by Jill Shalvis
“Good.” She gulped in air. “Because I’m not.”
“I know. You’re cut from the glass.” His voice was hoarse with fear, for her, she realized, as he carefully lifted her and set her on his bed.
“No, it’s not the cuts. Bo—”
“I didn’t sleep with you to get back at her,” he said.
She looked into his eyes. “I know.”
“Do you? Do you really?”
“Yeah. I do. But Bo? I, um, did something a little out of the norm for me. Like on Mars out of the norm, something…” She swallowed hard, managed a shaky smile. “Well, I sort of fell in love with you.”
Sally rolled to her back and groaned. “Are you kidding me? I’m lying here dying and you two are going to have a moment? Seriously?”
Bo lifted the gun on Sally again, all without taking his eyes off Mel. “Qualify ‘sort of.’”
“Sort of,” Mel said. “As in did.”
“Hey, my life is flashing before my eyes, people!” Sally yelled.
“You fell in love with me,” Bo repeated to Mel, looking dazed.
“Yes.”
“Unbelievable,” Sally muttered.
“Shut up!” both Mel and Bo said to her at the same time.
“I know we’re still working on the trust thing,” Mel said to Bo. “And I also know you’re leaving, but it was just too much for me to keep inside, I’m sorry. It just popped out, without permission.”
He had a funny look on his face so she rushed to finish. “I don’t mean to burden you, or make you feel—”
“You don’t want to burden me with your feelings,” he repeated slowly.
“Right.” Why was he sounding like a parrot? “Or make you feel like you have to see me when you come back into town, I just—”
“Make me feel like I have to see you.” He shook his head. “Mel, have you ever known me to do anything I don’t want to?”
“Well, no.”
“Or let someone make me do something?”
“No. But—”
“Yeah. Look, you’re a little crooked on all this. Especially since I love you back.”
“You…” Her breath caught. “You do?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Oh, my God. I didn’t imagine you’d—”
“Why not?”
“It’s just that you have it so together, and I never seem to, and—”
“It’s you.”
“What?”
“If I have it together,” he said. “It’s because of you.”
Mel’s eyes filled. Damn it.
“For years something’s been missing,” Bo said to her. “I always thought it was my dad, or that I couldn’t get the restoration business going, or maybe location…I always had a reason for not feeling…whole.”
Undone, she put her head to his chest. “Bo.”
“It’s you, Mel. You make me feel whole.”
Her heart was so full she could hardly stand it. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah.” He sounded as if maybe his throat was as tight as hers, and his eyes were as shiny as they’d been when he’d first seen the Beechcraft again. “And I do love you, Mel. So much.” He took a deep breath. “But you’re bleeding. You probably have glass embedded in your flesh, and I’m feeling a little drafty here, so—”
Two cops burst into the room, guns drawn. “Hands up!”
“Right on cue,” Bo said, and lifted his hands.
Mel, still on his lap, lifted her hands, too.
Sally just groaned.
“No one moves,” one of the cops said. “Until we straighten this out.”
Bo looked at Mel. “Actually, I’m good right here.”
Mel laughed through her tears and kissed him. “Me, too.”
Epilogue
Three months later…
AC/DC blared from the boom box on the counter, next to a tray fat with fresh donuts. Standing around the counter chowing down on said donuts was the usual morning crowd.
With some obvious differences.
Dimi was on a school break from her nursing program. And though the hour was obscenely early, she was smiling—grinning, actually—up into Danny’s face. She had a sunburn across her nose and cheeks from yesterday afternoon’s surfing lesson.
“You almost stood up that last time,” Danny told her proudly.
Dimi was learning to surf.
And to love.
“Shhh!” Char cranked up the music from ear splitting to glass cracking. “I love this song!” she shouted, and began to boogie her pregnant belly around the kitchen floor.
Al caught her up in his arms, laughing as he nuzzled his wife’s neck. “Hey, don’t drop my kid.”
Ernest rolled his eyes, grabbed his broom, and stalked off, muttering about displays of public affection.
Some things never changed.
Bo turned down the music. “Sorry, Char. I just want to say something.” He looked at Mel, whose entire heart gushed at just the sight of him, as it had every single day since he’d walked off that Gulfstream so many months ago now. “Mel and I would like to announce a new adventure.”
Char gasped hopefully.
So did Dimi.
Mel kept her face even, knowing what they thought. “We’re merging Anderson Air and Black Aviation,” she said.
“Oh.” Twin faces fell.
“What’s the matter?” Bo asked. “Aren’t you happy for us?”
Danny shook Bo’s hand. So did Al.
The women, both of them, tried to even out their clear disappointment. “Yes, of course,” Dimi said. “But I already knew that.”
“But what you don’t know,” Mel said, “is the new title for the company.”
“Black,” Bo said, letting his grin escape as he stole a peek at Mel, making her heart tip right on its side…“and Black Aviation.”
Dimi blinked.
Char blinked.
Black and Black Aviation.
As it sank in, they both squealed together and began jumping up and down as they crossed to Mel and gathered her in close.
“Does this mean—” Dimi started.
