Under Fire

by Beth Cornelison

  Since that time, she has won numerous honors for her work including the coveted Golden Heart awarded by Romance Writers of America. She made her first sale to Silhouette Intimate Moments in June 2004 and has gone on to publish several more books with Silhouette. She has also had releases from Five Star Expressions and Samhain Publishing.

  Beth Cornelison lives in Louisiana with her husband, one son and three cats who think they are people.

  To learn more about Beth Cornelison, please visit www.bethcornelison.com.

  Caught in the sights of a killer, David and Miranda fight for life—and the chance to love again.

  Love on the Run

  © 2007 Marie-Nicole Ryan

  Miranda Raines thinks she has found a safe haven in Oxford, England, until Scotland Yard DCI David French knocks on her door with terrifying news. Her ex-husband, a convicted murderer, has escaped from prison and he’s coming for her.

  Miranda, who for years has harbored a secret love for the driven Chief Inspector, has no choice but to trust him. She just hopes she can guard her own heart at least as well as he guards her.

  After thwarting her ex’s first attack, David spirits Miranda and her young son out of England and the three of them end up on the run across Europe. David has no intention of falling in love again, but with each passing day Miranda awakens passions he thought long dead.

  Could this be their forever love? With a killer on their trail, they may not live long enough to find out.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Love on the Run:

  After dinner on the flagstone terrace, Randi helped Mina clear away the dishes and load the dishwasher.

  “I’m glad you came back,” Mina said. “Jamie would’ve been quite all right, but I’m not sure you would have.”

  Randi stopped in the middle of folding a towel. She shook her head. “No, I was a wreck. I don’t think we went ten kilometers on that bike, and I bawled like a baby the whole time.”

  Mina smiled and placed her strong arm around her shoulder. “You are losing that pinched look you had when you first came to us.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Not bad, but still it was there.”

  “I do feel safe here,” Randi admitted.

  “You must relax because David will protect you and your son. It is very obvious to these old eyes how important the two of you are to him.”

  Mina’s words gladdened Randi’s heart, but surely the older woman was exaggerating. “He’s been absolutely wonderful, but…”

  “Time will tell, my dear. Be patient.” Mina removed the towel from Randi’s trembling hands. “Let’s go outside and enjoy this nice fall evening. The men shouldn’t have all the fun.”

  *

  On the terrace Randi eased down into a lounge chair and watched David and Jamie wrestle in the grass. A sensation of pure contentment stole over her and wrapped her in easy comfort.

  She turned to Mina. “Dinner was wonderful, Mina. Thank you for having us. For everything.”

  “It is my privilege. I’m so glad that David thought of us. So rarely do we have visitors from the U.K.—at least none we are so happy to see.” Mina turned to her husband. “Jean-Luc, why don’t you play some music for us?”

  Randi’s ears pricked. “Music? Oh, yes, please.”

  Jean-Luc grumbled, but with good nature, “She doesn’t want to talk to me, so she asks me to play. I am wise to her tricks.” The older man hauled his cumbersome self out of his chair and ambled into the house, returning a moment later with an old violin.

  David turned to Randi, a wide grin spread across his handsome face. “Did you know Miranda plays?”

  “Bon!” Jean-Luc declared. “You will play for us, Ran-dee?”

  “Yes, but you must go first. I warn you I’m very rusty.”

  Jean-Luc drew the bow across the strings, then frowned at the sound. “Just a little adjustment.” He tightened the E string and drew the bow again. “Parfait!” he pronounced, and then launched into an old folk tune which Randi immediately recognized as Sur le Pont d’Avignon.

  After the rollicking tune which had young Jamie up on his feet, dancing, Jean-Luc paused and extended the violin toward Randi. “Now you must play us something from your country, s’il vous plaît.”

  Randi nodded her assent and took the violin from Jean-Luc’s gnarled hands. “I’ll play you our state song.” She drew the bow across the violin, the melodic strains of The Tennessee Waltz filling the night air.

