“What with the aunts and all, the Queen would be in a fix,” he went on. “She could hardly snub Clevedon’s whole family—which is what she’d be doing, since the aunts had accepted his bride.”
“His bride,” his mother said bitterly. “His bride.” She threw Clara the sort of look Caesar must have given Brutus when the knife went in.
“This way at least, the deed was done behind the scenes,” Longmore went on, “not in front of the whole blasted ton.”
While his mother stirred this idea around in her seething mind, the carriage reached the front of Warford House. The footmen opened the carriage door, and the family emerged, the ladies shaking out their skirts as they stepped out onto the pavement.
Longmore said nothing and Clara said nothing but she shot him a grateful look before she hurried inside after their mother.
His father, however, lingered at the front step with Longmore. “Not coming in?”
“I think not,” Longmore said. “Did my best. Tried to pour oil and all that.”
“It won’t end,” his father said in a low voice. “Not for your mother. Shattered dreams and wounded pride and outraged sensibilities and whatnot. You see how it is. We can expect no peace in this family until Clara finds a suitable replacement for Clevedon. That’s not going to happen while she keeps encouraging that pack of loose screws.” He made a dismissive gesture. “Make them go away, will you, dammit?”
Countess of Igby’s ball
Saturday 30 May 1835
One o’clock in the morning
Longmore had been looking for Lord Adderley for some time. The fellow having proven too thick to take a hint, Longmore had decided that the simplest approach was to hit him until he understood that he was to keep off Clara.
The trouble was, Sophy Noirot was at Lady Igby’s party, too, and Longmore, unlike Argus, owned only the usual number of eyes.
He’d become distracted, watching Sophy flit hither and yon, no one paying her the slightest heed—except for the usual assortment of dolts who thought maidservants existed for their sport. Since he’d marked her as his sport, Longmore had started to move in, more than once, only to find that she didn’t need any help with would-be swains.
She’d “accidentally” spilled hot tea on the waistcoat of one gentleman who’d ventured too close. Another had followed her into an antechamber and tripped over something, landing on his face. A third had followed her down a passage and into a room. He’d come out limping a moment later.
Preoccupied with her adventures, Longmore not only failed to locate Adderley, but lost track of the sister he was supposed to be guarding from lechers and bankrupts. This would have been less of a problem had Sophy been watching her more closely. But Sophy had her own lechers to fend off.
Longmore wasn’t thinking about this. Thinking wasn’t his favorite thing to do, and thinking about more than one thing at a time upset his equilibrium. At the moment, his mind was on the men trespassing on what he’d decided was his property. Unfortunately, this meant he wasn’t aware of his mother losing sight of Clara at the same time. This happened because Lady Warford was carrying on a politely poisonous conversation with her best friend and worst enemy Lady Bartham.
In short, nobody who should have been paying attention was paying attention while Lord Adderley was steering Clara, as they waltzed, toward the other end of the ballroom, toward the doors leading to the terrace. None of those who should have been keeping a sharp eye out saw the wink Adderley sent his friends or the accompanying smirk.
It was the crowd’s movement that brought Longmore back to his surroundings and his main reason for being here.
The movement wasn’t obvious. It wasn’t meant to be. Men like Longmore were attuned to it, though. He had no trouble recognizing the sense of something in the air, the shift in the attention in some parts of the room, and the drifting toward a common destination. It was the change in the atmosphere one felt when a fight was about to happen.
The current was sweeping toward the terrace.
His gut told him something was amiss. It didn’t say what, but the warning was vehement, and he was a man who acted on instinct. He moved, and quickly.
He didn’t have to push his way through the crowd. Those who knew him knew they’d better get out of the way or be thrust out of the way.
He stormed out onto the terrace. A small audience had gathered. They got out of his way, too.
Nothing and nobody obstructed his view.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
#1 New York Times bestselling author STEPHANIE LAURENS began writing as an escape from the dry world of professional science, a hobby that quickly became a career. Her novels set in Regency England have captivated readers around the globe, making her one of the romance world’s most beloved and popular authors. All of her previous works remain in print and readily available. Readers can contact Stephanie via e-mail at [email protected]. Readers can join Stephanie's Private E-mail Newsletter List via her web site at www.stephanielaurens.com. For information on all of Stephanie's books, including updates on novels yet to come, visit her web site at www.stephanielaurens.com.
GAELEN FOLEY is the New York Times bestselling author of seventeen rich, bold historical romances set in the glittering world of Regency England and the Napoleonic Wars. Her books are available in fifteen languages around the world and have won numerous awards, including the Golden Leaf (three times), the Booksellers’ Best (twice), the National Readers’ Choice Award, the Holt Medallion, the CRW Award of Excellence, the Beacon, the Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award for Best Historical Adventure, and more. She lives in Pennsylvania with her hero-husband and a mischievous bichon frise. To learn more about Gaelen, her novels, and the romantic Regency period in which her books are set, please visit www.gaelenfoley.com.
