Hero of Mine: The Men in Uniform Series
Page 24
Bryson Courtland, Viscount Rainsleigh, never breaks the rules. Well, once, but that was a long time ago. He’s finally escaped his unhappy past to become one of the wealthiest noblemen in Britain. The last thing he needs to complete his ideal life? A perfectly proper wife.
Bryse.
He had introduced himself as Bryson that night, so long ago, and despite her residual horror, she had clung to the sweet intimacy of that introduction. She’d devoted years of foolish fantasies to guessing whether those close to him referred to him as Bryson or Bryse or perhaps Court . . .
She looked up at him. Bryse. And now she knew. Now she was being invited to become one of those people close to him.
Cowardice compelled her to back away and retake her seat. “Forgive me, my lord.” She spoke to her knees. “I don’t know what to say, and that is a rare circumstance, indeed.”
“I would also speak to your aunt,” he assured her. “It felt appropriate to suggest the idea of a courtship to you first.”
She laughed, in spite of herself. “I’d say so. Unless you wish to court my aunt.”
“I wish for you,” he said abruptly, and Elisabeth’s head shot up. It was almost as if he knew she needed to hear it again, and again, and again.
I wish for you.
He crouched before her chair, spreading his arms, putting one hand on either side of her chair, caging her in. “How old are you, Elisabeth?” he asked.
“How old do you think I am?” A whisper.
“Twenty-six?” he guessed.
She shook her head. “No. I am the ripe old age of thirty. Far too old to be called upon by a bachelor viscount, rolling in money.”
“Or”—he arched an eyebrow—“exactly the right age.”
She laughed and finally looked away. And she thought he’d been handsome at nineteen. Her stomach dropped into a dip. She reminded herself to breathe.
“Why me?” she asked, looking out the window. “Why pay attention to me?”
His voice was so low she could barely discern the words. “Because I think you’d make an ideal viscountess.”
An ideal what? Hope became a living, pulsing thing in her chest. It became her very heart. She fell back in her seat and closed her eyes, but the room still swam before her.
He went on, “You are mature, and intelligent, and poised. And devoted to your charity, whatever it is.”
A thread of the old conversation. She sat up, determined to seize it before he could say another thing. “I’ve just told you what the charity is.”
“You spoke in vague generalities that could mean a great many things. I let it go because I hope for more opportunities to learn.”
Elisabeth breathed in and out, in and out. She bit her bottom lip again. She watched his gaze hone in on her mouth.
She closed her eyes. “My lord.” She took a deep breath. “Rainsleigh . . . Bryson.” She opened her eyes. “If your far-reaching goal is to earn an esteemed spot in London society, you’re going about it entirely the wrong way. My charity is . . . unpopular, and no one has ever asked to court me before. It’s really not done.”
“Why is that?”
Because I have been waiting for you.
The thought floated, fully formed, in her brain, and she had to work to keep her hands from her cheeks, to keep from closing her eyes again, from squinting them shut against his beautiful face, just inches from her own, his low voice, his boldness.
“I’m very busy,” she said instead.
“Then I will make haste.”
“Is this because of last night? When I . . . challenged your dreadful neighbor?”
The corner of his mouth hitched up. “It did not hurt.”
“It’s very difficult for me to stand idly by when I hear a person misrepresented.”
“And to think I was under the impression that you could barely abide my company. Your defense came as a great surprise.”
“Oh . . . I am full of surprises.”
“Is that so?” His words were a whisper. He leaned in.
She had the fleeting thought: Dear God. He’s going to kiss me . . .
Click to buy The Virgin and the Viscount!
An Excerpt from
LOVE ON MY MIND
By Tracey Livesay
Tracey Livesay makes her Avon Impulse debut with a sparkling and sexy novel about a woman who will do anything to fulfill her dreams . . . but discovers that even the best laid plans can fail when love gets in the way.
Chelsea Grant couldn’t tear her gaze away from the train wreck on the screen.
She followed press conferences like most Americans followed sports. The spectacle thrilled her, watching speakers deftly deflect questions, state narrow political positions, or, in rare instances, exhibit honest emotions. The message might be scripted but the reactions were pure reality. If executed well, a press conference could be as engaging and dynamic as any athletic game.
But watching this one was akin to lions in the amphitheater, not tight ends on the football field. Her throat ached, impacting her ability to swallow. She squinted, hoping the action would lessen her visual absorption of the man’s public relations disaster.
He’d folded his arms across his chest, the gesture causing the gray cardigan he wore to pull across his broad shoulders. The collar of the black-and-blue plaid shirt he wore beneath it brushed the underside of his stubbled jaw.
When he’d first stepped onto the platform, she’d thought he was going for “geek chic.” All he’d lacked were black square frames and a leather cross-body satchel. Now she understood he wasn’t playing dress-up. These were his everyday clothes, and as such, they were inappropriate for a press conference, unless he was a lumberjack who’d just won the lottery.
Had someone advised him on how to handle a press conference? No, she didn’t think so. Any coaching would have helped with his demeanor. The man stared straight ahead. He didn’t look at the reporters seated before him. He didn’t look into the lenses. He appeared to look over the cameras, like there was someplace else he’d rather be. His discomfort crossed the media plane, and her fingers twitched where they rested next to her iPad on the acrylic conference table.
A female reporter from an entertainment news cable channel raised her hand. “Mr. Bennett?”
