by Liz Schulte
For now, though, they had this … he claimed her lips. She melted under his kiss, tasting like caramel cappuccino and the chocolate cake they’d indulged in with their coffees. Her tongue met his with eagerness, melding in a way that made him shudder to think what it would be like to have her underneath him again, meeting him thrust for thrust. She wanted him the way he wanted her. Always. They were really good together. No, they were fantastic together.
“You are the best kisser ever! But I gotta go. I had fun yesterday. The most fun I’ve ever had. I mean, ever. I’m sorry, really sorry that we can’t—you know. Oh shit. I can’t do this. Bye, Bret.” She pulled away, tears in her eyes, her trembling hand against her kiss-swollen mouth … then she turned and stumbled away without a word or a glance.
Bret paid the check and hurried outside. He pushed through the doors in time to see Karee’s pull her silver Volvo to the parking lot’s exit. Through the window he saw her, a big grin on her cute face and her hand flapping a sloppy good-bye.
His heart thumped erratically and his stomach felt filled with metal shards. With regret an ache in his soul, he watched the Volvo turn onto the street and speed away.
Chapter Seven
On March 21st, Karee sat on her new red sofa and surveyed her apartment or, as the English called it, her flat through tear-filled eyes. Freshly-painted lemon-yellow walls, toe-dipping white shag carpet, beautiful cherry wood furniture … hell, she owned a bed Oliver Twist would kill sleep on. Her apartment in Las Vegas had been an ode to sparse, barren, and dusty. Here, she had the urge to create a more suitable living space. She wanted a home, not just a place to sack out at night.
Her puffy-eyed gaze sought the two magazines, both February issues, next to her. The tears fell and she indulged in yet another sobbing episode. She collapsed on the couch, a wad of tissues in her hand as she released the pent-up emotion. What’s wrong with you? You silly twit. Stop blubbering.
The glossy mags were February issues. One cover featured a rain of white rose petals on a bed with red silk sheets. The other sported a scantily clad young woman with a sexy-naughty gaze, holding a bow and arrow in her hands.
Instead of thinking about the how she felt, Karee closed her eyes and let other memories wash over her… the day before she left Vegas, Bret had appeared on her doorstep with a dozen roses and a gold necklace. There was a heart pendant attached, and inside, the words for my sexy Loralee. Happy Valentine’s Day. Bubba. She should have known that very moment that she was head-over-heels for him. His goofy and sweet present had melted all of her resolve. And even though, Bret was the perfect guy for her, and he’d given her a Valentine’s Day she’d never forget or regret, still, she went to London.
When Karee arrived in England, she’d thrown herself into her new job. The last four weeks had been a blur of putting together the office, hiring editors, and decorating her new apartment. Any time thoughts of Bret interfered, which was far too often, she battered away the terrible yearning that clawed through her with more work, marathon shopping, or Valium-induced sleep. Until today, she believed she would get over him and that, tough luck ol’ girl, they weren’t meant to be together. Then Vee, that cruel, cruel woman, FedExed the issues of Max-Out and Love.
Her eyes flicked open, and she slowly eased up to a sitting position. Once again, she found herself staring at the stupid magazines. Oh, Bret! You … you idiot!
The phone rang and she leaned over the sofa’s overstuffed arm to snatch up the receiver. “’Lo.”
“Did you get the magazines?”
“Yes, Vee.”
“You hate me?”
“A little.”
“You’ll get over it. When’s your flight?”
Karee sniffed and blinked away more tears. “I never said I was coming back to Vegas. I have work to do.”
“When is your flight?”
Karee sighed, giving up. Of course, she was flying to Vegas. No way could she let what Bret had done stand—and she needed to face him. “Tomorrow morning.” She gave her boss the flight information, said good-bye, and hung up.
* * *
Karee Lomen sat in the first-class section of the airplane with thighs pressed together. Her laptop case covered, appropriately, her lap, hiding from the too solicitous flight attendant the rigid clench of her legs, easily visible given the tight fit of her jeans.
The plane hit a pocket of turbulence and shook violently for a few seconds before smoothing out again. She bit her lip to keep from moaning. Her fingernails dug into the leather armrests and she sucked in a shaky breath.
“Everything okay?” asked Maureen, the svelte blonde who had asked the same question about forty times since take-off. “You look flushed. How about another glass of champagne?”
Karee stretched her lips into a smile and shook her head. “N-no, thanks.”
“Everything will be fine. We’re almost there.” The woman’s voice held a note of sympathy.
She flew seven hours from London to New York City and another five hours on a nonstop from NYC to Las Vegas. Being on a plane again gave her visions of Bret and their mile-high adventure. She couldn’t suppress the lusty shiver running down her stomach to her groins. She’d only managed the flight home thanks to Sominex. Thank heavens, she’d spent most of the time asleep.
