Confidence Tricks

by Tamara Morgan

  So he smiled, pleased to find it didn’t feel quite as forced as he expected it to. “Sorry we’re late. Michael wanted to do his hair.”

  Michael, whose longish, wavy hair almost always looked like it had been lifted straight off the pillow, grinned widely. “What can I say? I’m a vain man.”

  The women scooted their chairs to make room for them. Julian sat next to Kate—so close he could smell her slightly floral perfume. She was still wearing the tiny slip of a dress from before, but she’d allowed her brownish-blonde hair to fall down in soft waves almost to the middle of her back and changed to a pair of gold sandals with bands going halfway up her calf, winding and hugging her flesh in ways that seemed almost indecent.

  He had a hard time looking away. If it was possible to slap sex on a pair of legs, she’d done it.

  “Do you guys want something to drink?” Kate asked, dangling one of those perfect legs close to his own without even seeming to realize what she was doing.

  Her friend, Jada, on the other hand, leaned over the table, angling to give both him and Michael a clear view down the top of her bright red dress.

  “I’m going to bet you two are Scotch men. Neat?”

  He let Michael argue the finer points of ice in a drink with her. Jada was the type of woman Michael lived for—flashy, obvious. Julian had dated those types of women before, usually when he was on the job down in Arizona or on the road for the Games. For all their superficial trappings, women like that made great companions for the short term. But right now, a one-night stand was the last thing on his mind. His body was definitely warming for something a bit softer. A bit more real.

  He turned to Kate. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

  She shrugged, and the thin strap of her dress fell along the gentle curve of her shoulder. He watched it, mesmerized.

  “A few minutes. It’s not a big deal. There was a blues singer on before the pianos started.”

  “Oh, it’s too bad we missed it.”

  Kate wrinkled her nose. “I’m sorry about this place. It’s probably not your thing, pianos, is it?”

  Julian laughed. People always took one look at him and assumed the worst. “I’m a large man, Kate, but that doesn’t mean I’m a barbarian. A little jazz isn’t going to kill me.”

  “You never know. Jada is her own force of nature, and I thought maybe you guys got caught up in it against your will. Lord knows she’s made me do one or two things I regretted later.”

  Julian’s pulse picked up, and he leaned forward. That was a topic he could warm to. “’Like what?”

  Kate shook her head firmly. “No way. I’m going to need a few more drinks before those secrets start spilling.”

  “She’s being modest,” Jada interrupted, watching them both with a smile. “Kate here once drove an entire rugby team off the road. Their van tipped over into a ditch.”

  “They deserved it!” Kate declared, her eyes dancing. “Don’t believe a word she says. They were trying to cut in line after the rest of us had been waiting for hours to get through a single lane of traffic. I just blocked them from doing it, and they drove themselves off the road. What’s the point of driving a nice big Cadillac if you can’t use it for good?”

  “Did you stop to see if they were okay?” Julian asked, amused.

  “They didn’t really tip over. It was more of a gentle lean. You should have heard all the cars in line, honking their approval. I felt like a superhero.”

  “A vigilante in a Cadillac.” Julian laughed.

  “Like the Green Hornet,” Kate agreed.

  Julian settled back in his chair, taking in the scene with a deep breath. There was a gentle ferocity to Kate he hadn’t been expecting. He liked it. “So, you run cars off the road when you’re mad, you grew up in Seattle and you wear pretty shoes. What else should I know about you?”

  She blushed and lifted one of her feet, examining the appendage as if seeing it for the first time. “You think my shoes are pretty?”

  “Well, they’re not very functional, that’s for sure.” He fought the urge to rub his hand over her leg to double check how well that footwear was working out. “But nice. Definitely nice.”

  She toyed with the stem of her glass, avoiding his eyes. “Thank you. But I’m not sure what else you want to know. Birthmarks? Employment history?”

  “Good call, Kate,” Jada said from across the table. “Always start with birthmarks.”

