10 Timeless Heroes; A Time Travel Romance Boxed Set

by P. L. Parker, Beth Trissel, L. L. Muir, Skhye Moncrief, Sky Purington, Nancy Lee Badger, Caroline Clemmons, Bess McBride, Donna Michaels

  He slowly lowered his head. “You’re wasting your energy, Samantha. You should know better than to dare a Marine.”

  Jaw firmly clasped in his hand, Mitch brushed his lips across her clenched mouth and instantly fought back a groan.

  Hot damn.

  Bursts of fire shot to the flames blazing in his groin and ricocheted up and down his body.

  He should’ve pulled back, but didn’t.

  Chapter 6

  Unable to stop, Mitch rolled with the flow of desire-mixed adrenaline. His tongue snaked out and followed the seam of her lips. To his astonishment and undoing, she moaned and opened her mouth.

  Son-of-a-bitch. She allowed him access.

  A fission of current spliced down his spine, forever fusing their connection to his mind and body, right down to his very soul. Every nerve-ending tingled. Every hair on his body stood at attention. Samantha grabbed his attention. Over and over, he delved and explored, delighting in her sweet, fiery taste. Cinnamon. And vanilla. She reminded him of a mouthwatering confection. Spicy and sweet.

  He should’ve pulled back, but again, he didn’t.

  She was a drink and he was parched. He couldn’t stop. And when she leaned forward and brushed his chest with her full, peeked breasts, he didn’t want to stop—refused to stop. Samantha had an incredible body and knew how to use it. Have mercy, he wanted to be used.

  With another moan, she lightly touched her tongue to his and broke his dwindling resolve. Completely forgetting he initiated the move to teach her a lesson, throw her off balance, Mitch dropped to his knees, cupped her face with both hands and deepened the kiss.

  Tongues skimmed and teased, looping back and forth in an aerial dance of desire. Beats the hell out of dogfights. Liquid heat melted his spine and flooded every cell. He never met a woman who drove him to this deep, fierce state of hunger.

  Or had he?

  More images of them naked and embracing shot through his mind. In front of a fire; in a meadow; in a Victorian style four-poster bed. They looked slightly different, but the passion burned the same. Powerful. Intense. Consuming. He didn’t know how, but at the moment, didn’t care. Something about Samantha appealed to him. Tugged deep.

  Too bad she was a spy…

  His blood froze as if hit with an arctic blast. Idiot! He broke off the kiss and stumbled to the couch. Shit! Shit! What the hell did he just do? Air blasted into his starved lungs, while his gaze strayed to the panting…restrained woman. Lips red and swollen. Eyes wild and dark.

  “Damn! I’m sorry, Samantha. I never meant…I didn’t mean to let things go that far.”

  Mitch shot to his feet and spat out several curses as he strode across the cabin. He’d never lost control before.

  “Where…where are you going?”

  “Outside to cool off.”

  Opening the door a crack, he checked for signs of life, signs of the enemy. Birds chirped, squirrels skittered about, but nothing else stirred. His jaw clenched.

  All the stirring took place inside.

  He glanced down. Two large, black duffle bags blocked his escape. Curious, but not enough to stay and open them, he tossed them just inside the door. He would check the contents later. Right now, he needed air.

  Satisfied they were alone, he stepped onto the porch and slammed the door, eager to flee the explosive confines of the cabin.

  As he marched to the axe and firewood out back, he breathed deep. Fresh, crisp, pine-scented air hit his nose. Exactly what he needed to clear the cobwebs from his brain. Maybe he had died in that dogfight and this was his hell. His steps faltered and gaze shot to the cabin.

  Or my heaven.

  That woman inside certainly fit every man’s dream. He glanced down at his body and grabbed his crotch. No, not dead—in fact, a minute ago he’d been very much alive and throbbing. He dropped his hand.

  Maybe I’m in a coma.

  That would explain a few things. His gaze fell to the rows of cut pine and oak already stacked against the house; fruits of the past couple of day’s labor. Coma or not, he would play the hand dealt. He marched to the axe, gripped the handle, and yanked the blade free from the stump. What a weird prison camp. He’d never heard of anything so strange. Extracting a piece of timber from the un-split pile, he let go of his anger and rammed the log onto the stump.

