About Skye Warren
Skye Warren is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of dark romantic fiction. Her books are raw, sexual and perversely romantic.
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About Annika Martin
Annika Martin is a NYT bestselling author who loves writing romantic stories about criminals—some of her tales are dirty and fun (kinky bank robbers!) others are dark and intense (Prisoner collaboration). She also writes sexy, gritty romantic suspense and urban fantasy as RITA-award winning author Carolyn Crane.
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Also by Skye Warren
Wanderlust
Evie always dreamed of seeing the world, but her first night at a motel turns into a nightmare. Hunter is a rugged trucker willing to do anything to keep her—including kidnapping. As they cross the country in his rig, Evie plots her escape, but she may find what she’s been looking for right beside her.
“Skye Warren will take you into the depths of depravity but bring you home, safe in the end.”
–Kitty Thomas, author of Comfort Food
Excerpt from Wanderlust
I felt tiny out here. Would it always be this way now that I was free? Our seclusion at home had provided more than security. An inflated sense of pride, diminishing the grand scheme of things to raise our own importance. On this deserted sidewalk in the middle of nowhere, it was clear how very insignificant I was. No one even knew I was here. No one would care.
When I rounded the corner, I saw that the lights in the gas station were off. Frowning, I tried the door, but it was locked. It seemed surreal for a moment, as if maybe it had never been open at all, as if this were all a dream.
Unease trickled through me, but then I turned and caught site of the sunset. It glowed in a symphony of colors, the purples and oranges and blues all blending together in a gorgeous tableau. There was no beauty like this in the small but smoggy city where I had come from, the skyline barely visible from the tree in our backyard. This sky didn’t even look real, so vibrant, almost blinding, as if I had lived my whole life in black and white and suddenly found color.
I put my hand to my forehead, just staring in awe.
My God, was this what I’d been missing? What else was out there, unimagined?
I considered going back for my camera but for once I didn’t want to capture this on film. Part of my dependence on photography had been because I never knew when I’d get to see something again, didn’t know when I’d get to go outside again. I was a miser with each image, carefully secreting them into my digital pockets. But now I had forever in the outside world. I could breathe in the colors, practically smell the vibrancy in the air.
A sort of exuberant laugh escaped me, relief and excitement at once. Feeling joyful, I glanced toward the neat row of semi-trucks to the side. Their engines were silent, the night air still. The only disturbance: a man leaned against the side of one, the wispy white smoke from his cigarette curling upward. His face was shrouded in darkness.
My smile faded. I couldn’t see his expression, but some warning bell inside me set off. I sensed his alertness despite the casual stance of his body. His gaze felt hot on my skin. While I’d been watching the sunset, he’d been watching me.
When he suddenly straightened, I tensed. Where a second ago I’d felt free, now my mother’s warnings came rushing back, overwhelming me. Would he come for me? Hurt me, attack me? It would only take a few minutes to run back to my room—could I beat him there? But all he did was raise his hand, waving me around the side of the building. I circled hesitantly and found another entrance, this one to a diner.
Hesitantly, I waved my thanks. After a moment, he nodded back.
“Paranoid,” I chastised myself.
The diner was wrapped with metal, a retro look that was probably original. Uneven metal shutters shaded the green windows, where an OPEN sign flickered.
Inside, turquoise booths and brown tables lined the walls. A waitress behind the counter looked up from her magazine. Her hair was a dirty blonde, darker than mine, pulled into a knot. A thick layer of caked powder and red lipstick were still in place, but her eyes were bloodshot, tired.
“I heard we got a boarder,” she said, nodding to me. “First one of the year.”
I blinked. It was a cool April night. If I was the first one of the year, then that was a long time to go without boarders.
“What about all the trucks outside?”
“Oh, they sleep in their cabs. Those fancy new leather seats are probably more comfortable than those old mattresses filled with God-knows-what.” She laughed at her own joke, revealing a straight line of grayish teeth.
I managed a brittle smile then ducked into one of the booths.
She sidled over with a notepad and pen.
“We don’t usually see girls as pretty as you around here. Especially alone. You don’t got nobody to look after you?”
The words were spoken in accusation, turning a compliment into a warning.
“Just passing through,” I said.
She snorted. “Aren’t we all? Okay, darlin’, what’ll it be?”
Under her flat gaze, I turned the sticky pages of the menu, ignoring the stale smells that wafted up from it. Somehow the breakfast food seemed safest. I hoped it would be easier to avoid food poisoning with pancakes than a steak.
After the waitress took my order, I waited, tapping my fingers on the vinyl tabletop to an erratic beat. I was a little nervous—jittery, although there was no reason to be. Everyone had been nice. Not exactly welcoming, but then I was a stranger. Had I expected to make friends with the first people I met?
Yes, I admitted to myself, somewhat sheepishly. I had rejected my mother’s view that everyone was out to get me, but neither was everyone out to help me. I would do well to retain some of the wariness she’d instilled in me. A remote truck stop wasn’t the place to meet people, to make lasting relationships. That would be later, once I had started my job. No, even later than that, when I’d saved up enough to reach Niagara Falls. Then I could relax.