  “How about what it is you want Cornwall Park for?” Julian offered. He doubted he was going to get anything about birthmarks out of her. Yet.

  She blushed and played with the edges of her cocktail napkin. “It’s this group I’m part of. A historical preservation society—kind of like your Scottish Games, I guess? We do a big annual event, and we need a place to hold it.”

  “Historical? Like what?”

  “Umm…Regency. Jane Austen type stuff—the nineteenth century. We wear pretty elaborate gowns, and we do lectures.” Her leg tapped a nervous beat, inching closer to his own.

  Julian nodded. An academic he was not, but he knew enough of history and women to know what she was talking about. Waist-cinching underthings. Thigh-high stockings held in place with ribbons and silk.

  A group of women doing Regency playacting—he could get on top of that idea.

  “That sounds interesting,” he managed to say without giving away the sudden loss of blood in his brain, which was coursing hot and thick toward his groin. “But isn’t that all indoor stuff?”

  “Well, we hold balls and tea parties, and those are all inside.” She chose her words carefully and watched after each one for his reaction. “But I’m hoping to recreate this big, elaborate outdoor garden thing. And Cornwall Park is the perfect place for it.”

  “You’re doing this all by yourself?”

  “Sort of. It’s for the whole group, but I’m in charge of this particular event. It’s a long story, but I’m basically being punished for some…er…misbehavior on Jada’s part. I’m excited to do it, though. You probably think it’s silly, but—”

  Her leg brushed against his. He reached over and rested a hand on her knee, stilling her nervous movements. “Don’t do that. It’s not silly at all. Recreating history and honoring the past is important.” He grinned down at her. “I should know. I do it in a skirt.”

  He hadn’t yet let go of her leg, unable to pull the pad of his thumb and fingers away from the soft skin. Like before, her leg was almost cool to the touch.

  “I’m sorry,” she said so softly it was almost a whisper. But her gaze was direct, and she didn’t pull her leg away.

  “For what?”

  “I’m so used to people making fun of the Regency group that I get weirdly defensive. If I’m not stammering about it, I’m usually up on a soapbox preaching the superiority of my ways.”

  He nodded. “I get it. I used to get a lot of flak for the Scottish Games when I was younger, but I don’t anymore.”

  “Of course you don’t. Who would dare?” She cocked her head and raked her gaze over him, appreciation and awe glinting warmly in her eyes. His internal body temperature jumped several degrees.

  She softened her tone and added, “That’s not a fair comparison. You have extreme powers of intimidation. I don’t.”

  Julian finally released his hold on her leg, allowing himself to take in the curve of her thigh where it met the hem of her dress, which fluttered higher as she shifted. All of it—the dress, the skin, the promise of what lay farther up—writhed with silken sensuality.

  “Oh, you have powers too. Believe me.”

  Danger comes packaged in bulging muscles…and a codpiece.

  The World is a Stage

  © 2012 Tamara Morgan

  Games of Love, Book 2

  Highland Games athlete Michael O’Leary is famous for his ability to charm a woman right out of her pants. Maybe a little too famous. When he’s sidelined with a knee injury, his wingman pounces on the chance to take full advantage of
Michael’s idle time.

  Trying out for the local adult-themed Shakespearean production seems simple, but there’s a catch. Michael must woo the notoriously demanding lead actress, Rachel Hewitt, thereby freeing his friend to pursue a courtship of Rachel’s sister.

  Rachel hates the thought of handing over the lead role in her admittedly scandalous troupe to someone so wholly uneducated in the ways of the Great Bard. But she’s in a bind, and the only one who can step up is a man who looks way too good in a codpiece—and knows it.

  To add insult to injury, he refuses to take the role until she agrees to take his place in some barbaric warrior race. She’ll do it, but not with a smile. Unfortunately, the hardest part isn’t antagonizing her Scottish foes. It’s resisting the one man who seems determined to line and cue her heart—forever.