  How could I be so stupid?

  Whack! He slammed the blade into the wood, splitting halfway to the middle.

  I had no right to touch her. She was restrained, for Christ’s sake.

  He swung the axe-encased log into the air, then rammed down on the stump. Strong and sharp—the blade drove right through, splitting the wood in half.

  Torn in two…just like him. Half of him wanted to believe Samantha’s crazy story, the other half knew it was impossible. But why would she lie? If she was a spy, what did she want?

  Mitch repeated the splitting process another thirty times before he felt calm enough to stop. After stacking the cut firewood against the cabin, he grabbed a few pieces and headed around the front.

  Time to face the woman and apologize.

  That chicken-shit apology he’d thrown at her on his way out the door didn’t count. He had to put things right—regardless of their stations in life. His mother, God rest her soul, had raised him better. He should not have stooped to that level.

  Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and re-entered the cabin.

  “Ah, right on time. I hope you’re hungry,” Samantha said, stirring something on the stove in the kitchen.

  A genuine smile lit her eyes, sucker-punching his gut with an invisible fist. She was gorgeous and…

  Unrestrained.

  The wood he’d carried fell from his limp arms and landed with a clatter on the floor. A clump of bouncing logs smacked into his already sore shin.

  “Son-of-a-bitch!”

  Kicking the door shut, he leaned against the solid surface and rubbed his thumping leg. Now he had a lump…and a limp. His gaze shot to the vacant chair and cut fishing line lying on the living room floor.

  How the hell did she get loose?

  His heart stopped. Someone else was in the cabin! Alarm raced through his veins and doubled his pulse. Was it the Germans?

  “Oh, for crying out loud, Captain,” Sam found herself repeating the phrase often with him.

  Log clutched in his hand like a bat, the other wielding his knife, the exasperating man ignored her and investigated the four rooms that made up her quaint cabin, the open living/kitchen area, two bedrooms and a bath.

  “You don’t need that. There’s no one here but me and you.” She waved the ladle at him. “I can’t believe how stubborn you are. What’s it going to take to convince you I’m telling the truth?”

  He grunted. “An act of God.”

  “Sorry, I’m fresh out.” She laughed.

  A narrowed, blue-green gaze fastened to her mouth, erasing the laughter in her suddenly dry throat. Damn, the Marine is potent.

  In a ridiculous, irrational way, her lips tingled as if caressed. Unable to curb the urge, her tongue darted out to dispel, or perhaps test, the sensation. She couldn’t be sure. A sharp intake of breath, followed by an audible swallow filled the three foot space between them. Was he remembering their kiss? Holy Hannah. The most incredible kiss she’d ever experienced.

  Heaven help her, she wanted to taste him again.

  The air turned hot, stuffy—charged with a vaguely familiar spark. His close proximity ripped through her wall of control. The ladle slipped from her fingers and dropped into the pot with a clunk. Get a grip. He’s just a man, she silently admonished, thankful the hot soup hadn’t splashed high enough to scald her flesh.

  As if compelled, she glanced at the sexy Marine and caught his narrowed, suspicious gaze bouncing from the stove to her hands.

  She rolled her eyes and sighed. “I am not poisoning your food. Jeez, you’re so paranoid.”

  “Can you blame me?” Arms folded across his broad chest
, he regarded her steadily. “You didn’t capture me to have sex.”

  Sam’s heart rocked into her ribs. No, but…damn! She swallowed the drool gathered in her mouth from the naughty thoughts his words induced.

  “How did you get loose, anyway?” He scratched his temple.

  Happy for the change in subject, she conjured a neutral expression and rubbed her sore wrists. All the tugging against her restraints had broken the skin. Stupid fishing line. Her flesh stung like a son-of-a-bitch, but she wasn’t about to let him know. She waved a hand back and forth and smiled instead.

  “I told you. This was my grandfather’s cabin. I know where he kept his knives…not to mention the ones right here in the kitchen.” She pointed to an angled wooden block housing three rows of black handled cutlery.

  A large hand thwacked his thigh as a look of self-disgust marred his handsome face. “I’d forgotten about them.”

