by T. J. Kline
“Work? I don’t have any job lined up for Monday.”
“Yes, you do. I gave Marilee the information. You report to James on Monday at the new housing development going up on the outskirts of town. You’ll earn a decent paycheck and have medical benefits for your family.
“The old man left you the house. I’ll go over tomorrow after the funeral to see what needs to be done to make it livable for you and Marilee. I, big brother, am going to make you be the man you used to be, because I can’t stand to see you turn into the next Buddy Thompson. You got that?” She’d yelled it at him to get his attention and to reinforce the fact that he’d created his condition. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he groaned in pain, all the reward she needed.
“If you don’t show up for work on Monday, I’m coming after you. And I’ll keep coming until you get it through that thick head of yours: you are not him. You’re better than that. So get your ass up, take a shower, mow the lawn, kiss your wife, tell her you love her and you aren’t going to be this asshole you’ve turned into anymore. You hear me?”
“Your voice is ringing in my head.” He stared into his coffee cup, but glanced up to say, “You look good. Life’s apparently turned out all right for you.”
Jessie shrugged that off, focused more on the lost look in Brian’s round, sad eyes.
“I thought you died that night. I left and he killed you. Where have you been?”
“Around. Mostly Solomon. I have a house about twenty miles outside of Fallbrook.”
“You do?” The surprise lit his face.
“I started my life over. It’s time you did the same.”
An Excerpt from
SINFUL REWARDS 1
A Billionaires and Bikers Novella
by Cynthia Sax
Belinda “Bee” Carter is a good girl; at least, that’s what she tells herself. And a good girl deserves a nice guy—just like the gorgeous and moody billionaire Nicolas Rainer. Or so she thinks, until she takes a look through her telescope and sees a naked, tattooed man on the balcony across the courtyard. He has been watching her, and that makes him all the more enticing. But when a mysterious and anonymous text message dares her to do something bad, she must decide if she is really the good girl she has always claimed to be, or if she’s willing to risk everything for her secret fantasy of being watched.
An Avon Red Novella
I’d told Cyndi I’d never use it, that it was an instrument purchased by perverts to spy on their neighbors. She’d laughed and called me a prude, not knowing that I was one of those perverts, that I secretly yearned to watch and be watched, to care and be cared for.
If I’m cautious, and I’m always cautious, she’ll never realize I used her telescope this morning. I swing the tube toward the bench and adjust the knob, bringing the mysterious object into focus.
It’s a phone. Nicolas’s phone. I bounce on the balls of my feet. This is a sign, another declaration from fate that we belong together. I’ll return Nicolas’s much-needed device to him. As a thank you, he’ll invite me to dinner. We’ll talk. He’ll realize how perfect I am for him, fall in love with me, marry me.
Cyndi will find a fiancé also—everyone loves her—and we’ll have a double wedding, as sisters of the heart often do. It’ll be the first wedding my family has had in generations.
Everyone will watch us as we walk down the aisle. I’ll wear a strapless white Vera Wang mermaid gown with organza and lace details, crystal and pearl embroidery accents, the bodice fitted, and the skirt hemmed for my shorter height. My hair will be swept up. My shoes—
Voices murmur outside the condo’s door, the sound piercing my delightful daydream. I swing the telescope upward, not wanting to be caught using it. The snippets of conversation drift away.
I don’t relax. If the telescope isn’t positioned in the same way as it was last night, Cyndi will realize I’ve been using it. She’ll tease me about being a fellow pervert, sharing the story, embellished for dramatic effect, with her stern, serious dad—or, worse, with Angel, that snobby friend of hers.
I’ll die. It’ll be worse than being the butt of jokes in high school because that ridicule was about my clothes and this will center on the part of my soul I’ve always kept hidden. It’ll also be the truth, and I won’t be able to deny it. I am a pervert.
I have to return the telescope to its original position. This is the only acceptable solution. I tap the metal tube.
