by Vivi Andrews
Warning: This book contains mind-controlling beverages, evil dictators and minions, excessive use of spandex, and enough electrifying sex to melt an ice train.
In a world of darkness, she is his light.
Blade of Moonlight
© 2012 Kimberly Dean
A Midnight Justice Story
It’s a dark and stormy night, and Luna Masters is in trouble. Buttoned-up court reporter by day, by night she fights crime as Luminescence, drawing power from the moon. No moon, no power…and she’s about to pay with her life.
As her consciousness dims, a man steps from the shadows. But he’s no savior. It’s Scythe, a villain whose reputation for evil is legend. When she awakens, at first she’s surprised to be alive. Then enraged to find herself tied to his bed. Naked.
Scythe is livid. A minor superhero like Luna has no business on his turf, and he plans to enjoy administering punishment, Yet somewhere in the night, pain turns into pleasure…then into something wicked and sexy that shakes them both to the core.
Though Scythe warns her away, Luna’s passion for justice draws her back into the dark, to her masked lover’s side. For good, or evil? Only the dawn will tell…
Warning: Pow! In the clash of good versus evil, villains don’t play nicely. Bam! When captured, superheroines often get tied up. Kablooie! Hot sex may cause mayhem with your e-reader.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Blade of Moonlight:
“You reflect the moon’s light, don’t you, Luminescence?”
No, that wasn’t it, but he was close. She was one with the moon. As it behaved, so did she, but he could never know that about her.
His fingers slid down her breastbone again, and her breaths hitched when he traced the line of the sheet, dangerously close to her nipples. He watched the soft material tent, knowing what he was doing to her. Their gazes connected but, still, she refused to give him anything.
He turned to the hardwood chair beside the bed. She hadn’t even noticed it until he lifted a scrap of material. The bra of her costume dangled from his finger. Her clothes!
His jaw hardened as he toyed with the skimpy top. “That’s why you run around the city in barely more than a bikini, so you can use your power to its full potential. More skin equals more light.”
Her tongue pressed against the roof of her mouth as she struggled not to say anything. He was getting too close to the truth. Her costume wasn’t so much of a style choice, but a necessity. Under a full moon, she could bring down criminals with only her face and her hands bare. But on a night like this—
Her face. Her head whipped to the side, and she searched the chair, hoping against hope. Her stomach dropped when she spotted her mask draped across its high back. The strip of black material might cover only her eyes, but it had protected her identity. Until now.
He’d seen her face.
He dropped the bikini top and picked up the black bottoms. They were made of a synthetic material, giving her the lightness and maneuverability of spandex, but the toughness of leather. Using both hands, he stretched them, watching them pull shorter to compensate, and shook his head in a strange combination of anger and disgust.
And undisguised interest.
“And more skin equals more skin. That helps rattle the boys, too, doesn’t it?” His head cocked. “What if you’re going up against a villainess?”
Some of them were distracted, too, but she wasn’t going to go there. Luna glared at him belligerently. Identify him. He knew what she looked like, right down to the birthmark on her right hip. He’d stripped her of everything she had. She had to find a way to expose him.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to go on. He was big, built and sexy. Her thoughts stalled. She shouldn’t find him attractive—not with the situation he’d put her in—but she did. Adrenaline and pheromones were creating a dangerous chemistry. She had to be careful or she’d get pulled into the reaction.
He held her belt now, the one she normally kept wrapped low around her hips. Everything she needed was on that belt, and she ached for it. Her serrated knife, her palm unit and her taser.
Her gaze stuck on the weapon. He’d grabbed her taser for her?
“The boots,” he said gruffly as he crouched.
Luna cringed. For some reason, his examination of her belongings was as personal as if he’d been going over her naked body inch by inch—which she wasn’t quite sure wasn’t next. She wanted to pull everything back, to hide from his attention.
“The boots are something else, though, aren’t they?” His gray gaze suddenly locked with hers. “They get you off.”
Under the covers, her toes curled. How did he know that? How could he have figured that out? Low-heeled boots or runner’s shoes would have been more feasible, more practical. They had just looked so stupid with her skimpy costume, but the high-heeled black boots? They’d made her cream.
She swallowed again, and this time found her mouth wet with saliva. “The stilettos make good weapons.”
“Meaning they bring down any man with a healthy dick.”
He knew he was right. There was a hint of a dark smile on his lips as he looked at her, and Luna was frustrated she couldn’t see more of his face. He might have gotten rid of the Grim Reaper cape, but his head and torso were covered with a form-fitted, one-piece spandex shirt and ski-mask type of garment. It covered the back of his head and came down over his nose and eyes. Only the lower half of his face was revealed, showing a strong jaw and hard lips. Those lips mocked her now.
“Whatever works,” she snapped. The words were out before she could stop them, and they surprised her. She shouldn’t encourage him. She shouldn’t play along—not in this.
“Oh, they do, sweetheart.” He glanced at the front of his dark jeans and shifted in discomfort. “They definitely do.”
He took another harsh breath that seemed to fuel his anger. With a curse, he began to stride around the room again. “What goes on in that head of yours? What makes you think you can go strutting around half-naked—hell, three-quarters naked—in the most dangerous parts of the city and be safe?”