  She continued to rub her tender wrists and nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

  Apparently convinced death-by-ladle didn’t loom in his future either, Captain Mitchell picked up the dropped wood and started the evening fire. Sam ordered her eyes to shift to the stove and away from the Marine stooped in front of the stone hearth. She might as well have communicated with the wall. Her gaze refused to budge and slowly appraised the fit flying Ace.

  The tan, thin, vintage uniform left nothing to the imagination. Sam had a great view of his tight ass and noted muscles taut across the back and shoulder blades, rippling as he stacked wood, added kindling, and struck a match.

  Oorah!

  Her body warmed. He struck so much more. The WWII hero struck a chord not even her set mind could discount. And his kiss? Holy frig. She’d felt the connection straight to her soul.

  Not good. NASA was her lover, her connection…her future. Not a handsome veteran misplaced from last century.

  “Is everything to your liking, Samantha?”

  She blinked and the room refocused. The Marine, approaching with a sexy smile tugging his memorable lips, threatened to send her off kilter again. Then there was her name. She hated her full name. Nobody called her Samantha. They knew better, but when the handsome Black Sheep said it, strange things happened to her body in all the right places.

  Her heart dipped. Damn. She didn’t want to be attracted to this man.

  “Yes,” she said. “The soup is ready when you are.”

  Brilliant, sea-green eyes glinted knowingly. Sam didn’t give him a chance to bring up their crazy embrace...or the even crazier ones that somehow flashed through her head the moment their lips had met. Her mind perched on the edge of sanity, teetering.

  Ill-equipped to deal with such things, she pushed the event aside and concentrated on the here and now.

  With an about-face, she turned her back on the man and those images to busy herself by dishing out two bowls of soup. Keep your mind focused on his transition and your goals on NASA, she silently chanted, carrying their supper to a table set off to the side in the cabin’s opened floor plan.

  “You’ve been busy in here, I see.” He motioned to the silverware, glasses of water, and two blue place settings adorning the heavy oak table.

  “Well, you stayed out there a long time.” She waved to the back of the cabin before taking her seat across from him. “I hope you like minestrone.”

  He sat down, arms folded, and made no move to touch his food.

  “The soup’s fine.” She blew on a spoonful and slipped the warm liquid into her mouth in an attempt to reassure him the meal wasn’t poisoned. “See?”

  “Ah huh.”

  His darkening gaze focused on her mouth, turning the taste of her soup to mud. She swallowed, twice, and reached for her glass of water in order to force the rest down.

  “I’m sorry about the kiss, Samantha.”

  She coughed. I’m not.

  “I let things get out of hand. Hell, you were my prisoner. I shouldn’t have kissed you at all.” A large hand thrust through his hair, while a scowl soured his expression. “Restrained and helpless…Cripes, I had no business touching you.”

  Was he serious?

  The spoon slipped from her grasp as Sam threw her head back and laughed. Probably not the reaction he expected, but she couldn’t help it. It was damn funny.

  Captain Samantha Sheppard, helpless? No one ever used those words in the same sentence before. They simply did not belong.

  “The kiss wasn’t that funny,” he grumbled, jamming a spoonful of soup in his mouth.

  She wiped the tears from her eyes and sobered. “I was laughing at the helpless part. Believe me, Captain...” Tired of calling him by rank, she cocked her head and glanced at the name on his uniform. “Do you have a preference on how I should address you? Something other than Captain or Mitchell. They seem too formal.”

  His face took on a contemplative expression before it cleared. “Mitch is fine. You can call me Mitch, Samantha.”

  Her insides fluttered. God, he made her name sound so sexy. Her friggin’ spine tingled every time. She cleared her throat and trudged back to a safer topic.

  “Well, Mitch, as I was saying, no one has ever called me helpless before. It’s not in my gene pool.”

  “Your what?” His brows furrowed as he scooped more soup.

  “My gene pool. You know, DNA.”

  “Is that a German thing?” He asked between mouthfuls.

  She shook her head and sighed. “No, it’s a human thing. Your genetic make-up. Your characteristics.” She pointed her spoon at him. “Sort of like calling the Black Sheep cowards.”

  “Whoa. Hold on, there.”

  “Exactly.” She nodded and continued to eat.

