1001 Dark Nights: Bundle Nine

by Carrie Ann Ryan

  “Well, that’s how I felt the first time I laid eyes on Amber Watson,” he says.

  The roar that comes up from the crowd is almost as loud as the one that greeted his announcement Watson’s was under new management. And just like that, all her feelings of anxiety lift, carried away by the full-voiced joy and support of people who’ve only wanted the best for her.

  He waits for it to die down again, then he says, “So, when I tell you that I went and had my adoption nullified, it’s not because Abel Watson wasn’t a good man and it’s not because the Watsons aren’t the most important people in my life and always will be. It’s because years ago, before my parents died and before Abel took me in, Amber and I realized we were fated to be something else for each other. And every day since then, we’ve just been delaying the inevitable. And that’s why I’d like to remind her that I love her. That’s why I’d like me and her to be the first official dance of the new Watson’s.”

  “Wipe your face, honey,” her mother says.

  “What?” Amber says. “I didn’t wear any makeup ’cause I knew he’d do this.”

  Her mother reaches into her purse and hands her a tissue. Amber walks through the crowd, cheering faces on all sides of her, and then, once she’s a few feet away, Caleb jumps off the edge of the stage and lands on the dance floor, arm out, ready to take her for a spin.

  “Toldja I’d give you this dance, Amber Watson,” he says once she’s close enough to hear him.

  “You sure did, Caleb Eckhart. You sure did.”

  “You ready, baby.”

  “So ready,” she says.

  He takes her outstretched hand and grips her waist. She panics for a moment when she realizes she doesn’t know if they’re about to waltz or two-step or what. But once the music starts none of that matters. The only dance that matters is one she does with him.

  * * * *

  Also from 1001 Dark Nights and Christopher Rice, discover The Flame, The Surrender Gate, Kiss the Flame, and Desire & Ice.

  About Christopher Rice

  New York Times bestselling author Christopher Rice’s first foray into erotic romance, THE FLAME, earned accolades from some of the genre’s most beloved authors. “Sensual, passionate and intelligent,” wrote Lexi Blake, “it’s everything an erotic romance should be.” J. Kenner called it “absolutely delicious,” Cherise Sinclair hailed it as “beautifully lyrical” and Lorelei James announced, “I look forward to reading more!” He went on to publish two more installments in The Desire Exchange Series, THE SURRENDER GATE and KISS THE FLAME. Prior to his erotic romance debut, Christopher published four New York Times bestselling thrillers before the age of 30, received a Lambda Literary Award and was declared one of People Magazine’s Sexiest Men Alive. His supernatural thrillers, THE HEAVENS RISE and THE VINES, were both nominated for Bram Stoker Awards. Aside from authoring eight works of dark suspense, Christopher is also the co-host and executive producer of THE DINNER PARTY SHOW WITH CHRISTOPHER RICE & ERIC SHAW QUINN, all the episodes of which can be downloaded and streamed at www.TheDinnerPartyShow.com and from iTunes. Subscribe to The Dinner Party Show's You Tube channel to receive the newest content.

  Also from Christopher Rice

  Click to purchase

  Thrillers

  A DENSITY OF SOULS

  THE SNOW GARDEN

  LIGHT BEFORE DAY

  BLIND FALL

  THE MOONLIT EARTH

  Supernatural Thrillers

  THE HEAVENS RISE

  THE VINES

  Paranormal Romance

  THE FLAME: A Desire Exchange Novella

  THE SURRENDER GATE: A Desire Exchange Novel

  KISS THE FLAME: A Desire Exchange Novella

  Contemporary Romance

  DANCE OF DESIRE

  DESIRE & ICE: A MacKenzie Family Novella

  Desire & Ice

  A MacKenzie Family Novella

  By Christopher Rice

  Now Available

  Click here to purchase!