Last night, my man-crazy roommate was giggling over the new guy in three-eleven north. The previous occupant was a gray-haired, bowtie-wearing tax auditor, his luxurious accommodations supplied by Nicolas. The most exciting thing he ever did was drink his tea on the balcony.
According to Cyndi, the new occupant is a delicious piece of man candy—tattooed, buff, and head-to-toe lickable. He was completing armcurls outside, and she enthusiastically counted his reps, oohing and aahing over his bulging biceps, calling to me to take a look.
I resisted that temptation, focusing on making macaroni and cheese for the two of us, the recipe snagged from the diner my mom works in. After we scarfed down dinner, Cyndi licking her plate clean, she left for the club and hasn’t returned.
Three-eleven north is the mirror condo to ours. I straighten the telescope. That position looks about right, but then, the imitation UGGs I bought in my second year of college looked about right also. The first time I wore the boots in the rain, the sheepskin fell apart, leaving me barefoot in Economics 201.
Unwilling to risk Cyndi’s friendship on “about right,” I gaze through the eyepiece. The view consists of rippling golden planes, almost like . . .
Tanned skin pulled over defined abs.
I blink. It can’t be. I take another look. A perfect pearl of perspiration clings to a puckered scar. The drop elongates more and more, stretching, snapping. It trickles downward, navigating the swells and valleys of a man’s honed torso.
No. I straighten. This is wrong. I shouldn’t watch our sexy neighbor as he stands on his balcony. If anyone catches me . . .
Parts 1 and 2 available now!
An Excerpt from
WHATEVER IT TAKES
A Trust No One Novel
by Dixie Lee Brown
Assassin Alex Morgan will do anything to save an innocent life—especially if it means rescuing a child from a hell like the one she endured. But going undercover as husband and wife, with none other than the disarmingly sexy Detective Nate Sanders, may be a little more togetherness than she can handle. Nate’s willing to face anything if it means protecting Alex. She may have been on her own once, but Nate has one more mission: to stay by her side—forever.
What was Alex doing in that bar? She had to be following him. It was too much of a coincidence any other way. Nate nearly flinched when he replayed the image of her dropping Daniels and then turning on those goons getting ready to shoot up the bar. Shit! Was she suicidal along with everything else? Anger, tinged with dread, did a slow burn under his collar. He needed to know what motivated Alex Morgan . . . and he needed to know now.
He clenched his teeth, whipped his bike into an alley, and cut the engine. If she was bent on getting herself killed, there was no fucking way it was happening on his turf.
She dismounted, uncertainty in her expression. As soon as she stepped out of the way, he swung his leg over and got in her face. “Take it off.” He pointed to the helmet.
Not waiting for her to remove it all the way, he started in. “What in the name of all that’s holy were you thinking back there? You could have gotten yourself killed.”
A sad smile swept her face and something in her eyes—a momentary hardening—gave him a clue to the answer he was fairly certain she’d never speak aloud. Ty had told him the highlights of her story. Joe had freed Alex from a life of slavery in a dark, dismal hole in Hong Kong. From the haunted look in her eyes, however, Nate would bet she hadn’t completely dealt with the aftermath. His first impression had been more ri
ght than he wanted to admit. It was quite likely that she nursed a dangerous little death wish, and that’s what had prompted her actions at the bar.
His anger receded, and a wave of protectiveness rolled over him, but he was powerless to take away the pain staring back at him. He could make a stab at shielding her from the world, but how could he stop the hell that raged inside this woman? Why did she matter so much to him? Hell, logic flew out the window a long time ago. He didn’t know why—only that she did. With frustration driving him, he stepped closer, pushing her against the bike. Her moist lips drew his gaze, and an overwhelming desire to kiss her set fire to his blood.
She stiffened and wariness flooded her eyes.
He should have stopped there, but another step put him in contact with her, and he was burning with need. He pulled her closer and gently slid his fingers through her hair, then stroked his thumb across her bottom lip.
