Warning: This book contains steamy love scenes between a cop and a woman who refuses to date men in uniform. Clear your schedule, readers, you’re gonna want to get out the cuffs after this one.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Ten Reasons Not To Date A Cop:
Luc sat for a moment in the cool interior of the Beemer and watched the woman shift from one pretty leg to the other. He made no move to get out of his car. He wanted her to wait. Or try to run. She shifted again.
His informant had been quite specific in his description. Their target was a female, very short with arrow-straight, platinum blond hair. She wasn’t reported to be armed, nor was she considered to be particularly dangerous. She drove a beat-up blue Nissan and wasn’t above using her feminine wiles to get what she wanted. But Matthias hadn’t told Luc she was a memory, all grown up and prettier than ever.
Little Kaylee Stephens. My, my, my. She was the last person he had expected the K. Stephens to be. When he’d heard the name, she hadn’t even crossed his mind. It had been what…? Ten…fifteen years? He mentally did the math. Sixteen. It had been sixteen years since he had seen her. And she’d looked a sight different now. Back then she had been the awkward, tag-a-long sister of his two best friends. All pigtails and braces and now…well, now she wasn’t.
She checked her watch, then cast a frustrated glance in his direction. She had to be smothering in that raincoat. The temperature was at least a hundred and three. She looked as if she had something to hide, bundled up the way she was. The statue? A weapon?
Luc had glanced into her car while he wrote her citations, but the interior of the Nissan looked like a twister had recently blown through. He would have to search it if he was going to find what he was after. Damn what a day this was turning out to be.
She whirled around as he opened his car door. Her silvery hair contrasted starkly with the black of her raincoat, and he wondered how it would look splayed against his chest. How it would feel.
Luc quickly steered his thoughts from that direction. He needed to keep his mind on the business at hand, a priceless, pre-Columbian statue. Terribly ugly, reportedly cursed, definitely stolen.
“Amarillo PD has reason to believe you have stolen property in your possession. Would you mind if I take a look inside your car?”
“Stolen? I—is this some kind of joke?”
“Not at all.”
She shifted in place and eyed him suspiciously. She opened her mouth, then obviously thought better of it and closed it again. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Are you saying you’re not going to let me search your vehicle?”
She crossed her arms over her chest, pulling the coat even tighter around her. “Not without a warrant. Do you have one?”
He’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. “No.”
She nodded her head as if to say, So there you go.
“But I can get one.”
Her satisfied smile faded. “But it’s Sunday, and that might take—”
“All day,” he finished. “I thought you were late.”
“I am, but—”
“I’ll go make the call.” He had only taken three steps toward his car when her musical—but clearly annoyed—voice stopped him.
“Fine. Search the car. But hurry.”
Luc opened the passenger side door and resisted the urge to close it again on the chaos that ruled inside. No matter how messy she kept her car, he still had a statue to find.
A bright yellow envelope lay on the passenger seat next to a headband with a pair of furry white rabbit ears attached. He picked up the headband and almost tossed it aside.
Rabbit ears?
He cast a glance back at Kaylee.
Her nervous fingers played with the lapels of her coat, keeping it closed almost to her throat. A trickle of perspiration ran down the side of her face.
Luc looked back to the ears, then tossed the headband to the driver’s side seat.
The floorboard of the passenger side revealed nothing out of the ordinary, except for a set of pom-poms and a lasso.
“Yee-haw,” he muttered under his breath and redirected his attention—and fantasies—back to the search at hand.
Full-blown helium balloons secured to a small gift box filled the back seat. Luc opened the box. Inside was a crystal paperweight of a large mouth bass. Expensive, but a far cry from pre-Columbian.
“Hey,” Kaylee protested. “That’s for—Oh, never mind.”
Aside from a paper sack containing finger paints, an unopened package of Oreos and a large cardboard box piled high with someone’s casts offs, the back seat of the Nissan held nothing suspicious.
“Will you open the trunk, please?”
She rolled her pretty blue eyes heavenward, perhaps praying for the rain she obviously expected, but did as he asked.
“What are you looking for?”
“A statue.”
“Statue?”
“A very valuable statue,” he said as he ducked under the trunk lid. “Cursed pre-Colombian. Want to tell me about it?”
“Seems like you know all there is to know.”
Luc grunted and turned his attention back to the search.
Surprisingly, the trunk had been spared from the catastrophe that reigned inside the car. He made quick work of his search, but the statue wasn’t under the spare tire or in any of the nooks and crannies the space harbored.
There was only one place left it could be.
“Kay—Ms. Stephens, I have reason to believe you may be hiding the statue on your person. We’ll need to go down to the station and request a female officer conduct a search.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No.”
She shook her head. “I’m not going to the station with you.”
“If you won’t come to the mountain,” he muttered. “I’ll radio down and have an officer meet us here.” He paused. “If you’d rather do this on the side of the interstate.”
“I’d rather not do it at all.”
“Unfortunately, that’s not one of your options.” He kept his tone business like and impersonal. Tomorrow he’d be removed from the case, but tomorrow might be too late. Matthias said she was moving the statue today.