Static issued from the speakers then Maureen’s cultured voice spoke. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We are fifteen minutes from McCarran Airport. Please fasten your seatbelts and put your trays and seatbacks in the upright position. Thank you for flying with us, and we hope you enjoy your stay in Las Vegas.”
It was an excruciating, frustrating fifteen minutes. She needed to get off this plane, and soon. The minute the flight attendant released the passengers to disembark, Karee lugged her laptop case, her small purse tucked inside it, and her carry-on suitcase into the aisle. Her panties were freakin’ soaked, her body trembled, and she felt feverish.
Maureen met her at the door. “Have a good time in Vegas.”
“Thanks.” Then Karee was out of the plane, down the causeway, and hurrying toward the escalators that took passengers to baggage claim. With her laptop case hanging from her shoulder, she picked up her carry-on suitcase and stepped between the lazy-assed people waiting on the moving steps.
She spotted Bret at the bottom of the escalator waiting for her. Her heart skipped several beats then started pounding furiously. He looked as he did the first time she’d saw him, in khakis and brown shirt and that brown leather jacket. And yeah, he still looked as delicious as a café mocha. Damn it. She hadn’t had a chance to marshal her thoughts and emotion, nor had she figured out what she wanted to say to him.
When she joined him, he asked, “You read the article, huh?”
“It was the most … the most…” She felt tears crowd her eyes. Aw, crap. She’d done enough crying already! “The most wonderful thing I’ve ever read. You could’ve called or emailed, you know? It’s been torture this past month trying, unsuccessfully, I might add, not to think about you. And then you go and make something that should’ve been purely about sex and bodies and sweat into something beautiful … and romantic.” The words flying out of her mouth slowed to silence; she inhaled a breath. God, she felt so nervous.
Bret pulled the suitcase out of her hand, whipped off her laptop case and purse, and laid a kiss on her so fervent she forgot everything, except the feel of his mouth on hers. He held her close, like a thief embracing the crown jewels. After a minute, she managed to free herself. She stared up at him, unable to formulate a single sentence.
“What we shared was beautiful and romantic. And sexy and sweaty.” Bret grinned and kissed her again. “How was I supposed to know how you felt? I couldn’t risk that you’d ignore a phone call or an email. I didn’t want to hear the ‘we can be friends’ speech. So I used the article. It was hell waiting for your reaction.”
“How did you talk Vee into it?”
“After she decided not to kill me, she agreed it would ma
ke a nice Love article. Max grumbled about its mushiness, but I think under all that testosterone, he’s got a heart.”
“What about me in London, and you in Las Vegas? That’s a really long distant relationship.”
“Oh. Didn’t I tell you? I quit as Managing Editor for Max-Out. I’m going back to freelancing, and I’m relocating to London.”
Joy sputtered through Karee, joy and confusion. “You’re moving to London?”
“Have computer, will travel.”
“But there’s … we haven’t exactly known … are you sure?”
“If you’re worried about whether or not I’m crazy for quitting my job and moving to England just so we can explore the possibilities of our relationship, you’re right.” He leaned close, looking directly into her eyes. “I’m crazy about you.”
Her emotions collided with the agitated state of her body. She leaned in close, pressing her lips to his then put her hand on the growing bulge in his khakis. “It’s a long flight to London, Bubba.”
“I’m looking forward to it, Loralee. And everything that comes after.”
About the Author
Michele Bardsley is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of paranormal romance. When she’s not writing sexy tales of otherworldly love, she watches “Supernatural,” consumes chocolate, crochets hats, reads on her Kindle, and spends time with her husband and their fur babies.
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Cold Flame
by Ann Charles
Copyright © 2016 Ann Charles
All Rights Reserved
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by an means now known or hereafter invented, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher, Ann Charles.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental.
Cover Art by C.S. Kunkle
Cover Design by Sharon Benton
Editing by Mimi the “Grammar Chick”
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2016
Summary
Zoe Parker has a knack for knocking her old flame out cold. Will fireman Reid Martin give up trying to win her back and finally let the smoldering embers between them die?
* * *
COLD FLAME is the third story in the “Deadwood Shorts” collection, set between the sixth and seventh books in the Deadwood Mystery Series.
From the Deadwood Shorts Collection
Deadwood, South Dakota
I couldn’t remember the last time my Aunt Zoe killed anyone.
So, when I walked into her glass-making workshop after another unsuccessful day of selling real estate in the Deadwood area, I almost keeled over and ended up on the floor next to the man already lying there.
Aunt Zoe stood over Reid Martin’s body, holding her glass-furnace block tool in her hand like a baseball bat. At the sound of my gasp, she looked around, her eyes wide in surprise.
“Oh my God!” I took a step back, my hand covering my chest. “Did you kill him?”
Her surprise turned into a frown of exasperation. “No, Violet, I did not kill him.” She set the long wooden tool down on her worktable with a heavy thunk. “I just knocked him out. Cold.”
“You just knocked him out?” I gaped again. She acted as if knocking out men were something she practiced every third Saturday of the month.