Her breath escaped in uneven gasps and a tiny bit of tongue appeared, sliding quickly over the lip he’d just touched. Fear, trepidation, longing paraded across her face. Ty’s warning sounded in his ears again—she was dangerous, maybe even disturbed—but even if that was true, Nate wasn’t sure it made any difference to him.
“Don’t be afraid.” Shit! Immediately, he regretted his words. This woman wasn’t afraid of anything. Distrustful . . . yes. Afraid? He didn’t even want to know what could scare her.
Her eyes softened and warmed, and she stepped into him, pressing her firm body against his. He caught her around the waist and aligned his hips to hers. Ignoring the words of caution in his head, he bent ever so slowly and covered her mouth with his. Softly caressing her lips and tasting her sweetness, he forgot for a moment that they stood in an alley in a questionable area of Portland, that he barely knew this woman, and that they’d just left the scene of a real-life nightmare.
He’d longed to kiss her since the first time they’d met. She’d insulted his car that day, and not even that had been enough to get his mind off her lips. Good timing or bad—kissing her and holding her in his arms was long overdue.
An Excerpt from
HARD TO HOLD ON TO
A Hard Ink Novella
by Laura Kaye
From New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Laura Kaye comes a hot, sexy novella to tie in with her Hard Ink series. When “Easy” meets Jenna, he has finally found someone to care for, and he will do anything to keep her safe.
As the black F150 truck shot through the night-darkened streets of one of Baltimore’s grittiest neighborhoods, Edward Cantrell cradled the unconscious woman in his arms like she was the only thing tethering him to life. And right at this moment, she was.
Jenna Dean was bloodied and bruised after having been kidnapped by the worst sort of trash the day before, but she was still an incredibly beautiful woman. And saving her from the clutches of a known drug dealer and human trafficker was without question the most important thing he’d done in more than a year.
He should have felt happy—or at least happier—but those feelings were foreign countries for Easy. Had been for a long time.
Easy, for his initials: E.C. The nickname had been the brainchild years before of Shane McCallan, one of his Army Special Forces teammates, who now sat at the other end of the big back seat, wrapped so far around Jenna’s older sister, Sara, that they might need the Jaws of Life to pull them apart. Not that Easy blamed them. When you walked through fire and somehow came out the other side in one piece, you gave thanks and held tight to the things that mattered.
Because too often, when shit got critical, the ones you loved didn’t make it out the other side. And then you wished you’d given more thanks and held on harder before the fires ever started raging around you in the first place.
Easy would fucking know.
The pickup paused as a gate whirred out of the way, then the tires crunched over gravel and came to a rough stop. Easy lifted his gaze from Jenna’s fire-red hair and too-pale face to find that they were home—or, at least, where he was calling home right now. Out his window, the redbrick industrial building housing Hard Ink Tattoo loomed in the darkness, punctuated here and there by the headlights of some of the Raven Riders bikers who’d helped Easy and his teammates rescue Jenna and take down the gangbangers who’d grabbed her.
Talk about strange bedfellows.
Five former Green Berets and twenty-odd members of an outlaw motorcycle club. Then again, maybe not so strange. Easy and his buddies had been drummed out of the Army under suspicious, other-than-honorable circumstances. Disgraced, dishonored, disowned. Didn’t matter that his team had been seriously set up for a big fall. In the eyes of the US government and the world, the five of them weren’t any better than the bikers they’d allied themselves with so that they’d have a fighting chance against the much bigger and better-armed Church gang. And, when you cut right down to it, maybe his guys weren’t any better. After all, they’d gone total vigilante in their effort to clear their names, identify and take down their enemies, and clean up the collateral damage that occurred along the way.
Like Jenna.
“Easy? Easy? Hey, E?”
An Excerpt from
KISS ME, CAPTAIN
A French Kiss Novel
by Gwen Jones
In the fun and sexy follow-up to Wanted: Wife, French billionaire and CEO of Mercier Shipping Marcel Mercier puts his playboy lifestyle on hold to handle a PR nightmare in the US, but sparks fly when he meets the passionate captain of his newest ship . . .