  After she completed the waltz, Jean-Luc stood and clapped. “Bien, Ran-dee! C’est bon.”

  “Mummy, play Rocky Top. Jean-Luc, you’ll like that one. It’s bouncy.”

  Randi looked from Mina to Jean-Luc to David whose eyes were actually closed. It was the first time she’d seen the taut lines of tension erased from his lean face.

  “Rocky Top, Tennessee it is,” she said with a nod, then launched into the sprightly tune. Jamie sang, charmingly off key, “Once I had a girl on Rocky Top,” then fell to humming when he didn’t know the words, but intoned, “Rocky Top, Tennessee,” during the chorus.

  Randi lost herself in the energy and rhythm of the country tune, until it came to an end.

  “Encore, encore!” Jean-Luc prompted.

  “Something classical, dear?” Mina suggested. “I believe David told me that you play with chamber groups as well.”

  “All right.” Soon the lyrical strains of the second movement of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto rose through the valley, soaring into the night. Swept up in the mood and imagery of the music, Randi became the violin, the music. When the last note faded, she heard a collective sigh of appreciation.

  “That was simply lovely, dear,” Mina told her, pulling her sweater tighter around her shoulders. “Why don’t we go in? It’s getting too cool for these old bones. Besides, I think your son has fallen asleep.”

  Randi nodded. “He’s been conditioned. Whenever he has trouble going to sleep, I play for him until he does.”

  *

  Randi tapped on David’s door. She heard sounds of his moving about through the door, then it opened. Apparently he’d been getting ready for bed. His shirt was unbuttoned and pulled out of his jeans. Her breath caught in her throat when she caught sight of his broad, muscular chest and washboard abs. She felt his arms surround her, pulling her into his strong embrace.

  “You played beautifully,” he murmured in a voice so soft and seductive it sent ripples of desire to the pit of her belly.

  “Thank you,” she said, as he maneuvered her into his bedroom and kicked the door shut behind him.

  “It’s paid a few bills,” she quipped before she could stop herself. Lord, why was she so nervous? David would never hurt her, not physically anyway.

  “Is Jamie asleep?”

  “Yes, he’s all tucked in.”

  “Have you come to tuck me in?”

  She bit her lip and tilted her head to the side. “You’re a big boy. Do you need to be tucked in?”

  “I might do.” He closed the short distance between them, his gaze never leaving her eyes. “Depends on who’s doing the tucking.”

  “And would it be presumptuous to assume the who would be me?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light so he wouldn’t know how scared she really was. She was just no good at sex.

  Stefan had told her so countless times.

  “No, you’d be right on target.”

  His lips brushed across the top on her head. “Miranda, will you stay with me tonight?”

  She pulled back and looked up into his warm gray eyes and swallowed hard before answering, “Yes.”

  Oh Lord! Had she really said yes?

  His lips, warm and demanding, descended against hers. Every bone in her body liquefied with the heat of his kiss. He wanted her. The reason didn’t matter. She wanted him, too.

  Together they fell backward onto the bed, his hands skimming under her sweater and caressing her breasts though her bra. His kisses were hungry and demanding. She opened her mou
th to his. His tongue swept into her mouth. He tasted of the strong French coffee he’d had at dinner.

  One expert twist, then his hands, warm and gentle, were all over her again. The memories of their earlier bathroom tryst flooded back. Too late to stop, even if she’d wanted. And she didn’t. Her ex had never been this kind or gentle. Forcing the bad memories and fears far, far away, she gave her trust again to David.

  Suddenly they both were tugging at her sweater. Over her head it went along with her bra, tossed somewhere. He rolled her nipples between his thumbs, then applied his lips and teeth, raking them ever so tenderly, teasing them into taut buds of screaming sensation. An unfamiliar heat spread down her belly and centered between her thighs.

  She gasped, “Oh.” Hands shaking, she slipped his T-shirt over his head, taking care not to disturb his bandage. She gazed into his eyes and saw the passion and desire burning there. She shivered. Her fingers splayed over his chest. His flat male nipples drew into tight nubs. She kissed one, then the other.

