by Eden Bradley
“I thought you were serious about heading back to the city and to art school.”
“I thought you said I didn’t need school.”
“Sometimes I talk too goddamned much.” He thought about the way she looked in the early morning, standing at the easel she’d bought, clutching the palette close to her chest like she was embracing the colors. One brush between her teeth, the other working across the canvas, she’d stretch up and he’d watch the stretch of muscle along her calf and thigh, the peek of her bare bottom from under the T-shirt she’d pulled on hurriedly before she missed what she called the best light. “You’re not backing out on the sale, are you?” he asked.
She shut her eyes tightly for a second, and he held his breath, because fuck, there was no good answer.
“I’m going to leave, Bat,” she said finally. “If you’re staying on to work, I’ll trust you here until the transfer of the title goes through.”
I’ll trust you here.
There was nothing left to say now.
CHAPTER
Ten
It took another full week before Catie felt strong enough to leave. She’d called the lawyer the morning after the offer and had him get the transfer of papers ready. And she’d continued to share Bat’s bed, as if she was staying put—clinging to him every night and neither of them saying a thing about her leaving.
“I’ll take care of everything. All you have to do is sign the papers and FedEx them back to me when they’re ready,” the lawyer told her now on the phone. She gripped the receiver so hard, she was sure she’d leave dents. She had dreaded this day.
“So I don’t need to stay and wait for the papers, then?”
“No, you can do the final signing from New York, if you trust the guy who’s taking care of the bar now.”
Catie trusted Bat with everything, except maybe her heart. And it was too late now. She had to get out of here before she dug herself in impossibly deep. Before she had a chance to beg, to embarrass herself even more.
She’d come into town with two bags, and that’s all she left with. She even left behind the pictures of her uncle and his friends. All but one, the one she handed to Flo over the counter at the diner.
“Sit down, honey. Let me get you something to eat,” Flo said.
Catie shook her head. “I’ve got a cab waiting to take me to the bus station.”
“The sale couldn’t have happened this quickly.”
“The new owner’s paying cash. My uncle’s lawyer’s taking care of the paperwork, and Bat’s agreed to stay on to oversee things until the bar is under control. The Bon Temps is in good hands with him.”
“So were you—or so it seemed,” Flo mused.
“Yeah, so it seemed.”
“Honey, why don’t you stay—”
“He doesn’t want me to stay. He doesn’t want me at all.” To her horror, she felt the tears rise up. Flo came out from behind the counter and hugged her, and it was so nice to have someone care about her. Worry about her.
“He might’ve told you what to do, but that doesn’t change the way you feel inside, Catie,” Flo said.
“What can I do, Flo? He’s right, I’d be giving up something I’ve always wanted to do…and it’s only been a month. Less than two weeks with Bat. But…”
“Feels like a lifetime,” Flo finished.
“I didn’t even say good-bye to him. Couldn’t. I snuck out when he went to the lumberyard,” Catie admitted, although she wasn’t sure why she’d left the way she had. She hadn’t left anything behind—not a sketch, not a phone number or an address. Just memories.
“I’m grabbing your bags and sending the cab away. You and I, we need to talk, sugar. And then you can make up your mind about what you’re going to do,” Flo told her firmly.
The woman wasn’t going to take no for an answer, so Catie sat down at the counter and wiped her face and let Flo drag her bags into the diner and put them in the back room.
“Come with me, Catie.”
Catie sighed, followed Flo out the back door of the diner. There was a man there working on a vintage Harley.
“This is my nephew, Joey,” Flo explained, as Joey continued to wipe the rims with polish, pausing only to nod hello.
Bat’s vintage Harley. “Why is Bat’s bike here? Is it being fixed?”
“It’s my hog now,” Joey said with a smile of pride.
“He’d never sell his bike,” Catie said.
The guy shrugged. “I’ve got the title. She’s a real beauty. I told him that it was a shame he had to let it go, but he said he needed some fast money.”
Her mouth dropped, and she knew in that moment exactly what he’d done. And why. “I’ll be back for my things, Flo.”
“Where are you going, honey?” Flo asked with a smile, even though she knew exactly which direction Catie’s feet were headed.
“I’m going home,” Catie called over her shoulder as she walked slowly down the street to the bar.
She was done running.
Bat hadn’t thought Catie would leave so soon, and without saying good-bye. That was his patented move, and the weight of her decision hung heavily on him.
The pillows and the sheets still smelled like her, the scent of sweet gardenias that he’d noted their first night together.
She hadn’t even left him a single sketch. Although part of him knew it was better that way, better to make a clean break of things, he couldn’t help but hang his head and just stare at the floor for a few minutes.
When he looked up, Catie was standing in the doorway.
“What are you doing here? You’re going to miss your bus.”
She walked slowly toward him, not saying anything. It was only when she ended up in his lap, straddling him, that she finally said, “I’m done running. What about you?”