Outrage hit her. She didn’t strut. When she was out at night, she was fully intent on her work. “You know that I have a cape too. It covers me from head to foot.”
“Until you whip it off and give everyone a good look.”
Her teeth ground together. That was to shine the attention on the bad guys—not herself. She did everything she could to keep herself in the background. She knew how to merge with the darkness. She’d always been smart and safe.
Until now.
He turned on her, looming over the end of the bed where her legs were spread wide under the thin sheet. “Do you know what some of those scumbags would do to you if they caught you?”
Her stomach clenched, and her outrage dimmed. The real question was, what was he going to do with her?
She watched him unblinkingly, afraid to move, afraid to say anything that would make him more upset than he already was. His lips might mock her, but his fingers were clenched and his breaths heaved. The stretchy material of his costume clung to a chest that was heavily muscled. In the dark shadows, each hard curve and dip was delineated. His uniform kept him as covered as she was left bared, and the disparity struck her. Dark versus light. Good versus evil.
Her need to see his face grew to a craving. She wanted to know the color of his hair. Was it thick and silky? Dark and wavy? She wanted to touch that chest, with nothing between her fingertips and his skin.
And she knew it was wrong. All of it. He hadn’t rescued her. He’d pulled her further into the depths of danger. All that darkness might be seductive, but temptations were rarely good for you. She knew this man was bad for her, right down to his core.
“I’ll have you put away for this,” she said quietly. “I’ll have you put away for life.”
His expression went even darker. “You and what army?”
“The justice system will be enough.”
A bark
of laughter escaped him, the sound rusty and harsh. He moved again and suddenly he was over her, his hands braced on either side of her pillow. “If you believe that, then you’re an even bigger fool than I thought.”
His body hovered inches above hers, close but still too far away. Her body tingled, wanting what it shouldn’t. Then his hand was fisting in the sheet, his knuckles pressing hard between her breasts. When he ripped the covering off her, it was like being splashed with chilled air. He tossed the sheet aside, baring her all the way to her cuffed ankles and pink-painted toenails. Luna arched, wanting to run, wanting to hide, but there was no escape.
His big hand covered one breast, and that cool heat poured through her. “Are you out there fighting for truth and justice, Luminescence, or does the danger just turn you on?”
“You won’t win,” she gasped.
“The hell I won’t.”
He squeezed her nipple hard, but then his touch was gone. It reappeared, lower and hotter. He cupped her pussy and ground the ball of his hand against her. Luna’s thighs quivered. With her legs spread wide, he could touch her however he liked, whenever he liked. Her hips pressed into the mattress as he slid his thumb between her soft, delicate folds. When he lifted it, it was wet.
“What is it that gets you going?” he asked, his voice going steely. “Danger, or me?”
She couldn’t respond. What he was doing was shocking, titillating, and she shouldn’t like it. Couldn’t like it. It went against everything she believed in, everything she’d put herself on the line for, but she couldn’t dispute the evidence.
He bent down over her, his gray eyes turning pewter.
“Danger?” He swirled his thumb deliberately around her clit. “Or me?”
Letting him in could mean losing him forever.
Ghosts of Boyfriends Past
© 2012 Vivi Andrews
Elizabeth “Biz” Marks has the magic touch when it comes to matters of the heart—except her own. In a slightly tipsy fit of loneliness, she once tried to harness a little love mojo to work in her favor. Instead the spell mutated into a nightmarish curse that kills off her boyfriends on her favorite holiday: Valentine’s Day.
With three permanently ex-boyfriends on her conscience and another hearts-and-flowers holiday approaching, the last thing she needs is a too-gorgeous-to-be-true reporter snooping around.
Biz just has extraordinarily bad luck, or she’s a bona-fide Black Widow who bumps off her boyfriends for a chunk of the inheritance money. Either way, Mark Ellison is sure there’s a story here. Especially when his attempts to charm her send her into a panic.
The harder Biz tries to keep Mark and his beguiling dimples as far away as possible, the harder he digs to get at the truth. Now she’s beginning to wonder if his is the love that will finally break the curse…or if she’ll be burying her heart along with him.
Warning, this book contains curses, meddling ghosts, nosy neighbors and enough peppermint Schnapps to drown the inhibitions of even the most cautious witch.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Ghosts of Boyfriends Past:
Had he gotten more gorgeous since the last time she saw him? Or was it just the shock of seeing him for the first time in good lighting? The face was still mouthwatering, but it was the arms her memory had failed to honor. In spite of the winter chill, he wasn’t wearing a jacket, and his sleeves were shoved up to the elbow, revealing tanned, corded forearms. Those arms made him seem capable, somehow. As if like Atlas he could lift the world.
“Ms. Marks. Fancy seeing you here.”
He smiled. Biz’s heart rate doubled.
She forced herself to swallow the sawdust and gave him a pathetic smile. “Yeah. Fancy.”
“That’s him?” Gillian asked in the world’s loudest whisper. “You said he was a hunk, but I thought we were grading on the Parish Island curve. God’s balls, he’d be a stud at a Hollywood premiere. Move over, McDreamy.”