  Warning: This book’s half-naked Shakespearean actors are not approved of or acknowledged by people with actual literary merit. Neither are the dirty limericks.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for The World is a Stage:

  When Rachel returned to the theater, Michael took one look at her face and got to work. Her expression bounced between a heavy-browed, murderous gleam and the wobbly smile women always got when they were trying hard not to cry.

  He wasn’t sure which one was worse.

  “Oh, good. You’re back,” he called, drawing Rachel’s attention before she could run over poor Jillian, who was doing her best to scatter back toward the light rigs. He’d settled comfortably in the director’s chair near the back entrance to the stage, a sort of lordly position that let him see most of what was going on. Dominic had already told him to get out of that chair five times, but it was cozy, and he pretended he needed it for security purposes.

  Mostly he just wanted to keep an eye on all the entrances.

  “Why is that good?”

  There was a hesitancy to her voice that didn’t sit well with him, so he laid the charm on extra thick, just the way she liked it. “Well, it just so happens I have a proposition for you.”

  “I’m surprised you even know what that word means,” Rachel replied, her back bristling up within seconds, the murderous gleam taking a clear lead over tears. Good girl.

  “Proposition. Noun. A fancy way to tell a woman you want to see her honey pot.”

  “You are not seeing my honey pot.”

  “Now, now,” he chided, wagging his finger. God, she was easy to rile up. “We’ll get to that question when we come to it. What I was really asking was if you’ll do me the honor of coming to my house next week.”

  “No.” She stalked halfway across the backstage area before stopping. “Why? Do you have some secret underground lair or something? Is that your new plan?”

  He raised a brow. “You mean a sex room? As in, nipple clamps and ball gags and thirty-one flavors of lube?”

  The vein near her temple throbbed a warning, so he put a hand over his heart and winked. “Not yet, Red. But you say the word, and I promise to dig you one with my own two hands.”

  “You’re disgusting,” she said, though Michael noted she didn’t actually move away. He launched right ahead.

  “See, what I figure is you owe me. I’ve been doing some thinking, and I decided how I want you to make it up to me. And you’ll be happy to know it doesn’t involve honey or the pot it comes in. Or nipple clamps. Yet.”

  She pokered up even more, so much that a light wind would have caused her to go crashing to the ground. Michael was man enough to admit that it turned him on. Big-time. A magnificent redhead, magnificently angry. If he could wind her up with a few breezy words, just imagine what some intense, one-on-one face time would lead to. Rolling. Pinching. Slapping. Teeth.

  His cock stirred, and his balls shifted. God bless those boys of his.

  “I’m aware of…of a debt of gratitude,” she’d said stiffly. “But if you think I’m going to—”

  “You have no idea what I’m talking about. I’ll have you know that director in there offered me the male lead for this naughty little play of yours.”

  “You’re lying. He wouldn’t dare.”

  Michael went smoothly on. “Oh, he did dare. And for your sake, I turned him down. I know how much it would kill you to stand opposite me up there every day—there are sex scenes in this story of William’s, right? Or is it just kissing? Maybe some heavy petting?”

  Her eyes grew wide, the color in her cheeks mounting. He knew it must be costing her to remain silent and still.

  “Well, the point is, I thought about how you might react to such news and said no. I hate to cause a lady’s head to explode. It’s one of my Ten Rules to Live By. Do you want to hear the other nine?”

  “No. I don’t want to hear another word out of your stupid, oversized mouth.”

  He held up one finger. “Rule Number One. A gentleman always sleeps on the wet spot. Rule Number Two. A really good gentleman does his best to ensure that there are, in fact, nothing but wet spots. If you know what I mean.”

  She was unmoved. “Can you be a little bit less revolting for one second? Are you or are you not telling me you turned the role down?”

  “Of course I turned it down. I’m now officially the Antony Understudy, unlikely to ever see the lights of the stage. And you are so overcome with joy that you will, obviously, say yes to coming to my party. I could probably even make some good headway on our underground love nest by then.”