“That you’re getting married?” Char finished.
“Does it?” Dimi demanded.
“Tell us!” Char demanded.
Mel laughed and hugged them both, pulling back to show them her finger.
And the brand-new diamond on it.
This caused more screaming and more squeals, and Mel endured it all, finally pulling gently away to look at Bo. “Maybe we should have called the new merger Just Plane Trouble.”
Bo laughed, and snagged Mel’s heart all over again. He knew, as she did, that it didn’t matter what they called themselves, as long as they were together.
Here’s a peek at Lori Foster’s
“Luscious” in
BAD BOYS OF SUMMER.
Available now from Brava.
With that parting remark, Lucius made his escape, putting much needed distance between him and Bethany.
When he’d first bought the apartment building of six units, he hadn’t figured on renting exclusively to women. Yet that’s what he’d done. He’d surrounded himself with ladies.
Was he nuts? A masochist? Or too damn partial to those of the feminine variety? Probably the latter. He did love women, all ages, all professions, all sizes and personalities.
Fellow cops ribbed him endlessly over his circumstances. They nicknamed him sultan, which he supposed was better than Luscious. If they knew about the twins, he’d never hear the end of it, because they weren’t just twins. They were really hot twins—and one of them currently wore only panties and a T-shirt.
But oddly enough, it was the other twin who had him twitchy in the pants.
The one with the smart mouth and quick wit.
The one with the attitude.
And those big blue eyes…Of course, they both had pretty blue eyes. And silky, baby-fine brown hair. Lean bodies with understated curves. Soft, full mouths…
&n
bsp; On Marci, he appreciated the beauty, just as he liked the scenery in the park. Nothing more.
On Bethany, the combination made him wild with lust.
Lucius held his breath. If he didn’t, he breathed her, and he couldn’t deal with that on top of no sleep and a traumatized, newly adopted dog. Bethany smelled warm, and spicy, and she left his insides churning.
She also made it clear that she didn’t want to get too cozy with him, and just as he loved women, he respected their decisions. Even when it pained him to do so.
Bringing the dog home had been a spur of the moment decision prodded by some inner Good Samaritan heretofore unrecognized. Now, dead on his feet from exhaustion and, thanks to his eccentric neighbor’s sister, tweaked by horniness, he…still didn’t regret the decision.
One look at the dog and he knew he couldn’t have done anything else. Hero deserved a cushy life. He deserved regular meals and pats of affection and security. No way could Lucius have left him behind, or dropped him at a shelter.
However, he could ignore Bethany. And he would. Somehow.
She only showed up about once a month. She’d stay a few days, and then take off again. Surely he could last that long.
But…this was August. And a school secretary probably didn’t work during the summer. So how long would she be around this time? Long enough to make him completely insane?
He’d just gotten another closet door off the hinges when he sensed her presence. In his bedroom. Real close.
He stiffened—in more ways than one.
Without looking at her, Lucius asked, “What do you want, Bethany?” And he thought, say me, me, me. Tell me you want me, tell me—
“I was thinking…”
“Yeah? About me?” He lowered the door and shoved it under his bed then moved to stand right in front of her, as near as he dared without getting smacked. “I figured as much.”
“No—”
“Don’t fight it, Bethany.” He tried to look serious, but the expression on her face made him want to laugh. She riled so easily. “It’ll only make it harder on you.” And harder on me, too.
“You are so—”
“What?” He made his tone intimate, provocative. “Tell me.”
Have a look at Karen Kelley’s
HELL ON WHEELS.
Available now from Brava!
Cody sipped her beer, her legs stretched out with her boots propped on one of the four chairs circling her table. The bar was dim; only a few low-watt overheads kept the room from total darkness.
It was the middle of the week and not very crowded—two men sat on stools at the bar while three women on the prowl lounged at one of the scarred tables closer to the door. Cody had already seen them turn down the two men as they waited for something better to come along. Apparently, they were picky about who they screwed.
She couldn’t fault them for that.
She rested her beer against her lips and tipped the bottle. The Bud Light was already room temperature. Hell, she didn’t know why she was still there. A week of little sleep, living on crackers smeared with peanut butter and drinking flat soda had taken its toll on her. She should be at home in bed. Tiredness seeped out of every pore.
When she glanced up the reason she’d hung around strolled through the door looking dangerously attractive. Like her, he’d gotten rid of his vest. The deep green T-shirt molded to each sinewy muscle while his jeans hugged every inch of his sexy thighs. He could put Calvin Klein male models to shame.
He surveyed the room until his gaze landed on her, and stopped. The little half grin that always sent tingles down her spine appeared—as well as the tingles down her spine.
Crap, she should’ve left. But then, maybe he was worth a little self-torture.
Casually, she watched as he came toward her. The three women zeroed in on him, their antennae going up. She could almost see the drool running down the sides of their mouths.
One of the three stood. Apparently, the leader of the pack. A frizzy-haired blond bimbo with fuck me flashing on her forehead. She wore a tight black leather skirt up to her ass cheeks and a knit shirt so low her silicone-enhanced boobs practically spilled out. She went so far as to stand in Josh’s path.