  He let out a groan and her name, soft as a sigh. He pressed against her, his rigid erection straining against the confinement of his jeans. His hands worked at the button and zipper of her jeans, easing them apart. She raised her hips, allowing him to slip her jeans and panties down over her hips.

  She kicked off the jeans, giving him access. He quickly found the warmth between her legs, his caress gentle, yet urgent.

  “You’re lovely,” he told her, kissing her inner thigh. Shivers ran through her, fanning the heat of her desire into a blaze.

  He pulled away. “No, don’t go,” she protested as he stood.

  Glancing down at his jeans, he grinned. “I’m not going anywhere.” He unzipped and shucked his jeans in record time.

  He stood before her, his lean-muscled body tense. More excited than ever, she reached out and touched him, marveling at the texture of his arousal—rigid steel covered in the softest of silken skin.

  “Easy,” he gasped, his lips claiming hers again.

  Their bodies matched, warm skin to warm skin, lips to lips.

  Again, his fingers were at her feminine core. Two entered her while his thumb circled the sensitive spot above. Delicious waves of heat spiraled up from her center, setting her entire body ablaze.

  “You’re so beautiful.” Kneeling between her thighs, he kissed her, circling the sensitive part of her body with his tongue. The fire grew and spread until, swept along, she lost all control and cried his name.

  Spirits and killers and spells, oh my! This witch must confront them all…or die.

  Every Witch Way but Dead

  © 2007 B. Ella Donna

  Psychic since childhood, Angelica sees and hears spirits. Up until now, their messages were benign, but they’ve become mysterious and menacing. Premonitions of an impending murder along with recollections of a past life haunt Angelica’s nights. Dreams of strange rituals and a vaguely familiar handsome stranger tug at her emotions.

  Death takes the spotlight at an Arthur’s Graile concert. The internationally known pagan band is just embarking on its summer tour. Angelica sees her visions play out on the stage when a back-up singer is brutally murdered.

  And this is only the beginning. Death is not leaving Oceanview without more victims, and it has its sights on Angelica Kane.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Every Witch Way but Dead:

  Peace fell upon us for the time being and brought with it our Fourth of July extravaganza. The neighborhood was dressed up gaudily for the grand festivities. For the past five years, we’d celebrated with a massive block party and, from what the neighbors said, it’d been going on long before we moved in. For fifteen years, this quaint neighborhood had been commemorating the Fourth with total élan. Friends and family of all our neighbors traveled here by land and sea. Boats arrived days in advance to see one of the best fireworks displays ever.

  “Come on honey, the show’s starting,” Jon called to me. I headed out to join him, forgetting all about combustible sparklers and manifestations of Isis.

  The sun dipped low in the heavens, splashed in hues of magenta and tangerine with the promise of a glorious sunset colorful enough to rival even the most extravagant fireworks.

  We ate, drank, danced, and even sang. Marc and Ronnie always traveled with a guitar and flute and that, along with Marisa’s little magical brew of Jell-O shots made everyone’s tensions slowly fade, along with the dying light of the sun. As the skies dimmed, the real show began.

  M-80s boomed intermittently and we became used to the occasional blasts, sounding as it must have so many years ago during the Revolutionary War.

  The dessert portion of the party took place at Marisa and Rich’s. The kids floated from house to house, visiting friends, lighting sparklers and grabbing boxes of Wolf packs, tiny bags of gun powder that snapped when thrown against the cement.

  My mom opted to stay at Casa Del Kane with Ivy. Amber did her level best to avoid me. Friends, cousin Vinny included, breezed from house to house sampling foods along the way. It was a veritable all you can eat buffet, and did we eat!

  Sitting on the back deck swing, we watched the parade of vibrant colors flash across the midnight canvas of sky, oohhing and ahhhing with each explosion of color.

  Perhaps in retrospect it was the alcohol or the gentle swinging that lulled me into a spurious veil of tranquility. My eyes felt heavy as I leaned back into my husband’s warm and gentle embrace and peered at the light show before me. It felt so serene. I was without a care in the world. I let my guard down.