“Quit standing there catching flies with your mouth and shut that door before someone else comes along to accuse me of murder.”
I obeyed, locking the door for good measure. The last thing we needed was one of my almost ten-year-old twins to walk in and witness their great aunt’s handiwork.
I joined her by her worktable, bending down to make doubly sure Reid was still breathing. I frowned at the red mark on the jaw of Deadwood’s fire captain. “What happened?”
“It was an accident.”
“You expect me to believe you accidentally clobbered your old flame upside the head with your glassblower’s block?”
“I’d appreciate the benefit of the doubt, Violet Lynn.” Her emphasis on my middle name put me in my place, subduing any more wisecracks.
“What do we do now?”
She leaned back against the table, crossing her arms. “Wait for him to wake up.”
“Should we call an ambulance?”
“No, he’ll be okay. I didn’t hit him that hard, more like a tap.”
If that was her version of a tap, I’d hate to see what she could do with a full swing.
“You think he’ll press charges?” The last thing I wanted was to have a certain Deadwood detective show up and start breathing down my neck yet again.
“No.” She sounded sure of that.
“Why not?”
“He never has before.”
“This isn’t your first knockout?”
She shook her head. “He has a glass jaw. All it takes is one square hit to drop him.”
A glass jaw? Reid needed to learn how to roll with the punches better. My dad had taught me about glass jaws back when I watched boxing with him as a kid. “How do you know Reid has a glass jaw?”
“That’s how we met.”
“In a boxing ring?”
“No, at a fire.”
I scowled at her. “You’re not making sense and you know it.”
“I’d rather not talk about it. How was your day? Sell any houses?”
“Stop trying to change the subject and tell me what happened.”
“I told you, I accidentally hit him with my block and knocked him out.”
I still wasn’t buying that this was a mishap. One did not accidentally clock someone upside the head with a glassblower’s block, but right now I was more interested in the distant past. “Not this story. Tell me how you met Reid and learned about his glass jaw.”
When she hesitated, I hopped up on her worktable, leaning back on my palms, settling in. “I’ve been a patient girl, Aunt Zoe. You always put me off when I ask you why you are still so angry at Reid.” Angry seemed too tame a word for a woman who threatened to fill Reid with shotgun pellets for simply gracing her doorstep. “I’m not leaving until you spill. And if you refuse, I’ll sit here until your old, out-cold flame wakes up and get his version of your affair.”
Her hard glare made me only more determined. I kicked my legs as if I had nothing else in the world vying for my time. “I can wait here all night.”
“What about your children? They’ll need to eat.”
“Harvey’s coming over later.” Old man Harvey was my crime solving partner and self-appointed bodyguard. And, like me, he was dying to know the story behind the thunder and lightning always raging between Aunt Zoe and Reid. “He’ll feel sorry for the kids and feed them.” When she still stood resolute, I changed tactics. “Come on, Aunt Zoe. I’ll even pinkie swear to silence.” I held out my pinkie toward her.
She frowned at my finger. “If I tell you this, you have to promise to stop trying to set me up with Reid.”
“I’ve done no such thing.”
“Your pants are on fire.”
“Okay, maybe once or twice.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Or three or four.” Her lips flat-lined. “Okay, maybe ten-ish times, but it’s only because I love you and I want to see you happy.”
“I am happy.”
“Happy with Reid.”
“Give it up, kiddo. For some of us, happily-ev
er-after endings never roll around.”
“Sheesh. That certainly sounds bleak coming from someone who is usually an optimist.”
Aunt Zoe shrugged. “Love hurts, just like that old song says.”
She was right on that score. I had a couple of battle scars of my own. Hell, I was scared shitless to fully dive back in without wearing at least a pair of arm floaties just in case my heart ended up reenacting the last moments of the unsinkable Titanic.
But enough about my love life. “Tell me about this fiery first meeting between you and Reid.”
“It wasn’t fiery. The only thing burning was the house.”
“I’m all ears.”
She pulled out a stool and sat. “We met a little over five years ago, a couple of weeks after my forty-eighth birthday if I remember right.” She rubbed her chin in thought. “I was standing in the front yard of a house supposedly infested with poltergeists, watching it burn to the ground, when this firefighter walked over to me with his helmet on and shield down.” …
* * *
“Hey, lady,” a deep but muffled voice broke through Zoe’s fire-filled trance, “you need to stand over on the other side of the street with all of the other onlookers.”
Zoe pulled her gaze from the flames. The heat warmed her in spite of the cold spring night in the hills. The smell of burning wood and plastic and tar paper mixed together, coating the back of her throat with an acrid film. She looked up at him. The fire reflected in his shield.
“It wasn’t electrical,” she told him, disagreeing aloud with the conversation she’d overheard between two other firefighters, who were busy blasting the house with a spray of water.
The fireman pulled off his helmet. “What’d you say?”