  “Wait a minute—you’re using my career to blackmail me for a date?”

  “Well, shit. I guess I am. A fancy date too—meat and beer at my house, three o’clock. My cousin Jennings will be there, though, and he’s slightly off. I’d wear pants if I were you.”

  Her brow wrinkled. “And then we’re even?”

  “As even as my sword of truth.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense,” she muttered. “Fine. Just text me the address later. And for the record—I’m not promising to have fun.”

  “With Michael O’Leary, baby, the fun is guaranteed,” he said solemnly, the twitching of his lips ruining an otherwise stone-faced remark. “You can always count on that.”

  “I have never met anyone so unjustifiably enamored of himself than you.” Her words were biting, but there wasn’t a whole lot of energy behind them.

  “I do my best,” he said, shrugging. “Oh, and Rachel?”

  “What now?”

  “My dad was the same way. For years, all while I was a kid, I was up there, walking the tightrope with him. It sucks, you know?”

  She stared at him for a full minute. “Yeah. I know.”

  “What’s the Welcome Home banner for?” Rachel looked up at the decorations—correction, decoration—and did her best to swallow her smile. She was not here to have a good time, and she certainly wasn’t going to admit how welcome an afternoon away from her mother’s house, where the whole happy family lived together, actually was.

  But that didn’t mean she was above taking delight in the fact that Michael O’Leary was hosting an outdoor barbecue in the melting spring of the first weeks of April. Or that he lived on a working lentil farm, in one of a pair of twin Airstreams parked at random angles at the top of a hill.

  Not that she’d had expectations, of course, but this—this went beyond ridiculous. The Mule couldn’t even be bothered to live in a house. She would have bet her life savings that the family toilet lay somewhere off in the distance, between a patch of trees in a hole dug just for the purpose.

  “Maybe he just got back from a long trip,” Molly suggested. “I think it looks nice and festive. You’re going to be nice and festive too, right? You promised.”

  Molly was like a giddy child, and Rachel didn’t have the heart to back down now. She could have, though—promise or not. Contrary to what the Mule might believe, Rachel didn’t technically owe him anything related to the theater, as he’d suggested. Dominic said there had never been a man more aghast than Michael at being invited to star in one of his productions.

  “His
exact words were, and I quote, ‘Awww hell no’,” Dominic had said with a shake of his head. “I think I may need to retire.”

  No. It was the knowledge that she owed Michael O’Leary for the unspoken favor that was the real driving force behind her actions. Attending a thousand parties of his would be easier than talking to him about her mother, thanking him face-to-face for being a better friend than even her sister was.

  She’d come. She’d see. Maybe she wouldn’t conquer anything, but she could at least determine if there were any chinks in the Molly-Eric armor she could exploit. Starting with the fact he hadn’t bothered to offer them a ride.

  Already, the gallantry was wearing off. That was the first step. Next, he’d be texting Molly at all hours of the night and growing possessive whenever she looked at another man.

  Confidence Tricks

  Tamara Morgan

  A life of crime is easy…until love goes all ninja on your ass.

  Asprey Charles has always assumed he would one day take his place in the family art appraisal and insurance firm. “His place” meaning he plans to continue to enjoy his playboy lifestyle, lavish money on his Cessna, and shirk every responsibility that dares come his way.

  But when a life of crime is thrust upon him, he is just as happy to slip on a mask and cape and play a highwayman rogue. After all, life is one big game—and he excels at playing.

  Poppy Donovan vows that her recent release from jail will be her last—no more crime, no more cons. But when she learns that her grandmother lost her savings to a low-life financial advisor, she’s forced to do just one more job.

  It’s all going smoothly until the necklace she intends to pawn to fund her con is stolen by a handsome, mocking, white-collar thief. A thief who, it turns out, could take a whole lot more than money. If she’s not careful, this blue blood with no business on her side of the tracks could run off with the last thing she can afford to lose. Her heart.