One of this book highlights basic strategies for living with dysphagia, or difficulty in swallowing, as well as other problems that require a mechanically altered diet. You will learn about the conditions that can benefit from a soft or smooth diet, and you will find tips for dealing with added difficulties such as nausea, diminished appetite, and altered taste. You will then learn how to stock your pantry and equip your kitchen so that you can make soft and smooth foods with ease―and, when necessary, at a moment’s notice. Part One also includes special sections on puréeing and thickening, simple techniques that you may need to master not only as you follow the recipes in this book, but also as you convert family favorites into easy-to-eat dishes. Finally, you’ll find guidelines that will help you keep your diet healthy as you meet your special needs.Part Two puts principles into practice with over 150 delicious soft and smooth recipes that cater to a wide range of tastes and dietary needs. From smashing smoothies and sumptuous soups to hearty entrées and sensational sides, you will discover how to prepare healthful and appealing meals. In addition to offering simple step-by-step instructions, each recipe provides comprehensive nutritional information, including diabetic exchanges, and specifies whether the dish is suitable for easy-to-chew, soft, or smooth/puréed diets. In many cases, tips have been included to help you boost or decrease calories, cut fat, or otherwise modify the recipe so that it is right for you in every way.We realize that putting together meals can be a challenge to someone who’s new to easy-to-chew, soft, and smooth diets. That’s why, in addition to the recipes, we include several days of menus that will help you create satisfying and nutritionally balanced meals by joining home-cooked dishes with ready-toeat foods. Also included is a list of manufacturers that can provide you with nutritional supplements, special ingredients such as thickeners, and prepared meals that are suitable for even the smoothest of diets. A list of helpful organizations is offered as well, enabling you to find further information about health, diet, and more.An easy-to-swallow diet does not have to mean a decline in the quality of life. Rather, it can signal the beginning of new cooking adventures. We wish you health, happiness, and many satisfying meals to come. Read more

The Berenstain Bears, The Very First Christmas (Berenstain Bears/Living Lights: A Faith Story)

About the Author Stan and Jan Berenstain introduced the first Berenstain Bears books in 1962. Mike Berenstain grew up watching his parents work together to write about and draw these lovable bears. Eventually he started drawing and writing about them too. Though Stan died in 2005 and Jan in 2012, Mike continues to create the delightful Bear adventures from his studio in Pennsylvania, in an area that looks much like the sunny dirt road deep in Bear Country. Stan and Jan Berenstain introduced the first Berenstain Bears books in 1962. Mike Berenstain grew up watching his parents work together to write about and draw these lovable bears. Eventually he started drawing and writing about them too. Though Stan died in 2005 and Jan in 2012, Mike continues to create the delightful Bear adventures from his studio in Pennsylvania, in an area that looks much like the sunny dirt road deep in Bear Country.