Biz shot her a please-for-the-love-of-God-shut-up look. Where was a muzzle when you needed one?
Mark wove his way over to their table, a sly little smile saying he’d heard every word. Conceited jerk.
His eyes rolled over her from the top of her head to the table’s edge and back up again. Biz squashed the urge to check her hair. She hadn’t brushed it after falling out of bed, but she refused to feel self-conscious about her sloppy knot.
Even if he looked like he stepped right out of a catalogue, starched, groomed and gorgeous. Biz probably looked like she’d survived a cyclone flying away with her trailer. His expression was appreciative, but she needed him to stop staring. Only a deeply cursed man could appreciate her when she resembled a half-groomed yeti.
“Are you stalking me?”
“Good morning to you too, Biz. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
Before she could reply, Molly materialized at his side as if by teleportation. “Can I get you anything?” she asked breathlessly, her eyes locked hypnotically on his face, Kierkegaard forgotten on the back table. “Anything at all.”
Mark ducked his head, and Biz thought she saw a touch of rose on his cheekbones. Was he blushing? Had Molly’s slavish adoration actually embarrassed him? “Just an orange juice. Thanks.”
Molly nodded five times in rapid succession, channeling an existential bobblehead, and then darted off to collect the nectar for her new deity.
“Cute kid.” He coughed, the red on his cheeks brighter.
Biz fell all over herself—literally—in his presence, and he just got cockier. Gilly compared him to a movie star and he took it as his due. But little Molly Kinneson decided to worship him and suddenly he was modest? Where had that come from? Biz began to wonder if she would ever see the real Mark Ellison beneath his chameleon surface.
Not that she wanted to know the real Mark Ellison. Not at all. She just wanted him to leave.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, not caring how rude she sounded. He’d avoided the stalking question, she noticed. Couldn’t a girl enjoy the best breakfast on the Eastern seaboard without being reminded of the day of death steadily approaching?
“I was walking by and I saw you through the window. What can I say, I felt compelled to come talk to you.” He slid into the booth beside her, his large body crowding against her. “Mind if I join you?”
Compelled. Oh, God. Last night she’d been so stupid to stay in his presence for even a nanosecond. She needed to keep her distance.
She scooted her hip away from his. “Would you leave if I said yes?”
“Not if I can change your mind.” His smile said he was sure he could. The man certainly didn’t lack for confidence.
“You know, at some point that arrogance is just sickening.”
He leaned closer, revealing little crinkles around his eyes when he smiled. “Do I sicken you, Biz?”
No, sir. That definitely wasn’t the problem.
She put her hand on his chest and shoved him back. He let her move him but gave just enough pressure that she felt the imprint of his muscles against her fingers. Yum. “Does no one ever say no to you?”
“No is just a point to begin negotiations.”
“No means no, honey.”
“Does it? Do you mean it, Biz? If you really mean it, just say the word and I’ll leave.”
“Before or after you get your interview?”
He shrugged. “There are other stories. This may come as a shock to you, but lots of people want to be interviewed by me.”
She’d buy that lots of people probably fell all over themselves to give him their stories—over and over and over again—but she didn’t believe he would give up and walk away so easily. He was lying, or at least not giving the whole truth, and not just because he was trapped by the curse. There was something else.
Molly appeared suddenly at the table, carrying the largest glass of orange juice Biz had ever seen and all but trembling with eagerness to serve. “You can interview me,” she vowed breathily.
&nb
sp; Biz stole a look at Mark’s face. Definitely blushing.
“Thank you,” he said gruffly, inclining his head to indicate the gratitude was for the juice, not her adoration.
When Molly continued to hover, Gillian rolled her eyes. “Molly, can we get our check?”
The girl made a small protesting sound in her throat but backed away from the table, her eyes still fixed on Mark.
When she disappeared into the kitchen, he draped his arm across the back of the booth behind Biz and leaned toward her with an inviting gleam in his eyes. “See? Some people like me.”
“I don’t dislike you,” Biz admitted grudgingly.
“Is that why you sicced the town on me?”
Biz glanced guiltily across the table at Gillian who shrugged, her eyes flicking back and forth between Mark and Biz. “Don’t look at me. I’m just a spectator.”
Mark leaned closer. “I’ve been interrogated more in the last twenty-four hours than most terror suspects.”
“Not so much fun when you’re the one answering the questions, is it?”
“As a matter of fact, I enjoyed myself thoroughly. Fascinating town you’ve got here. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I was asked…let alone some of the things I was told.”
Nervousness filled her stomach with lead-winged butterflies.
“Ghosts, witches. It’s amazing what people believe, isn’t it?”
Oh, crud. He knew. Somehow he knew everything. “You don’t believe in ghosts?” she asked, her voice sounding choked and unnatural, even to her own ears.
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio…” He grinned. “I believe in possibilities, but the spirit of loved ones living on after their death seems more like a coping mechanism than truth to me. Like all those suckers who pay out the nose so some medium can reconnect them with their dead father one last time. It’s wishful thinking.”
Relief flooded her. He couldn’t know. You couldn’t know something if you didn’t believe it existed.