LORETTA CHASE holds a B.A. from Clark University, where she majored in English and minored unofficially in visual art. Her past lives include clerical, administrative, and 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 e-mail address [email protected], visit her website at www.LorettaChase.com, and blog with her and six other authors at WordWenches.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
By Stephanie Laurens
The Lady Risks All
The Black Cobra Quartet
The Untamed Bride
The Elusive Bride
The Brazen Bride
The Reckless Bride
The Bastion Club Novels
The Lady Chosen
A Gentleman’s Honor
A Lady of His Own
A Fine Passion
To Distraction
Beyond Seduction
The Edge of Desire
Mastered By Love
Prequel
Captain Jack’s Woman
The Cynster Novels
Devil’s Bride
A Rake’s Vow
Scandal’s Bride
A Rogue’s Proposal
A Secret Love
All About Love
All About Passion
The Promise in a Kiss
On a Wild Night
On a Wicked Dawn
The Perfect Lover
The Ideal Bride
The Truth About Love
What Price Love?
The Taste of Innocence
Where the Heart Leads
Temptation and Surrender
The Cynster Sisters Trilogy
Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue
In Pursuit of Eliza Cynster
The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae
By Gaelen Foley
My Scandalo
us Viscount
My Ruthless Prince
My Irresistible Earl
My Dangerous Duke
My Wicked Marquess
By Loretta Chase
Scandal Wears Satin
Silk Is for Seduction
Last Night’s Scandal
Don’t Tempt Me
Your Scandalous Ways
Not Quite A Lady
The Last Hellion
Lord of Scoundrels
Give in to your impulses . . .
Read on for a sneak peek at four brand-new
e-book original tales of romance from Avon Books.
Available now wherever e-books are sold.
CIRCLE OF DANGER
By Carla Swafford
HEAT RISES
By Alice Gaines
SOMEBODY LIKE YOU
By Candis Terry
A MOST NAKED SOLUTION
By Anna Randol
An Excerpt from
CIRCLE OF DANGER
by Carla Swafford
The top-secret assassins of The Circle are back and on the hunt for a dangerous drug lord capable of bringing women to the brink of pleasure . . . and devastation.
Marie Beltane, a lowly data-entry specialist intent on proving she’s worthy of being a full operative, has just been injected with the drug responsible for the death of four local women . . . a drug that puts her sex drive into overdrive.
Arthur Ryker wants nothing more than to protect Marie, even if it means fulfilling her drug-induced . . . needs. But now a new evil has reared its ugly head—how far is Arthur willing to go to find an antidote and save the woman he always loved?
AN AVON RED NOVEL
CHAPTER ONE
Arthur Ryker sprang out of bed and immediately stood at attention, feet apart, his scarred hands in the “ready” position at waist level. One hand cupped by the other, restrained but prepared to kill. He shook his head and sighed. Just once he wanted to leave his bed like a regular person and not like a trained monkey.
“A bad dream?” a deep voice asked from the bedroom entrance. With one pierced black eyebrow lifted, Jack Drago leaned against the doorjamb.
Ignoring the question, Ryker walked naked into the bathroom. When he returned to grab some clothes out of the closet, Jack hadn’t moved, but his gaze had most likely inspected every inch of the room. There wasn’t much to see. A king-sized bed sat in a corner while a mirrorless dresser was centered against one wall—no pictures or the usual bric-a-brac to give away the occupant’s personality. Then again, maybe it did. Rather stark for a man who owned enough properties and businesses to keep his organization in the best covert weapons money could buy. He didn’t care what Jack thought about his bedroom. Except for a few hours of sleep and a shower and shave, Ryker rarely spent time in the room.
“What do you want?” he asked, glaring at his second-in-command.
With cold blue eyes, Jack studied him, then his gaze shifted away.
Ryker grunted. Not many people could deal with looking at the thick scars down the side of his body, but it was his blind eye that bothered most. White from the scar tissue damaged in a fire so many years ago, it was normally hidden beneath a patch. But Ryker’d be damned before he slept with one on. So if Jack decided to make a habit of waking him in the morning, he could fucking well get use to the sight. Considering the man had four visible piercings—and who knew how many hidden—along with tattoos covering one arm, Jack shouldn’t have a problem with his scars. The man understood pain.
With sure, quick movements, he thrust his legs into jeans and yanked on a black T-shirt. After tugging on his boots, he strapped a small pistol at his ankle. With his patch in place, using his fingers he combed hair over the strap securing its position. Hell, he needed a haircut again. Maybe he’d shave his head like Jack. A simple enough solution. If only the rest of his problems could be so easily solved.
“She’s in trouble,” Jack said in an even tone as if his voice could defuse a bad situation.
Ryker’s stomach and chest tightened as if he’d been hit. He knew who Jack referred to without adding a name. She happened to be part of why his life was so complicated.
“Did you hear me?” Jack straightened his stance.
“Yeah.” Desire to break someone’s neck raced through his body. “Where is she? What happened?”