Penn’s Landing Pier
Philadelphia
Independence Day, 5:32 AM
“Of course I realize he’s your brother-in-law,” Dani said, grinning most maliciously as she dragged the chains across the deck to the mainmast. “In fact I’m counting on it as my express delivery system.” She wrapped a double length of chain around her waist. “My apologies for shamelessly exploiting you.”
“Seriously?” Julie laughed. “Trust me, I’ll try not to feel compromised.”
“Like me,” Dani said, her hair as red as the bloody blister of a sun rising over the Delaware. She yanked another length of chain around the mast. “But what can I do. I’m just a woman.”
“And I’m just a media whore,” Julie said. “And a bastard is a bastard is a bastard.” She nodded to her cameraman, flexing her shoulders as she leveled her gaze into the lens. “How far would you go to save your job?”
Two days later
L’hôtel Croisette Beach
Cannes
Pineapple, Marcel Mercier deduced, drifting awake under the noonday sun. A woman’s scent was always the first thing he noticed, as in the subtle fragrance of her soap, her perfumed pulse points, the lingering vestiges of her shampoo.
Mon Dieu. How he loved women.
“Marcel,” he heard, feeling a silky leg slide against his own.
He opened his eyes to his objet d’affection for the past three days. “Bébé . . .” he growled, brushing his lips across hers as she curled into him.
“Marcel, mon amour,” she cooed, fairly beaming with joy. “Tu m’as fait tellement heureuse.”
“What?” he said, nuzzling her neck. Her pineapple scent was driving him insane.
She slid her hand between his legs. “I said you’ve made me very happy.” Then she smiled. No—beamed.
He froze, mid-nibble. Oh no. Oh no.
She kissed him, her eyes bright. “I don’t care what Paris says—I’m wearing my grand-mère’s Brussels lace to our wedding. You wouldn’t mind, would you?”
He stared at her. Had he really gone and done what he swore he’d never do again? He really needed to lay off the absinthe cocktails. “Mirabel, I didn’t mean to—”
“Why did you leave me last night?” she said, falling back against the chaise, her bare breasts heaving above the tiny triangle of her string bikini bottom. “You left so fast the maids are still scrubbing scorch marks from the carpet.”
>
Merde. He really ought to get his dard registered as a lethal weapon. He affected an immediate blitheness. “I had to take a call,” he said—his standard alibi—raking his gaze over her. She really was quite the babe. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
All at once she went to full-blown en garde, shoving her face into his. “Really. More like you couldn’t wait to get away from me. And after last night? After what you asked me?” Her enormous breasts rose, fell, her gaze slicing into his. “You said . . . You. Loved. Me.”
Had he? Christ. He needed to diffuse this. So he switched gears, summoning all his powers of seduction. “Mirabel. Chère.” He smiled—lethally, he knew—cradling her chin as he nipped the corner of her mouth. “But that call turned into another, then three, and before you knew it . . .” He traced his finger over the bloom of her breasts and down into the sweet, sweet cavern between them, his tongue edging her lip until she shivered like an ingénue. “You know damn well there’s only one way to wake a gorgeous girl like you.”
“You should’ve come back,” she said softly, a bit disarmed, though the edge still lingered in her voice. “You just should have.” She barely breathed it.
“How, bébé?” He licked the hollow behind her ear, and when she jolted, Marcel nearly snickered in triumph. Watching women falling for him nearly outranked falling into them. “Should I have slipped under the door?” he said, feathering kisses across her jawline. “Or maybe climbed up the balcony, calling ‘Juliet? Juliet?’ ”
She arched her neck and sighed, a deep blush staining her overripe breasts. Marcel fought a rush of disappointment. Truly, they were all so predictable. A bit of adulatory stroking and it was like they performed on cue. She pressed against his chest as he tugged the bikini string at her hip, her mouth opening in a tiny gasp.