WG2E All-For-Indies Anthologies: Spring Hop Edition

by Scott, D. D.

  Forget wishing for more.

  Was it so incredible that he wanted more quite desperately now? Wanted a retreat from the harsh realities of life with a partner, a lover, a friend?

  He’d never been able to control his feelings for Lainey, or, hell, control her, and that drove him a little bit crazy. And finally making love to her after wondering for thirteen years? It hadn’t been a quick fuck, that’s for sure. He’d had enough of those to know. Watching Lainey slip over the edge, her eyes dark with need, her body arching into his, her hands grasping and pulling him close, was sexual intimacy of a kind he’d never dreamed of experiencing. Truthfully, he wasn’t even sure he’d believed feelings like that existed.

  Goddammit, couldn’t he fall in love with someone less complicated, someone easier?

  He pushed aside the blueprint and wiggled the manila envelope loose from the stack of mail his assistant had delivered almost an hour ago. An hour he had held out, refusing to open the damned thing when he first saw it. His heart picked up speed as he traced the flowing script. He would recognize Lainey’s handwriting anywhere. In high school, only the rich kids had owned cell phones, not one in every hand like today, and he and Lainey had passed notes to each other most of senior year, the build-up to their intense summer romance. He still had them in a box in his storage unit, along with other silly keepsakes like the movie ticket from their first date and his sketches of her, a box he’d often told himself he needed to get rid of.

  Unable to wait another minute, he ripped into the envelope. A photograph and postcard dropped to the desk. He picked up the photo, the couple staring back at him hopelessly young and naïve. God, the way he’d once dressed, as if he were headed to a biker convention or worse, jail. And Lainey, damn, how lovely she’d been, blond hair hanging past her shoulders, her cheeks flushed from the sun and, if he wasn’t mistaken, the kiss he’d given her just before his cousin, Campbell, snapped the shot. He flipped the picture over but there was no inscription, though he didn’t need one to remember, well, anything about that sweltering, passionate summer.

  He swiveled the postcard right-side-up, then covered his mouth to catch the laugh. Where the hell had she gotten a postcard featuring Carnegie Hall that said “Practice Makes Perfect!”?

  How he would love to practice five times a day with Lainey Prescott.

  He sat back in his chair, his smile fading. His gaze again strayed to the stormy night as his heart stuttered in his chest. What are you trying to prove, Just? She didn’t set out to hurt you. You were both kids. Stupid kids doing the best you could to make it though difficult childhoods and grow up. Trust your gut. It’s been telling you the same thing since you were seventeen.

  Yes. He polished off his drink. It had.

  • • •

  This place needs a lot of love, Lainey thought as she dipped her paintbrush in the can at her side. Hard work and the scent of turpentine, paint and fresh air had driven out most of the bad memories and the scent of decay. She had been working like a demon on her father’s house in the four weeks since Justin left for New York, the list of tasks she could complete herself almost done. The next round of renovations she hoped to have professional assistance with. An architect would come in very handy then.

  But, because there were no guarantees, and certainly no promises given, she’d begun to build a new life in her hometown. In one of the curious twists of fate, her father’s house was located in what was considered an “up-and-coming” neighborhood, home to a small but thriving creative community. With assistance from the Pine Bluff Historical Society, Lainey had applied for a tax abatement that would, over the course of a few years, cover the cost of her planned improvements.

  She was also working on her psychologist licensure application for the state of South Carolina. Fontana had a friend with a vacant office on Main Street, and Lainey was set to look at the space tomorrow. She had reached out to the family of her former patient, and she hoped to better understand where she might have gone wrong in her treatment plan or forgive herself if it turned out she had done the best she could with an angry young man on the road to ruin. She had a new client as well, Justin’s youngest cousin, Christopher True.