  I'm so thrilled and grateful New York Times bestseller Liliana Hart allowed me to reference characters from her MacKenzie Family stories here in DANCE OF DESIRE. If you'd like to find out how Caleb's buddy Danny Patterson got together with his new fiancée, buy DESIRE & ICE: A MacKenzie Family Novella, now available from all retailers. Here's a taste!

  * * * *

  She'd just give him one little kiss. Something to warm them, distract them and tide them over until they could be alone with all these explosive new feelings.

  The next thing she knew she was on her back, their mouths locked, tongues finding their mutual rhythm. The thoughts flying through her head told her this was stupid, wrong. So what if he wasn't her student anymore, hadn't been for years.

  They were still trapped. They should be watching the door, the window. They should be doing anything other than discovering they kissed like they were born to kiss each other. He broke suddenly, gazing into her eyes, shaking his head slowly as if he as if he were as dazed by this sudden burst of passion as she was.

  "I think…" he tried, but lost his words.

  "What do you think, Danny?"

  "I think if we just keep our eyes on the door, we'll be fine."

  "Okay."

  Was he putting the brakes on? She wasn't sure. It was the most sensible thing to do, that was for sure. He slid off her and sat up, back against the wall, eyes on the door. She did the same. But he curved an arm around her back and brought her body sideways against his. It was awkward at first, but then he positioned her so that she was lying halfway across his lap.

  "Now that I'm watching the door," he said, unbuttoning the top few buttons of her blouse, "I think we'll be fine."

  "Oh, yeah?"

  He brought his fingers to his mouth, moistened them with his tongue, then dipped them between the folds of her shirt. Slowly, he wedged them under the cup of her bra. When he found her nipple underneath, he said, "Yeah. Just fine."

  In an instant, her body was flush with goose bumps.

  Eyes on the door, his gun within reach, he circled her nipple with his moistened fingers. His precision and restraint combined to make her wet in other places as well. She'd seen the passion in his eyes, a youthful crush that had matured into a man's desire. But now, he was willing to delay his own gratification so that he could protect her and pleasure her at the same time.

  "Let me give you a little help there," she whispered.”

  Some Sort of Happy

  A Happy Crazy Love Novel

  By Melanie Harlow

  Acknowledgments

  To my family, I am so lucky to have the forever things with you. I love you so much.

  To the team that makes it possible for me to put pretty books into the world: Jenn Watson, Cait Greer, Tamara Mataya, Angie Owens. I’m so grateful.

  To Paula Erwin, for reading and sharing thoughts with me, especially for getting into Sebastian’s head. This book is so much better because of you!

  To Danielle, whose gorgeous poetry always inspires me. THANK YOU for letting me pilfer words and riff off your ideas.

  To Linda Russell, for making me come out of the cave and talk about my books. You’re awesome.

  To Melissa Gaston, I don’t know how I did anything without you! Never leave me.

  To Kayti and Sierra and Laurelin, without whom there would be no Melanie Harlow, because you have talked me off the ledge so many times. Thank you for believing, even when I don’t.

  To the authors who have been so generous with their time and advice and experience, especially Laurelin Paige, Lauren Blakely, Corinne Michaels, M. Pierce, and Claire Contreras. I’ve learned so much from you, and I’m so lucky to call you my friends.

  To the ladies of TWS, The Order, FYW and especially The Harlots, thanks for never letting me feel alone in this endeavor! You make me smile every day.

  Finally, thank you readers and bloggers for reading and talking about books you love, especially The Dirty Laundry girls, The Literary Gossip, Fict
ion Fangirls, The Rock Stars of Romance, True Story Book Blog, Vilma’s Vixens, Schmexy Girls, Aestas Book Blog, Shameless Book Club, Shayna Renee’s Spicy Reads, Short and Sassy Book Blurbs… None of this would be possible without you!

  Epigraph

  Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness.

  It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift.

  Mary Oliver

  Chapter 1

  Skylar

  I’m not an awful person, I swear I’m not, but you wouldn’t know that if you saw me on Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy).

  Oh, you’ve never heard of it?

  Good.