He opened his mouth, ready to tell her that he was out of here soon, that she needed to get back to New York, go to school. What came out instead was, “Louisiana’s got some good art schools.”
She smiled. “I know. But I can’t take your money, Bat. Not that way.”
“I want the bar, Catie chere. Want you too.”
“But your bike…”
“The guy who sold it to me would’ve understood. Trust me on that.”
“I couldn’t think of anyone better to own my uncle’s bar.”
He felt his mouth tug into a smile. “We’re right back where we both started.”
“No, not right back. We’re farther along than that. I’m falling hard for you, Bat. Falling in love with you.”
“Catie, I’ve never…never told anyone that I’ve fallen for them. Because I never have.”
“Me neither.” She smiled, didn’t push to hear the words from him. They were there, lurking just under the surface, and she seemed content with that. Seemed to know that they were in his grasp.
“So what do we do now?”
“We take it slow. See where the road leads us. Because I’ve got a whole lot more paper to fill,” she mused. “If you’re up for it.”
Yeah, he was up for it, up for wherever this new chapter of his life took him, and his Catie chere.
He was finally home.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
EDEN BRADLEY has been writing since she could hold a pen in her hand. When not writing, you’ll find her wandering museums, cooking, eating, shopping, and reading everything she can get her hands on. Eden lives in Southern California with a small menagerie and the love of her life.
SYDNEY CROFT is the alter ego of two published authors who came together to blend their very different writing interests into adventurous tales of erotic paranormal fiction. The authors behind Sydney Croft live in different states and communicate almost entirely through e-mail, though they often get together for conferences and book signings. Both Sydneys share a passion for chocolate, coffee, and writing, and when not working on Croft novels, they are working on their own personal projects. You can learn more about Sydney Croft at www.SydneyCroft.co
m.
STEPHANIE TYLER has long since given up trying to control her characters, especially the Navy SEAL alpha males, and today she writes military romance. She also writes paranormal erotic romance with a military twist with coauthor Larissa Ione under the pen name Sydney Croft. Stephanie lives in New York with her husband and daughter.
Read on for a sneak peek of
Eden Bradley’s seductive new novel
FORBIDDEN FRUIT
Coming from Delta in November 2008
FORBIDDEN FRUIT
on sale November 2008
Chapter One
Mia Rose Curry looked up at the crowded classroom, at the rows of seats, full of expectant faces, at the others crowding in the door.
“This class is full,” she told them. “If you’re not already registered and you’d like to fill out a card to be put on the waiting list, please go to the registration office.”
“This class is always full,” a voice muttered from somewhere in the vicinity of the door.
Mia smiled. It was true. The Alternative Sexuality class she taught at San Francisco State was in high demand each semester. The students mostly came in looking for a cheap thrill and an easy grade, but she made them work for it. Made them do research, write papers. Tried to teach them something about the sociological effects of culture on sexuality. A few of them even learned something. And she always learned from watching them. From watching how they responded to the things they talked about in class, to the demonstrations, to the films she showed them. She studied her students as much as they studied the class assignments. She couldn’t help it. As a sociology professor, people were endlessly fascinating to her. Her whole life was about studying people. Trying to understand them. Especially herself.
She looked over her classroom, making a quick assessment of each new student. She could usually tell which of them would work hard, participate in discussions. Who would hide in the back of the room and sneer. Who would leave as soon as any really controversial material came up.
Her eyes moved across the front row, drifting from face to face, and stopped cold.
God, he was too beautiful, this young man. Her student, she had to remind herself. A bit older than most of the others, maybe, but still…
Tawny skin the color of coffee with plenty of cream, dark, curling hair tipped with gold, as though he’d been in the sun. A close-cropped goatee framing a full, lush mouth. And the most startling eyes, a clear, crystal gray that contrasted with his dusky skin. Oh, yes, too beautiful to be believed. And he was looking right at her, those clear gray eyes intense, focused. She shivered.
Your student.
She tore her gaze away, but not before she caught his quick smile. Every bit as shockingly beautiful as the rest of him.
Pulling in a deep breath, she forced herself to concentrate on her job: evaluating her classroom, putting her notes in order. She had to command herself not to look at him so she could begin her opening lecture, but even knowing he was there, at the edge of her vision, made the back of her neck heat up.
She took a sip from her water bottle and began. “Welcome, everyone, to Alternative Sexuality. In this class we’ll study the various avenues of sexuality which differ from what many might consider to be ‘the norm.’ We will be covering some controversial material. Some of you may even find it offensive. Here is a short list of some of the subjects we’ll address.”
She moved to the front of her desk and leaned back against it, watching the students as she spoke. “We’ll discuss a variety of fetishes and alternative practices including foot fetishes, cross-dressing, bondage and mummification, domination and submission, pain and sensation play, leather, rubber and latex fetishes, food fetishes, sploshing, which is a fetish involving various kinds of liquids, bestiality, amputee fetish, exhibitionism, voyeurism, infantilism, and perhaps a few more.”