  Lainey dabbed at a thin trail of paint that snaked down the wall, wondering how she was going to make it until next week, when the one-month waiting period was over. What if Justin didn’t show? What if he showed only to tell her that he wanted to move forward with his life, without her? She had avoided True Art, knowing she would not be able to keep herself from making contact with Justin if she entered a space where his being was so very alive. The night of the festival, in the gallery, with his molten gaze stripping her bare, and his hands on her, she’d felt consumed, surrounded by his intensity and his paintings, the bold splashes on canvas that had come from his mind and his soul.

  The only place she would be weaker at this moment would be in his bed.

  “This house has good bones.”

  Lainey swiveled so quickly that paint dribbled across her bare foot. She pressed her lips together to keep from gasping and watched Justin circle the room, his gaze touching the ceiling, then the floor. He stopped at the window, arm lifting, his finger sliding along a cracked pane with a caress she felt clear to her paint-dribbled toes.

  “Work, yes, but this one would be fun to restore,” he said. His dark hair brushed the back of his collar as he turned to face her. Aviator sunglasses resting atop his head, the lenses caught a ray of sunlight and pitched it to the floor. In his black suit, he looked like he had just walked out of a fashion shoot.

  She licked her lips, all the words she wanted to say to him scrambling in her brain with nothing but a rushed sigh coming out. Pleasure, earnest and swift, filled her as he approached. His gaze locked with hers and held steady, the only hint of nervousness the hands he flexed at his side. She noted a flash of hunger as he studied her, though he managed to extinguish it quickly.

  “You’re back early,” she whispered when he stood before her.

  He smiled, the dimple she’d so missed flaring to life. “Actually, I think I’m late.” He took the brush from her hand and tipped it against the paint can. “Thirteen years late.”

  She shook her head, tears burning behind her eyes. “Thirteen years?”

  He reached inside his coat pocket and came out with a small silver box. “I bought this for you the week before we were set to leave for college. It seems meager now, but then…” He brought the box to her hand and placed it with the greatest care in her outstretched palm.

  She wrapped her fingers around it, her gaze never leaving his. The skin around his eyes crinkled as his smile deepened, then he laughed. “Open it, will you? The suspense is killing me.”

  She fumbled with the box, the hinge squeaking. A heart-shaped locket lay inside, the tarnished metal surrounded by wrinkled red velvet. Her hand shaking, she lifted it high. The inscription on the back was brief but so true it had her taking a deep, dazed breath. Their initials intertwined with the word Fate below them. A tear leaked out, trailing down her cheek.

  Justin’s smile dimmed, his hands lifting to cradle her face, his thumb brushing the tear away. “No tears, Lai. Shhh…I’m here.”

  She closed her eyes as he brought her against his chest, his heartbeat drumming wildly beneath her ear. She breathed the scent of him in, wondering how she had made it through the years without him. “I wasted so much time, made so many mistakes.”

  “Lainey, I wasn’t just mad at you, I was mad at myself. I could have gone after you when you left. I knew you were worried about the distance, afraid to love me like you wanted to. Your family was as much of a mess as mine. Damn, we were two frightened kids. And one of them, me, had more pride than was called for.” Pulling back, he lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers, the kiss confirming the locket’s promise. Lainey ran her hands down his shoulders and back, reassuring herself that he was here and perhaps not going anywhere.

  He kissed the tears from her face, then pr
essed his nose to her hair and inhaled softly. “You smell like heaven, always, I don’t know how. Just like heaven.”

  She lifted her face to his. “Do I still have to meet you at the gallery next week?”

  He pulled back, his smile returning, his eyes a very clear, golden brown. “Do you want to? I have an antique drafting table in the storage room that is extremely sturdy.”

  A laugh burst from her lips. “I love you, Just. I always have.”

  “I know. Every kiss we’ve ever shared let me know. That’s why I was angry with myself for not trying to change your mind. I thought you were simply another person I loved with all my heart who had turned their back on me, so I did the same to you.”

  “I’m staying,” she said, when he looked like he was about to kiss her again, his lids sliding low. If they got started, lucid thought would fly right out the open window at her back. “I’m opening a practice in town.”