  It’s a ridiculous reality show where 30 beautiful girls compete for the love of a hot cattle rancher. To show their devotion, they do meaningful things like wear cowboy boots with tiny denim shorts, squeal for him at the local rodeo, and, of course, take their turn on a mechanical bull. This last activity will later be edited into a hilarious #FAIL reel since none of the women ever lasts more than ten seconds, and some not even two.

  (If you must know, seven. And it wasn’t pretty.)

  “It’s back on!” My younger sister Natalie bolted from the bathroom to the couch, jostling my arm when she flopped down next to me.

  I frowned. “Nat, making me watch myself on Save a Horse is possibly forgivable, depending on how they edit this last segment. Spilling my margarita while I watch it is not.” I’d hoped a tequila buzz would numb the shame of watching myself be an obnoxious twat on TV, but so far, it hadn’t happened.

  In my defense, producers told me to be an obnoxious twat. As soon as I got to Montana, they took me aside and said, “We like you, but we want you to be the crazy one people will love to hate, and we’ll make sure you stay on the show longer if you’re good at it.” After thinking it over, I agreed. After all, the whole reason I was doing the show was to get noticed by casting directors. If I was just another nice girl who got cut after the first episode, where would that leave me?

  But had I known that clever editing would make me look even worse than I’d acted—a feat I’d have sworn wasn’t possible—I might have reconsidered.

  “Oh, come on.” Always able to see a bright side, Natalie patted my head. “Every show needs someone to hate on, and that person is always the most memorable, right?”

  Noisily I slurped up more margarita. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  “Yes! Can you name one nice person from a reality show? No,” she went on before I could answer. “That’s because nice people are not fun on TV.”

  Sinking deeper into the couch, I watched myself trash someone’s outfit on the screen. “They’re not making me look fun. They’re making me look like a hideous bitch.” I picked up my phone and checked Twitter, even though I knew it would be painful. “Yep. Just like I thought. Hashtag skylarsucks is trending. Oh here’s a nice one: Skylar Nixon is not even pretty. Her mouth looks like my asshole.”

  Natalie took my phone out of my hands and threw it down between us on the couch. “Screw that, people are stupid and just like to hear themselves talk. Listen, you did this show to get your name out there. And it worked! A month ago, you were just a beauty queen from Michigan. Last week, you were in US Magazine! I’d call that a success, wouldn’t you?”

  “No. They took a picture of me pumping gas and I looked fat.” I shut one eye, barely able to watch myself sidle up to poor, hapless Cowboy Dex and flirt shamelessly. A moment later, it cut to an interview with me in which I gossiped about other contestants, spilling a secret one girl had told me in confidence. “Jesus, I’m even more horrible than I remember.”

  “Hey, they asked you to be horrible. You proved that you can take direction! You’re amazing at horrible!”

  Miserable, I licked the salted rim of my glass and threw back the rest of my drink. “I don’t think I can keep watching this trainwreck.”

  “You’re gonna miss the lasso ceremony!”

  “Good.” I stomped over to the kitchen counter, which, unfortunately, was still in earshot of the television. For the last month I’d been living in a small, repurposed barn on my parents’ farm, and everything was in one long room, kitchen at one end, bedroom on the other. Actually, it wasn’t even really a bedroom, just a bed separated from the main area by thick ivory curtains that pooled on the floor. I’d added that touch myself. In fact, one of the reasons my parents let me move in to one of their new guest houses rent-free was to help my mother decorate them. Not that I had a degree in interior decorating—or anything at all. But I did like the challenge of taking a raw space and making it beautiful. I should have gone to college for design.

  Or taxidermy.

  Or underwater basket-weaving.

  Or fucking anything that would have given me a real career to fall back on when the whole I’m Gonna Be a Star thing went tits up.