“No.” She said the word with such conviction that Luc had trouble remembering the question.
“We can do this here or at the station.” He removed his sunglasses and pinched the bridge of his nose to stay the beginning pangs of a headache. “The choice is yours.”
“Then I choose not at all.”
“Will you cooperate, or should I handcuff you for the ride?”
Seconds ticked by with the speed of ice thawing at the North Pole. Then with a growl of aggravation and frustration, she reached for the belt of her shiny black coat. She removed it with lightning speed and flung it at him. It hit him square in the chest.
Almost nothing could have prepared Luc for the sight of what she wore underneath the raincoat, and that’s what she wore: almost nothing.
Car horns honked. Tires squealed. Traffic slowed, and Luc’s breath quickened. He felt himself grow hard.
Her legs were long for her height, their smooth lines emphasized by sheer black stockings. Lord, he loved black stockings. The remainder of her ensemble was black as well and reached from the apex of her slender thighs to barely cover the tops of her breasts. There it ended in a wisp of white ostrich plumes that only enhanced the creamy satin of her skin. The fabric, slick and clingy from her own perspiration, molded itself to her every curve. Luc could only stare. Had he said something about handcuffs?
“Hel-lo.”
“So that’s what the ears are for.” His voice was near a whisper. And if that’s what she did with bunny ears…. His mind wandered to fingerpaints and lassos.
“You can forget it right now.” She stamped her foot for emphasis, sharply snapping the heel off her left pump.
“Forget what?”
“I don’t do parties.”
T
oo bad. “That’s not what I was thinking at all.”
“Sure.” She rolled her eyes, then glared at him. “Are you going to search me, or are you going to stand there and gawk?”
Gawking sounded like a fine idea. So did a search. A long search that lasted all night and into the dawn. Instead, Luc tore his gaze from her slender form, cleared his throat and began to look through the pockets of her coat.
Finding nothing, he held it out to her, hooked on the end of his finger. It was obvious she didn’t have anything concealed on her actual person. “You can put this back on now.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to frisk me first?”
Frisk her? He ought to arrest her. It should be against the law for a woman to look that good.
“No,” he muttered instead, turning his head in delayed chivalry.
As she reached for her coat, a car whizzed past, trailing a shrill wolf whistle behind on the fumes of its exhaust.
Kaylee jerked her coat away from him and hurriedly shoved her arms into the sleeves.
“I’d like to apologize again for your delay.” Luc tore the citations out of his ticket book and handed them to her without looking her in the eye. Little Kaylee had grown up nicely. “It was good to see you again.”
He didn’t wait for her nod as he turned and walked stiff-legged back to his car.
He opened the door, but stopped before folding his length into the luxury interior. He couldn’t leave without knowing. “Where did you say you worked?”
She flashed him another of her gigantic smiles. “Self-employed,” she replied. Then she reached into her car and placed the furry ears on the top of her head. “I’m the Easter bunny.”
He’s ready and waiting. She’s wanting…but wary.
Runaway Groom
© 2014 Virginia Nelson
Watkin’s Pond, Book 1
The groom is back in town.
Abigail lost her best friend years ago when he ditched her at the altar like a loaf of stale bread. Now he’s back and determined to do whatever he has to—even lie, apparently—to get under her skin. Although he makes her hormones rev to life in a way that no one has since he left, she is equally determined not to fall for his boy-next-door charm.
His bride-to-be is somewhat reluctant.
Braxton Dean was too young and stupid to know better when he walked away. Years of trying to fill the Abby-shaped hole in his heart have left him empty, and now he’s going to win back his girl—or get over her. But first he needs answers. Particularly why she never responded to any of his letters.
It might take a whole town to make this wedding happen.
With the help of their friends, the two battle it out. The army? An entire town of busybodies. The prize? Happily ever after.
Warning: Contains indignant old ladies, steamy sex (but not with indignant old ladies), seduction cake, and condom bouquets. Yes, we went there.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Runaway Groom:
July 7, 2005
Abby,
I’m sitting in a diner in the desert. The sun peeking over the mountain lights up everything in these reds so bright they almost hurt the eyes. You’ve never felt a hot like this, all dry, nothing like the days that we went swimming over at Watkin’s pond…
I don’t really know why I’m writing you. I don’t have answers and right now you probably want them. I just know I couldn’t do it.
I miss you though.
Love, B
Knuckles white, Abigail put her beat-up Ford Focus in Park, and glanced at her best friend. “I can’t do this.”
“Pussy.” Applying a coat of lipstick to her lush red lips in the mirror, Carnie shot her a glance. “You can do this. It isn’t like you’re about to face a firing squad. It’s just a bonfire.”
Shoving her hand through her short, pixie-cut brown hair, Abigail blew out a frustrated breath. “I would rather face a firing squad. If you ditch me to go running off with the new boyfriend…”
Carnie gave her a dirty look, tucking her red hair behind her shoulder. “I would never do that. I know how bent out of shape you get every time we go anywhere that Braxton might be. Really, though, it will be fine. The crap happened a thousand years ago. You’re adults now.”