  That was not a good thing.

  Like the gentle waters swirling down into an ever-narrowing channel, my spirit glided effortlessly into the watery depths of the astral worlds. I’d become an amorphic being, swimming absentmindedly along. My consciousness was free to roam and it took great pleasure in doing so as it alit from thought to thought, none of which was of any great consequence.

  The gentle swaying, mesmerizing in its rhythmic cadence, was like a metronome keeping time.

  Tick-tock.

  Back and forth.

  The rhythm was particularly hypnotic.

  I listened to the fireworks overhead, the swishing and sizzling sounds as they took off into the velvety night sky. The popping sounds announced dollops of surreal colors as they sparked the darkness. The gentle waves lapped on the shore and kept time with the motion of the swing, but alas, all good things come to an end. My nirvana was always uncomfortably short.

  I first became aware of a burning sensation all along my upper body. Heat stretched from my arms down into my chest like a forest fire in desiccated woods. It was excruciatingly painful to take in even the slightest bit of air.

  Fear clutched my heart with a gelid grip.

  Then I plunged into blackness.

  My sense of touch gradually returned to me, over time that seemed to stretch from slow motion to abruptly snapping back to real time. I felt myself dragged, my legs chafed by what felt like gritty sandpaper. My hair was yanked at every few feet. I realized I was in the dunes with ragged shells and pointy, stiff beach grass all around. My feet were bare and bleeding. I tuned into the constant boom that erupted at distinct intervals, my eyes focusing in and out, flashes of light and color unexpectedly illuminated before me.

  A sickly sweet smell bombarded my nose as I tried to catch my breath. Searing pain erupted alongside my head. I was thrown down and collided with what must have been a rock or a chunk of driftwood. My warm blood trickled down my neck and shoulder. His face was suddenly before me, hovering ever so close, the smell of alcohol strong on his breath. His familiar blue eyes now a dark and stormy gray, he intimately whispered in my ear.

  “Why did you have to leave me?” he muttered. Then he turned to ice. “You’re just like her, you think you’re too good? Bitch! You used me and then tossed me aside. You're all alike.” His lips curled in a maleficent grin. “I asked you not to go. That wasn’t a smart move, I warned you, but you refused to listen. Now it�
�s my turn. How do you like being used up and spit out, huh? You turned my world upside down and for what?”

  I tried to speak, but my lips felt numb, like when I’d had too much Novocain at the dentist. All I could do was make soft, moaning sounds.

  He was not giving an inch. I looked directly at him, but his face phased in and out of focus. All I could see were those penetrating blue eyes.

  His left hand grabbed my wrists and held them above my head as he straddled me. His other hand reached behind him. One, two, three.

  Tick, tock, tick.

  Flashes of gold, white and green streaks lit the night sky.

  Then the glimmer of silver steel caught the reflections of color.

  “It’s all your fault, witch.” And down came his solid, muscled arm. With one swift and effortless swipe, the kaleidoscope of colors faded to black.

  With a profound whoosh, an intense, swirling energy thrust me back from my ethereal body to my physical one. I’d barely opened my eyes when the uncontrollable urge to empty the contents of my stomach took over. I pushed my adoring and frantic husband out of harm’s way while I retched all over the deck.

  “Oh, my gods! Get her some water and a cold rag,” Ouida ordered. She pushed my sweat-soaked hair out of my face and soothed me as my own mother used to when I was a child.

  Marisa ran back with a bottle of Kabala water, saved for emergencies of the metaphysical ilk.

  “Drink up,” Ouida whispered.

  Worry draped itself around my friends. Rich came over with rolls of paper towels, the garden hose and a bucket of environmentally safe cleaners to wash away the mess I made. I apologized profusely, both completely embarrassed and petrified by what I’d seen and done.

  Jon helped me up and led me into Marisa’s cool, cheerful kitchen. I sat at her breakfast nook with Ouida right beside him. I was shaking.