  I took my time in the kitchen, plunking a few more ice cubes into my glass and pouring generously from the oversized jug of margarita mix. But I returned to the couch in plenty of time to watch Cowboy Dex give out lassoes to the girls who’d roped his heart that week. Rolling my eyes so hard it hurt, I marveled that I’d managed to keep a straight face during this nonsense. No, even better than straight—my expression was sweet and grateful as Dex handed me that rope. Poor guy. He was cute and all, but dull as ditchwater. We actually had no chemistry whatsoever, but I’m sure the producers told him he had to keep me around for a while.

  Oh, you didn’t know producers manipulate things on reality TV to get the conflicts and tension they want for ratings? They do. All the time.

  Here are some other secrets I can tell you, although you didn’t hear them from me:

  Those shows are cheap as hell. All the contestants “volunteer” their time, and the only things that are paid for are travel, lodging, meals, and drinks. For the two months I spent filming, I’ve got nothing to show but more credit card debt because of all the money I spent on clothes and shoes and hair and makeup.

  Speaking of drinks, contestants can have, and are encouraged to have, as much alcohol as they want at the ranch, because a bunch of tipsy women are always more fun to watch than a bunch of sober ones. The showrunners made it a point to ask about favorite drinks during the interview process, and always kept the bars stocked.

  Which leads me to my final point. Producers are the masterminds of the show—the contestants are more like puppets. The show might not be scripted, but if you’re not saying the things they want you to say, if you’re not having the conversations they want you to have, they’ll stop the cameras and tell you, “Talk about this.” And they edit so shrewdly, snipping out what they don’t want or stringing together words said on completely different occasions to create a sentence never uttered by anyone—there’s even a name for it: frankenbiting.

  Like that—right there. “I never said that,” I said, lowering myself onto the couch and wincing when I heard myself remarking snidely, “People from small towns are all small-minded and stupid.”

  Natalie sucked air through her teeth. “Wow. That is pretty harsh. You didn’t say it?”

  “No! You can totally tell it’s edited—see the way it cut away from my interview to a voiceover? My voice doesn’t even sound the same! Those fucking producers were so slimy.”

  The shot went back to me during the interview, and God, I hated my face. And my stupid girly voice. And who told me that color yellow looked good with my skin tone? “I’m actually from a small town. I grew up on a farm in Northern Michigan, but I couldn’t wait to get out of there.”

  Wait a minute. Had I said that? I bit my lip. I honestly couldn’t remember. And seeing as I’d recently moved back to said town in Northern Michigan, it was particularly embarrassing.

  And then it got worse.

  “It’s nothing but a bunch of drunks, rednecks and religious gun nuts,” I heard my voice saying as footage of some unfamiliar old-timey main street flashed on the screen, complete with a farmer riding a tractor through town.
“I’d never go back.”

  “What?” Furious, I got to my feet. “I know I never said that! That footage wasn’t even taken here!”

  “Can they do that?” Natalie wondered, finally sounding a little outraged on my behalf. “I mean, just take any words you say and mix and match like that? Seems wrong.”

  “Of course it’s wrong, but yes, they can,” I said bitterly. “They can do anything they want because it’s their show.” I poured margarita down my throat, hoping nobody around here was watching. This stupid show wasn’t that popular, was it?

  My cell phone dinged. I grabbed it off the couch and looked at the screen. A text from our oldest sister, Jillian. She was a pediatrician and usually too busy for television, but lucky me, she must have found time tonight.

  What the hell was that???

  But before I could reply, another text came in, this one from my mother.

  I thought you said last week was the worst. The thing with the mechanical bull.

  My head started to pound. I clicked on my mother’s message and wrote back, I thought it was! I told you not to watch this show, Mom. They manipulate things. I never said that stuff. But I knew she wouldn’t get it. No matter how often or how well I explained the way editing worked, she still didn’t understand. My phone vibrated in my hand. “Oh, Jesus. Now she’s calling me,” I complained.

  “Who?”

  “Mom. She’s watching the show, even though I told her not to. Do I have to answer this?”

  My sister shrugged. “No. But you live on her property. She can probably see in the windows.”