  “Me, too,” he said and took her mouth with his. The kiss bloomed from exquisitely sweet to decidedly warm. His hands drifted to her hips and brought her into his body, nice and tight. “Staying. New business. Architectural restoration.”

  Lainey pulled back enough to see his face. His cheeks were flushed, his breathing coming out in a rough clip. His lashes lay long and so very dark against his skin. She’d never wanted another man in the way she wanted him, his every thought, his every want or need, his essence. “You love me?”

  “Of course. Always, now, forever. We’re fate, you and I.” His brow lifted, a ripple of sunlight pouring through the window and across his face. “Did you have any doubt?”

  She frowned. “Well, yes. We made love and then you went back to New—”

  “Okay, okay. Let me convince you,” he said and swept her back into the kiss.

  And convince her he did.

  • • •

  Look for Campbell and Fontana’s love story in TRUE DREAMS, November 2012!

  About the Author

  Tracy’s story telling career began when she picked up a copy of LaVyrle Spencer’s Vows on a college beach trip. A journalism degree and a thousand romance novels later, she decided to try her hand at writing a southern version of the perfect love story. With a great deal of luck and more than a bit of perseverance, she sold her first novel to Kensington Publishing.

  When not writing sensual stories featuring complex characters and lush settings, Tracy can be found reading romance, snowboarding, watching college football and figuring out how she can get to 100 countries before she kicks (which is a more difficult endeavor than it used to be with her four-year-old son in tow). After stops in France, Switzerland and Taiwan, she now lives in the south. However, after spending a few years in “the city”, she considers herself a New Yorker at heart.

  Tracy has been awarded the National Reader’s Choice, the Write Touch and the Beacon — with finalist nominations in the HOLT Medallion, Heart of Romance, Rising Stars and Reader’s Choice. Her books have been translated into German, Dutch, Portuguese and Spanish. She loves hearing from readers about why she tends to pit her hero and heroine against each other and that great novel she simply must order in five seconds on her Kindle.

  Ciao!

  Website: http://tracysumner.com/

  Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/SumnerTracy

  Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/TracySumnerRomanceAuthor

  Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5259839.Tracy_Sumner

  Other Titles

  The Seaswept Seduction Series:

  Tides of Love (Book One: Noah)

  Tides of Passion (Book Two: Zach)

  Tides of Desire (Book Three: Caleb), Coming June 2012!

  Southern Heat Series:

  To Seduce a Rogue (Book One: Adam)

  To Desire a Scoundrel (Novella Two: Tanner)

  True Men Series:

  True Fate (Novella One: Justin)

  True Dreams (Book Two: Campbell), Coming November 2012!

  Guns ‘N’ Tulips

  By Kristine Cayne

  One

  Connor Kavanagh crinkled his nose against the stench of sweat and stale cigarette smoke permeating the interior of the getaway van. He made a show of checking his shoulder rig, then pretending he had an itch, slid a hand along his calf to confirm that his Glock 27 was safely tucked into his ankle holster. He wanted to put the Bank Bandits in jail, but he didn’t want to die doing it. He had a life to get back to. But it all hinged on the success of his mission today. And on Lily forgiving him.

  The van stopped. Rourke Walsh, the leader of this band of deadly misfits, cleared his throat. “Ready, ladies?”

  Connor looked around. The van had pulled into a parking spot just in front of a Bank of America. What the hell? He eyed his partners in crime. None appeared concerned. “Aren’t we supposed to hit the CitiBank on Jackson?”

  He glanced at Owen, looking for confirmation, but his friend kept staring at the back of the driver’s head. Something was going on, something bad.

  Rourke grinned. “You know what they say, once a conman always a conman. Think of this as a test. I got a buddy scoping out the CitiBank. Cops show up there, I’ll know we can’t trust you.”

  Christ! As soon as Rourke’s informant caught sight of Captain Morris and his team, Connor was a dead man. He’d have lost four months of his life, his reputation as a cop, even his fiancée, for fucking nothing. He glanced at Neil sitting beside Rourke. Maybe he could use what he knew about Neil to drive a wedge between them. Keeping his face blank, Connor swallowed and shook his head. “Bad move, boss. You better hope they have the same type of safe as our original target.”