Abigail didn’t feel like an adult. She felt like the rejected teenager even thinking of Braxton Dean.
It didn’t help that he’d become sexier with age. Heartbreakingly handsome, Braxton made her thighs clench with just a glance. She needed to remember the pain and humiliation rather than how it felt to be pushed into a bed by him. Better to remember the chest-constricting, blinding terror when he’d ditched her and vanished rather than remember his face a mask of unleashed passion and his green eyes wild with need. The former would keep her knees together.
The terror of that time—it wasn’t something she shared with anyone, not even Carnie.
Remembering gave her the strength she needed to peel her fingers from the wheel. “You’re right, of course. I can do this. No big deal. We’re both more mature now. He probably won’t even say a word to me.” The last came out a bit hopeful, even to her own ears.
“Yeah, at his birthday bonfire, he isn’t going to say a word to the woman he dated for years and ditched at the altar like a loaf of stale bread. Really, Abs, you need to get pissed off rather than feeling pissed on. You’re totally the injured party here.”
“He had his reasons. I’m sure he did.” Why was she defending his dumb ass?
“What reason could be good enough for that grand act of douchebaggery?” Carnie raised one well-plucked brow at her. “Besides, these are our friends. You need to remember why we’re here. He took off. He stayed gone. This is our town. You’re going to walk in there and show him what he is missing. Rub in his face what he can’t have.”
“I don’t know. He really wasn’t a jerk…not most of the time.”
“Let’s just go find Mike and the crew, and have a good time. All of our friends from high school are here and it’ll be good to catch up with them.”
Nodding, stomach still a bit of a knot, Abigail opened her door and stepped out into the muggy Ohio night. Stars hung like tiny lanterns above the recently mowed field and the sound of laughter carried on the breeze. The bonfire, a huge conflagration, was surrounded by what looked like hundreds of folding chairs, coolers and other party miscellany that beckoned Abigail onwards. Who knew? Maybe she would meet someone new and end up being really happy she wasted the extra five minutes to make sure everything was shaved and neat?
Carnie strode with her usual impulsive bravery into the melee. Abigail stuffed her hands in her jeans and resisted casting her head down to avoid any stares that might be coming her way. Instead she held her head high, but refused to meet anyone’s eyes. In small-town Ohio, everyone knew she hadn’t seen Braxton since that fateful day when he left her standing, flowers in hand, waiting for a runaway groom. Everyone knew that instead of marrying her, Braxton—golden boy and football hero—ran off to parts unknown, and she’d neither heard from him nor caught a glimpse of him when he’d come to town until a few weeks ago. He only returned home now to help his father with his tool store after his father’s stroke made it hard for the old man to get around like he used to.
Everyone watched to see how she’d handle it.
She wouldn’t give them a show to chew over for the next decade. She’d act like it was ancient history, like she hadn’t spent years wondering how a man could go from saying he loves her to leaving her to stand alone against a whole swarm of gossips with nothing better to do than tear her to shreds for being moronic enough to think he would stay.
She concentrated so hard on what she wouldn’t do, she slammed to an abrupt halt against a firm chest. His firm chest. Braxton. He smelled the same, damn him.
Even over the scent of wood burning, the ripeness of summer and the bitter tang of someone’s spilled beer, she inhaled his soap, familiar cologne and under it all, simply Braxton.
Her stomach
clenched. Part of her wanted to smack him and demand answers. Part of her wanted to run away. Part of her wanted to pull his face down and kiss him because she’d missed him so much.
Instead she hid behind an armor of polite civility and gave a short, sharp nod. “Braxton.”
“Abby.” The word came out almost a plea. His eyes held a sad look she quickly identified. He pitied her.
Double damn him. “Happy birthday.”
And even though she promised herself she wasn’t going to give everyone a show, promised herself she wouldn’t feed the rumor mills...
The sound of her slap rang out across the field. Even in the flickering light from the bonfire, her handprint marked his strong jaw and she couldn’t ignore the pleasure it gave her. Silence seemed to spread across the night as he touched his cheek. Her mouth hung open, shock rippling through her as his gaze locked on hers.
“I deserved that.” The timbre of his voice seemed to stroke across her skin, stirring up a potent cocktail of emotions—lust, love, fury and pain. The worst part was disgust at herself for feeling anything.
“You deserve worse.”
Instead of arguing with her, which almost would have made her feel better, like it meant something to him, he simply nodded. “Wanna go somewhere to talk?”
Blame it on Texas
Amie Louellen
Every first love deserves a second chance.
Shelby Patterson has come back to Texas for one reason and one reason only—to get her husband to sign divorce papers. She’s worked hard to build her California bakery, where clients clamor for her one-of-a-kind creations.
Seven years after her disastrous marriage, she’ll finally have everything in perfect order—just as soon as Ritter McCoy signs the dotted line.
Ritt is still pissed that Shelby walked out all those years ago without giving their marriage a chance. Sure, they were young and had just lost the baby that had rushed them to the altar, but they’d loved each other beyond reason.
Blame it on Texas Page 11