When my food came, I savored the sickly sweet syrup that saturated my pancakes. It would rot my teeth, my mother would have said. Well, she wasn’t here. A small rebellion, but satisfying and delicious.
The bell over the door rang, and I glanced up to see a man come in. His tan T-shirt hung loose while jeans hugged his long legs. He was large, strong—and otherwise unremarkable. He might have come from any one of those eighteen-wheelers out there, but somehow I knew he’d been the one watching me.
His face had been in the shadows then, but now I could see he had a square jaw darkened with stubble and lips quirked up at the side. Even those strong features paled against the bright intensity of his eyes, both tragic and terrifying. So brown and deep that I could fall into them. The scary part was the way he stared—insolently. Possessively, as if he had a right to look at me, straight in my eyes and down my neckline to peruse my body.
I suddenly felt uncomfortable in this dress, as if it exposed too much. I wished I hadn’t changed clothes. More disturbing, I wished I had listened to my mother. I looked back down at my pancakes, but my stomach felt stretched full, clenched tight around the sticky mass I’d already eaten.
I wanted to get up and leave, but the waitress wasn’t here and I had to pay the bill. More than that, it would be silly to run
away just because a man looked at me. That was exactly what my mom would do.
Back when we still left the house, someone would just glance at her sideways in the grocery store. Then we’d flee to the car where she’d do breathing exercises before she could drive us home. I was trying to escape that. I had escaped that. I wouldn’t go back now just because a man with pretty eyes checked me out.
Still, it was unnerving. When I peeked at him from beneath my lashes, I met his steady gaze. He’d seated himself so he had a direct line of vision to me. Shouldn’t he be more circumspect? But then, I wouldn’t know what was normal. I was clueless when it came to public interaction. So I bowed my head and poked at the soggy pancakes.
Once the waitress gave me the bill, I’d leave. Simple enough. Easy, for someone who wasn’t paranoid or crazy. And I wasn’t—that was my mother, not me. I could do this.
When the waitress came out, she went straight to his table. I drew little circles in the brown syrup just to keep my eyes off them. I couldn’t hear their conversation, but I assumed he was ordering his meal.
Finally, the waitress approached my table, wearing a more reserved expression than she had before. Almost cautious. I didn’t fully understand it, but I felt a flutter of nerves in my full stomach.
She paused as if thinking of the right words. Or maybe wishing she didn’t have to say them. “The man over there has paid for your meal. He’d like to join you.”
I blinked, not really understanding. The gentleness of her voice unnerved me. More than guilt—pity.
“I’m sorry.” I fumbled with the words. “I’ve already eaten. I’m done.”
“You have food left on your plate. Doesn’t matter how much you want to eat anyway.” She paused and then carefully strung each word along the sentence. “He requests the pleasure of your company.”
My heart sped up, the first stirrings of fear.
I supposed I should feel flattered, and I did in a way. He was a handsome man, and he’d noticed me. Of course, I was the only woman around besides the waitress, so it wasn’t a huge accomplishment. But I wasn’t prepared for fielding this kind of request. Was this a common thing, to pay for another woman’s meal?
It was a given that I should say no. Whatever he wanted from me, I couldn’t give him, so it was only a question of letting him down nicely.
“Please tell him thank you for the offer. I appreciate it, I do. But you see, I really am finished with my meal and pretty tired, so I’m afraid it won’t be possible for him to join me. Or to pay for my meal. In fact, I’d like the check, please.”
Her lips firmed. Little lines appeared between her brows, and with a sinking feeling I recognized something else: fear.
“Look, I know you aren’t from around here, but that there is Hunter Bryant.” When I didn’t react to the name, her frown deepened. “Here’s a little advice from one woman to another. There are some men you just don’t say no to. Didn’t your mama ever warn you about men like that?”
Want to read more? Wanderlust is available now.
Also by Annika Martin/Carolyn Crane
Against the Dark
SHE’S AN EX-SAFECRACKER FORCED INTO ONE LAST HEIST
Angel Ramirez left the safecracking game five years ago, and she’s worked hard to make amends and build an honest life. But when a beloved aunt is kidnapped, she must reunite with her girl gang to acquire the unique ransom: Walter Borgola’s prized diamonds. It’s a simple job that turns into a nightmare, thanks to a surprisingly clever—and searingly sexy—security guard named Cole Hawkins.
HE’S AN UNDERCOVER AGENT WITH BIG PLANS FOR HIS GORGEOUS THIEF
Cole is one of the Association’s most brilliant agents, under deep cover investigating a ruthless killer. He’s also running out of time: hundreds will die if he doesn’t stop the plan Borgola’s set into motion. Catching Angel is the break he needed—he promises not to turn her in if she poses as his lover and uses her unique talents to unlock the sociopath’s dungeon vaults.
But as pretend passions turn real, Cole regrets drawing Angel into his deadly game…and danger is closer than either of them could ever imagine.