  “You’re the big expert. According to Owen you can get into anything.” And Owen would know. They’d grown up in Mount Greenwood, a predominantly Irish-Catholic neighborhood on the southwest side of Chicago. Both their fathers had died young and they’d felt honor bound to help their struggling mothers put food on the table anyway they could. Stealing the occasional gallon of milk from the convenience store had led to bigger jobs and put them in the eye of men like Rourke. Connor’s reputation as a top-notch safecracker and Owen’s knack for always knowing the best spots to hit were the only reasons either of them had survived adolescence. Connor almost felt bad for using his friend to infiltrate the Bandits. But Owen had made his choices. They both had.

  Connor shook his head at Rourke’s ignorance. The man was an expert strategist, but he had no appreciation for a cracksman’s skills. “A bank vault isn’t like your woman’s legs; it won’t open with just a kiss and a poke. It requires some teasing, some stroking, the right tools, and a man who knows what to do with them.”

  “You’d better have the skills to back up that mouth, Conman. Prove you’re not just a can-opener.” Rourke waited for Connor to nod before continuing. “You and Owen take the lead. Get the people on the ground. Frank and me, we’ll follow. Neil, watch our backs. Shoot anyone who looks like trouble. Terrence, bring the car to the employees’ side door and wait for us there.” His eyes lasered on each of them. “No fuck-ups. Let’s go!”

  They pulled the stockings over their heads and picked up their weapons. Connor slipped the backpack containing his tools on his shoulders, and when the van door slid open, he and Owen jumped out. A brisk March wind tugged at Connor’s trench coat, threatening to yank it open and reveal the MP5 he held hidden inside. The day’s cloudy gray skies reflected his mood as they sped across the oddly empty sidewalk.

  In the distance, he heard the cheering of a crowd. Brows furrowed, he pushed open the entrance door to the bank and came face to face with a cardboard leprechaun. St. Patrick’s Day. The bank was only a few blocks from the parade route where all the Irish and Irish wannabes in the city of Chicago were lining along Columbus Drive, shivering in the cold lake air and drinking gallons of beer and whiskey. Last year, Lily had insisted on attending both the river-dying ceremony and the parade, and he’d had a blast snuggling with her under a Bears blanket to keep her warm.

>   But that was a lifetime ago. Lily hated him now, maybe for good.

  Pushing down the emotions clogging his throat, he nodded to Owen, raised his gun and charged inside. “Everyone, listen up! Get face down on the ground with your hands above your heads. Now!”

  A security guard and the bank patrons, three women and two men, stared back at him. One of the women, a lady in her sixties, screamed. Another rushed forward, white-faced and tight-lipped, and helped the older woman get on the floor. Connor felt two inches tall as he continued to point the MP5 at them while shouting instructions.

  Owen rushed over to the tellers. “Move it!” he bellowed, gesturing with his weapon for them to join the others in the lobby.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Connor spotted a teller reaching below the counter as she turned to exit the restricted area. Good woman. At least the cops would be alerted. Whether Captain Morris would be able to get here in time was another question. If he recalled correctly, their original target was smack-dab in the middle of the parade action. He should have paid more attention, should have investigated the location, and put two and two together. If he died in this bank, bleeding out on the mud-streaked tile, he’d deserve it. But he wouldn’t fold without giving it his best shot.

  When Rourke’s informant called, Neil was going down.

  Rourke and Frank added their voices to the chaos while Neil guarded the door. Like a bull on steroids, Frank charged through the lobby to help Owen herd the staff from behind the counter. But Rourke split off and weaved his way to the back offices, no doubt looking for the loan manager. Ever since his mortgage refinancing had been turned down and he’d lost his home and business, Rourke had a hard-on for loan managers. In the last six months, every bank the Bandits had hit, the loan manager had eaten a bullet.