There were a few requisite snickers from the back of the room. Certainly nothing she hadn’t dealt with before. And she was entirely comfortable with her subject.
“Many of you might think of the people who practice these forms of sexuality as freaks, and I’ll admit I find some of these practices repulsive, even harmful, and we’ll discuss that as well. But I’m going to ask you to keep an open mind. To put aside any revulsion you may feel and consider these subjects with an objective, scientific perspective. To view these practices as a response to the person’s environment.” She put her notes down and looked at her students, trying to catch an eye here and there. “This is what we’re going to really focus on. What causes people to have these yearnings? And are fetishes a healthy response to certain stimuli? Or are they a psychological defect?”
“What do you think, Professor Curry?”
Ah, God, it was him. The beautiful one. And he was watching her again, so intently. Was it possible she was imagining it? She had to draw in a breath, pretend he was just any other student. She would question why he had such an effect on her later.
“I think…what’s your name?”
“Jagger. Jagger James.”
“I think, Jagger, that it depends on the person, the fetish, and what it was in their lives that caused this response. Each situation must be evaluated on an individual basis.”
“So you don’t assume fetishes are a neurotic or even psychosocial tendency, necessarily?”
If they were, she was in very deep trouble.
“Not necessarily, no.”
He smiled, and her legs felt as though they were suffused with a warm liquid. Melting. Yes, like melted chocolate. Milk chocolate. The shade of his skin.
Stop it!
She tucked a strand of her dark hair behind her ear. “This is exactly the kind of idea I want you to throw out the window until we explore the subject in detail. Here, we’re going to learn to stop making the usual snap judgments, rid ourselves of preconceived notions, and learn what truly goes on in a person’s mind.” She pushed off her desk and strolled across the front of the room, avoiding his gaze. Still, a small shiver raced over her skin when she walked past him. “We’ll do research, assess data, witness certain events here in class, discuss others. And we’ll have an opportunity to talk with some of the people who practice these things in their everyday lives. Please take a look at the class syllabus now to review the in-class activities. Then think about whether or not this is something you can handle. But I want you all to push yourselves a bit. To see these things, talk to these people, ask questions, and try to stretch your boundaries. To explore your own response to whatever the subject might be. To make yourself the subject of your own sociological study.”
“Is that what you do, Professor Curry?”
Him again. Jagger. This time she looked him right in the eye. “Every day of my life.”
Read on for a sneak peek of
Sydney Croft’s dangerously hot
SEDUCED BY THE STORM
Coming from Delta in August 2008
SEDUCED BY THE STORM
on sale August 2008
Chapter One
Faith Black had been beaten, drugged and imprisoned, but none of that scared her. No, what frightened her to the core was the man confined with her. Chained to an improvised medieval rack and bare from the waist up, he lay on his back, arms over his head, his incredible chest marred by bruises and a deep laceration that extended from his left pec to his right hip.
He might have been rendered immobile, but he was in no way helpless.
His weapon, far more dangerous than the telekinesis—to her, at least—was his overpowering sexuality, a force that tugged her toward him, made her burn with need despite their grave situation.
Head pounding from the brutal blow to the cheek, she pushed to her feet and padded close, her nudity barely registering. She’d been stripped naked while unconscious, her clothes tossed into one corner of the windowless, steel-walled room. The weak yellow light from the single bulb emphasized the deep amber of Wyatt’s eyes, no longer green, as he settled into the transitional period many telek
i-netics experienced when their powers flared up. The air in the room stilled, and the chain around his right ankle began to rattle.
“Don’t,” she said quietly.
He shifted his head to look at her as though he hadn’t realized she’d regained consciousness. “Faith.” His voice was rough, as haunted as his gaze. “I didn’t tell him. I swear.”
“Tell who what?”
“Your boyfriend. I didn’t tell him about us. He knew.”
“Sean’s not my boyfriend,” she said, and Wyatt cocked a dark eyebrow like he didn’t believe her. “And I know you didn’t say anything.”
She knew, because she’d been the one to spill the beans that she and Wyatt had been sleeping together.
Wyatt’s head lolled back so he was staring up at the steel beams crisscrossing the ceiling. The corded tendons in his neck strained and tightened as he swallowed. “I’m sorry I got you into this.”
“You didn’t.”
A growl rumbled in his throat. “I seduced you. I shouldn’t have. Not here. Not on the platform where he could find out.”
She inhaled him into her, the masculine scent that threw her off balance whenever he came near. No, she couldn’t blame him for anything, least of all her out-of-control desire for him. He was here to do a job, just like she was, which meant getting the assignment done by any means necessary.
“I’m not here because Sean is jealous.” Though Sean was, furiously so, but Wyatt didn’t need to know that.
“Then why?”
Dragging her gaze from the strong, ruggedly handsome features of his face, she let her mind focus on a realm of existence most people never saw. Instantly, Wyatt’s aura became visible, a shifting, undulating layer of light around his body. And God, something was wrong, so wrong she nearly gasped.