  “So, Samantha’s not helpless.”

  “Nope.”

  His eyes sparkled like the setting sun shining off the lake through the picture window behind him. “I suppose you let me tie you?”

  Her gaze locked with his. “Yes.”

  “Liar,” he accused in a soft, sexy tone.

  She refused to rise to the bait. “No. I’m a Marine.”

  “So, you’re saying Marines don’t lie?”

  “No. I’m saying Marines aren’t helpless.” She winked and returned her attention to her nearly finished meal.

  “You’re wrong. That’s exactly how I feel right now.” He pushed from the table and shot to his feet. “This is ridiculous. I should be fighting the war, not eating with the enemy.”

  Oh, for crying out loud…

  Sam jumped up and let out a frustrated growl. “I am not the enemy!” A quick dig in her pocket produced $12.86 cents which she slammed on the table. Eighty-five cents. A penny skidded off and rolled to his boots. “Go on. Look at the date.”

  He reached down and grabbed the penny. “Big deal.” Large shoulders lifted then fell. “So you doctored the money like you did all the pictures in this cabin.”

  “Damn it, Cap—Mitch,” she corrected, doing her best to remain civil. “I did not doctor anything. All the pictures on the walls, mantle and on the shelves are real. Including the ones in the photo album you found in the top right hand drawer in the dresser in your room.”

  In the blink of an eye, he got in her face, curling large fingers around her upper arms. “How do you know that? Were you watching me?”

  “No, you big goof.” She pushed out of his grasp and stepped back. “You’re a Marine, dropped in a strange place and left on your own for a few days. Of course you’d opened, every drawer, book, cupboard, closet…I bet you even hiked the perimeter.”

  His chin lifted ever so slightly. “I thought you claimed not to watch.”

  “I wasn’t. I described exactly what I would’ve done.”

  Dusted with five-o’clock shadow, his dimpled jaw cracked before he spoke. “Sorry, lady. I tried it your way. Played nice. Even ate your soup. But I’m done.” Mitch stepped closer, gaze as cold as his tone.

  The pouncing tiger was back.

  Sam shivered despite the heat crackling f
rom the fireplace a few feet away.

  “You can talk till you’re blue in the face, Captain Samantha Sheppard. Recite all the Marine Corps crap you want. I still won’t believe you. So, either call your superior, or take me the hell back to Vella Lavella!”

  The snapping of the last preverbal straw echoed in Sam’s head with a loud, thunderous boom. Or maybe that was her pulse. No matter, her blood boiled. She drew herself to her full five-foot-eight inches and jammed her hands on her hips.

  “I’m done too, Captain. So listen up,” she began, refusing to step back to regain her space. He was about to hear a few specifics. “World War II ended in 1945. Germany surrendered on May 7th; Japan surrendered on August 15th; and on September 2nd on the deck of the USS Missouri in the middle of Tokyo Bay, MacArthur, Nimitz, and President Truman were part of the delegation that signed the Japanese Instrument of Surrender, which ended the Pacific War and World War II.”

  Wonder chased shock before mistrust settled in the captain’s troubled gaze. “Truman? Come on, lady. Roosevelt is the Commander and Chief.”

  Man, he has some reading to do.

  “No, I’m sorry, Mitch. President Roosevelt died on April 12th, 1945. Truman succeeded him.”

  She turned and marched to the duffle bags still sitting by the door. One contained her belongings, the other she’d packed for him.

  “You expect me to believe Truman is president?”

  Instead of blowing up, she gripped the straps tight and walked to him, shaking her head. “I don’t expect anything, Captain. There’s been several CAC’s since Roosevelt. Here. See for yourself.” She flung a bag into his gut and didn’t hide her smirk when he grunted. “There’s some changes of clothes for you, a few history books and another of my grandfather’s photo albums…but of course, you’ll no doubt claim their all fabricated so I’m not going to waste my breath or time trying to convince you of anything otherwise. Knock yourself out.”

  Fatigue reared its ugly head again. With a dull ache in her temples, she slung the other bag over her shoulder and strode past him. A hot shower and a good night’s sleep would fix her right as rain.

  Strong fingers dug into her arm and yanked her to a stop.