Cody had to give Josh credit—he walked around her as if she wasn’t even there and didn’t seem to notice when she flounced to the bar to order another drink.
He stopped at Cody’s table. “You waited.”
“Yeah, right, in your dreams,” she said with a very unladylike snort. “As soon as I finish this I’m out of here. Sorry to disappoint you.”
He pulled a chair out, flipped it around, and straddled it. He didn’t look a bit put out by her rudeness as he rested his chin on the top chair rung and stared at her.
What the hell had she been thinking? Hanging around the bar this long had been a terrible idea.
She’d reached her self-torture limit, and then some. Josh was one of the bad boys. The ones who enjoyed the chase almost as much as they did the victory.
Foreplay. That’s all it was to them. She’d seen too many females fall prey to a man in low-slung jeans, boots, and a cowboy hat. Josh had left his hat behind, but he might as well be wearing it the way the three women had given him the once-over.
“Can’t we just talk?”
“Your kind never wants to just talk,” she countered.
“I won’t even touch you.” He straightened, opening his hands in supplication. “Talking, that’s all we’ll do.”
“Talking?” She didn’t trust him, but then, she didn’t trust anyone.
“Yeah, don’t you feel it?”
He continued before she could ask what exactly she was supposed to be feeling—other than sexually starved.
“You know, the rush of adrenaline that quickens your pulse when you bring down a skip. It takes me at least a couple of hours to unwind. Help me out. Just talk.”
Bad thing was, she knew exactly what he meant. She might look calm on the outside, but on the inside she was wound tighter than an eight-day clock. She doubted talking would help, but he was right. She didn’t want to go home to a cold, empty apartment.
She nodded toward him. “You talk, I’ll listen.”
“Fair enough. What do you want to know? Ask me anything and I’ll tell you.”
Yeah, right. Let’s see how long it would take him to clam up when she got personal. “Why do you date so many women, but never stay with one longer than a month?”
He grinned. “So, you have been paying attention.”
And finally, here is a portion of
a wonderful new magical romance
that is the first Zebra trade paperback,
WHEN YOU BELIEVE
by Jessica Inclán.
Available in June 2006.
The men had been after her for a good three blocks.
At first, it seemed almost funny, the old cat calls and whistles something Miranda Stead was used to. They must be boys, she’d thought, teenagers with nothing better to do on an Indian summer San Francisco night.
But as she clacked down the sidewalk, tilting in the black strappy high heels she’d decided to wear at the last minute, she realized these guys weren’t just ordinary cat-callers. Men had been looking at her since she miraculously morphed from knobby knees and no breasts to decent looking at seventeen, and she knew how to turn, give whoever the finger, and walk on, her head held high. These guys, though, were persistent, matching and then slowly beginning to overtake her strides. She glanced back at them quickly, three large men coming closer, their shoulders rounded, hulking, and headed toward her.
In the time it had taken her to walk from Geary Street to Post, Miranda had gotten scared.
Now Post Street was deserted, as if someone had vacuumed up all the noise and people, except, of course for the three awful men behind her.
“Hey, baby,” one of them said, a half block away. “What’s your hurry?”
“Little sweet thing,” called another, “don’t y
ou like us? We won’t bite unless you ask us to.”
Clutching her purse, Miranda looked down each cross street she passed for the parking lot she’d raced into before the poetry reading. She’d been late, as usual, Roy Hempel, the owner of Mercurial Books, sighing with relief when she pushed open the door and almost ran to the podium. And after the reading and book signing, Miranda had an apple martini with Roy, his wife Clara, and Miranda’s editor Dan Negriete at Zaps, but now, she was lost even though she’d lived in the city her entire life. She wished she’d listened to Dan when he asked if he could drive her to her car, but she’d been annoyed by his question, as usual.
“I’ll be fine,” she’d said, rolling her eyes as she turned away from him.
But clearly she wasn’t fine. Not at all.
“Hey, baby,” one of the men said, less than twenty feet behind her. “Can’t you find your car?”
“Lost, honey?” another one said. This man seemed closer, his voice just over her shoulder. She could almost smell him: car grease, sweat, days of tobacco.
She moved faster, knowing now was not the time to give anyone the finger. At the next intersection of Sutter and Van Ness, she looked for the parking lot, but everything seemed changed, off, as if she’d appeared in a movie set replica of San Francisco made by someone who had studied the city but had never really been there. The lot should be there, right there, on the right hand side of the street. A little shack in front of it, an older Chinese man reading a newspaper inside. Where was the shack? Where was the Chinese man? Instead, there was a gas station on the corner, one she’d seen before but on Mission Street, blocks and blocks away. But no one was working at the station or pumping gas or buying Lotto tickets.
The men were right behind her now, and she raced across the street, swinging around the light post as she turned and ran up Fern Street. A bar that she knew that had a poetry open mic every Friday night was just at the end of this block, or at least it used to be there, and it wasn’t near closing time. Miranda hoped she could pound through the doors, lean against the wall, the sound of poetry saving her, as it always had. She knew she could make it, even as she heard the thud of heavy shoes just behind her.