“Action packed, sexy and lots of fun. I definitely recommend this one.”
—Smexy Books
Excerpt from Against the Dark
Angel Ramirez sipped her club soda and lime, a stand-in for a gin and tonic, and carried on a mindless conversation with her old friend Macy. It was the kind of babble that let them devote their attention to potential threats in their surroundings. They were posing as party girls—hookers paid by Borgola to have sex with the party guests. They’d been propositioned a few times, but they’d put the guys off by pretending to be waiting for somebody.
So far, so good.
Nobody was paying much attention to them anyway. Unless you counted the guy in the corner, leaning against a fountain, looking perfectly at home at a party full of men who would never do the right thing.
He had sandy brown hair and a scruff of a beard, and his tux fit just a little tight across his muscular shoulders—brainy and brawny, like a fair-haired Clark Kent.
But what she mostly noticed was his intense and gem-like gaze, burning behind thick-rimmed glasses.
Burning at her.
Something told her he wasn’t watching her for security reasons. And that’s not why she was watching him.
Don’t look, she told herself.
Of course it didn’t help to look away, either. His relentless gaze made her feel excited and melty inside. Even standing off to the side, he was the center of the room, like the human equivalent of a bonfire. And he riveted her. Which told her everything she needed to know about him.
Do this job and get out, she told herself.
Macy lifted a glass of champagne off a tray carried by a waiter, who disappeared into the crowd around the sunken living room. “I always did love that dress on you, Angel,” she said.
Angel smiled. “Thanks.” The vintage pink empire waist dress was one of her favorites from her former life of crime—it was sexy and also good for concealing a handgun in a thigh holster along with her old safecracking tool. The tool was disguised as an mp3 player; she hadn’t been able to bring herself to throw it away for sentimental reasons. She never thought she’d use it again.
For five years now she’d walked the straight and narrow, building a nice little business as an interior designer. She’d been proud of her honest new life, and she even felt like she was starting to repair some of the damage she’d done to the people she loved. And now here she was, buzzing with adrenaline, all geared up to hit a place.
She hated how good it still felt.
Macy wore a designer gown Angel didn’t recognize—a slinky silver affair that popped against her skin. Angel used to know all of Macy’s clothes, but of course her old friends would have moved ahead without her. At least Macy’s hair was still the same, shorn close and dyed white-blonde, all in kinky little nubs the size of thimbles. Some bejeweled.
“Should we be worrying about this guy?” Nothing escaped Macy’s notice. “He looks too brainy for Borgola security, don’t you think? But if he wants a go with you, he’d come over and request it.”
Angel tried to keep her face neutral. “Yeah, I don’t know.”
“Oh my God.” Macy smiled. “You think he’s hot.”
“Don’t,” Angel said.
“Doot doot doot,” Macy made a radar sound. “We have detected a bad boyfriend.”
“Stop it,” Angel said.
“Dangerously self-destructive man at oh-four-hundred hours. Angel, start your engines.”
“It’s not funny. At all.”
They used to joke about it back in the day—if they wanted to know if a guy was troubled or self-destructive in some way, they just needed to check if Angel thought he was hot.
Bad boyfriend radar, they called it.
Because if Angel was attracted to a guy, it meant he was probably wounded or feral, a doomed thug with a hurricane fo
r a heart. It meant that she could love him, but never save him.
Which was why she didn’t date men she was attracted to anymore, a policy that made for a shitty sex life, but the new and reformed Angel was all about avoiding trouble. Anyway, she rarely met her type anymore. You had to come to parties like this to meet the really bad guys.
So yeah, this one looked all brainy and in control, but Angel knew better; no man fooled her bad boyfriend radar. It was as if she could feel men like this. She wondered cynically how far this guy had gotten along on his yellow brick road of self-destruction.
Not that she needed to care.
“It’s a problem if he’s security,” Macy said.
“He’s not a problem.”
Macy smiled. “So says the Jane Goodall of the self-destructive man.”
“Not funny.”
Yelps and screams sounded from the direction of the pool. Macy shot Angel a dark gaze. “Tell me you’re not just a little happy about ripping off this dirtbag. Tell me your adrenaline isn’t pumping.”
“My adrenaline is pumping to see Aunt Aggie safe.”
“Yeah, we’re all here for Aunt Aggie. Doesn’t mean you have to lie to yourself about the thrill of the job. The rush of it,” Macy whispered. “The cool motherfucking weight of a stolen rock in your palm…”
“I like sleeping at night,” Angel snapped. “Feeling good about myself.”
Macy simply watched the pool. Angel wondered if her old friend heard the lie in that. Because Angel didn’t feel good about herself, that was the horrible truth of it. Working a straight job hadn’t made her feel any better than being a rich jewel thief had. Five years she’d spent making amends, and she still felt stained, somehow.
“I like feeling good about myself,” she repeated pathetically, as if saying it twice would make it come true. Did her friend hear how pathetic she was?
Macy turned to her. “I feel good about you.”
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