With a sharp snap, he inserted a snub-nose into the shoulder holster hanging at his side and jerked on his leather jacket. He gritted his teeth for a few seconds to regain his composure. Then he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and exhaled.
“Last time Bryan heard from her, she’d entered the target’s house in Chattanooga and was downloading information off a laptop. He lost communication with her.” Jack quickly stepped out of the way for Ryker to move into the dark hallway. “They believe she’s still in the house. If the Wizard sticks to his MO, we’ll have about three hours before he takes her away or kills her.”
Ryker wasted no time in reaching a massive room with mirrors from ceiling to floor. When the mansion was built in the eighteen hundreds, the room was used as a ballroom. It was empty now, except for a Steinway covered with a white sheet, and the high-sheen hardwood floor sounded hollow as he tramped across it. He used the room for one purpose only—to reach the stairwell hidden behind one of the mirrors.
“Took you long enough to spit it out.” Ryker glanced at his second-in-command.
Jack remained quiet, staring straight ahead. Ryker didn’t really expect an excuse. The man knew how he felt about that. No excuse for failure, especially when it came to protecting Marie.
Four months earlier, Ryker had moved The Circle compound from the suburbs of Atlanta to an area near the Smoky Mountains. The mansion was situated in the middle of almost ten thousand acres, which included a large mountain filled with a network of tunnels and bunkers perfect to house the facility he needed. Last year, the final phase of the project was completed and now they were training new recruits in the underground Sector. The nearly fifteen square miles provided the privacy he needed. In a world filled with evil people, his covert organization of assassins came in handy.
Their footsteps echoed in the long, well-lit tunnel. A semi could pass through the passageway without scraping the side mirrors or the tips of muffler stacks.
“Who was her backup?” Ryker asked.
When a few seconds passed without an answer, Ryker stopped and faced Jack.
“They’re handling it.”
Ryker continued to stare.
His second-in-command sighed. “She went in without a backup.”
Jaw clenched, Ryker strode to the iris scan next to a large metal door. A buzz sounded and he slammed the door against the inner wall.
The gripping pain in his belly grew and reminded him of the fear he had lived with for years before he took over control of The Circle. She could not keep doing this to him. He refused to allow anything more to happen to her. She knew this and still didn’t listen.
The noise level in the basketball court-sized room almost broke the sound barrier with printers running and people shouting or talking to those sitting next to them—or to others on the Internet or satellite phones—along with the clicking of keyboards. Each wall covered with large screens captured a different scene of people living their lives in various parts of the world. In the center of the room, faces bleached white by the monitors in front of them, the supervisors and handlers communicated with their operatives.
Ryker stopped in the middle of the bullpen, searching for his prey.
The balding, whipcord-thin Bryan Tilton stood over a handler shouting instructions and pointing at the screen. Maybe a sixth sense alerted Bryan. He looked up and his eyes widened.
Ryker charged toward him, ignoring the people ducking for cover behind partitions and beneath desks.
“You son of a bitch!”
His fist clipped Bryan on the chin, sending the man sliding across the floor. Desire to flatten the asshole’s pointy nose al
most overrode all of Ryker’s control. Good thing Bryan remained sprawled out on the linoleum.
Standing over the man, Ryker opened and closed his fists. The temptation to punish him further for his stupidity warred with the fear of jabbing the cartilage of the idiot’s nose into his brain.
“I swear, sir, I told her to wait until I could get backup in place, but she wouldn’t listen.” Bryan cupped his jaw and shifted it from side to side. “Two of our operatives are held up in a traffic accident about twenty-five miles from her last location.”
“Last location?” Ryker gritted his teeth.
“The target’s house, off Riverview Road.” Bryan scooted back when Ryker took a step. The man’s head bobbled on his skinny neck. “As soon as Phil and Harry reach it, they’ll extract her.”
Afraid he would crack the man’s chicken neck, Ryker turned away and pointed at the nearest handler. “You! Sal?”
Mohawk trembling, the pale man nodded.
Ryker said, “Tell Phil and Harry to call me on my cell as soon as they reach the house. Do not go inside! Jack and I will be there in twenty minutes. Have them wait for us.AHH” He turned back to Bryan. “Have the Spirit ready in five minutes.” His helicopter could cover the miles quickly and land almost anywhere.
Marie Beltane struggled against the chains restraining her on a cot that reeked of sex and urine. She stifled a groan. No, no, no. Nausea traveled up her throat.
All the beams and pipes overhead felt like they were squeezing the air out of the room. Basements were never among her favorite rooms. The dampness and creepy-crawly things always gave her the willies.
She still couldn’t believe she’d been caught. Bryan had sworn it would be an easy gig. Prior surveillance had revealed the man worked each evening at a massive bank of computers. Go in and download a flash drive load of info and get out. The target always left his house at nine in the morning and didn’t return until nine that evening. Breaking into the house when most people ate dinner in the surrounding homes had sounded so easy. Few would look out their windows as they settled down in front of their plates or televisions or both. Hours would pass before he returned home. But he came back early.
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