The man turned his head, and his gaze zeroed in on the reporter and narrowed into a glare. Chelsea inhaled audibly and leaned forward in her chair. His eyes were thickly lashed and dark, although she couldn’t determine their exact color. Brown? Black? He dropped his arms, and his long, slender fingers gripped the podium tightly. The bank of microphones jiggled and a loud piercing sound ripped through the air. He winced.
“How does it feel to be handed the title by David James?” the reporter asked, her voice louder as it came on the tail end of the noise feedback.
The camera zoomed in and caught his pinched expression. “Right now, I feel annoyed,” he responded sharply.
“Annoyed? Aren’t you honored?”
“Why should I be honored?”
“Because People Magazine has never named a non-actor as their sexiest man alive.”
“An award based on facial characteristics is not an honor. Especially since I have no control over the symmetry of my features. The National Medal of Technology. The Faraday Medal. The granting of those awards would be a true honor.”
The camera zoomed out, and hands holding phones with a smaller version of the man’s frustrated image filled the screen. Flashes flickered on the periphery, and he rubbed his brow, like Aladdin begging the genie for the power to disappear.
“How does one celebrate being deemed the most desirable man on the planet?” another reporter asked.
“One doesn’t.” His lips tightened into a white slash on his face.
“Is there a secret scientific formula for dating Victoria’s Secret models? Didn’t you used to be engaged to one?” A male reporter exchanged knowing looks with the colleagues around him. A smattering of chuckles followed his questio
n.
“Didn’t she leave you for another model six weeks before the wedding?”
“So you’re single? Who’s your type?”
“What’s your perfect first date?”
“Can you create a sexbot?”
Questions pelted the poor man. The reporters had found his weakness: his inability or unwillingness to play the game. Now they would try to get a sound bite for their story teaser or a quote to increase their site’s click-through rate. The man drove his fingers through his black hair, a move so quick and natural she knew it was a gesture he repeated often. That, and not hair putty, probably explained the spikiness of the dark strands that were longer on the top, shorter on the sides.
“This has nothing to do with my project,” he snapped, then scowled at someone off-camera.
Chelsea glanced heavenward, grateful she wasn’t the recipient of that withering look.
Click to buy Love On My Mind!
An Excerpt from
HERE AND NOW
An American Valor Novel
By Cheryl Etchison
Former Ranger Medic Lucky James feels right at home working long night shifts in the ER, but less so during the day, when his college classes are filled with flirtatious co-eds. When his 19-year-old chem lab partner shows up at his work with dinner for “her Lucky,” he quickly enlists the help of Rachel Dellinger, a nurse and fellow third shift “vampire.” From there a friendship is born between two people just trying to make it through the night. Neither are living in the past or planning for the future—until one day changes everything.
When the phone kept ringing non-stop and the desk clerk asked her to take a set of scrubs to exam room seven, Rachel didn’t think much of it. It was, after all, an ER and she assumed they were for a patient whose clothes were ruined and was in need of something to wear home. She gave a light tap to the exam room door and pushed it opened further, expecting to find someone at least sitting on the exam table and requiring assistance. What she did not expect was to see a fine physical specimen, upright and most certainly able-bodied, whipping his shirt off over his head in one swift, fluid motion. Nor did she expect to be greeted by strong shoulders, a broad muscular back, and narrowed hips.
Holy moly.
This guy was by far the best looking man she’d seen in the flesh in a very long time. Maybe ever. And she hadn’t even seen his face.
She clutched the scrubs to her chest and stood silent and tongue-tied, watching, appreciating, as the muscles in his back and arms flexed and strained as he unfastened the leather belt around his waist and released the button. All those finely sculpted muscles worked in unison to create a stunning physical display of power and strength as he shoved his pants to the floor.
Wearing only white crew socks and gray boxer briefs, he turned to face her and she nearly forgot how to breathe. She thought the back was nice? The chest. The abs. The dark trail of hair that began just below his navel and disappeared beneath the waistband of his briefs.
“You could’ve dropped them on the table and left instead of just standing there.”
Her gaze shot upward to see one corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile and as dark brown eyes stared back at her she was immediately struck by the feeling she knew this guy. There was something so familiar about him, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
She swallowed hard in an effort to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “You knew I was standing here?”
Instead of answering, he simply held out his hand, his eyes flicking to the scrubs she held in a stranglehold against her chest before lifting to meet hers once again.
“How?” She relaxed her grip, felt the blood rush back to her fingertips as she placed the scrubs in his hand. “How did you know?”
“Spatial awareness,” he said taking the clothes from her and immediately tossing the shirt onto the gurney. “That and you knocked on the door before you came in.” He flashed that half smile again before stepping into the pants and tying the drawstring. “Thanks for the clothes, Rachel. I can handle it from here.”
Immediately she looked down to see if he’d read the name from her badge, only to realize her crossed arms were covering her ID. Clearly, he knew her. So she looked harder this time, doing her best to ignore the chest—and abs and arms—and focus on his face. As she mentally stripped away the disheveled hair, the heavy scruff covering his face, the laugh lines around his eyes, the earlier feelings of lust were replaced by a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
There was little doubt the man standing in front of her was the one and only Lucky James.
Click to buy Here and Now!
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from The Virgin and the Viscount copyright © 2016 by Charis Michaels.
Excerpt from Love On My Mind copyright © 2016 by Tracey Livesay.
Excerpt from Here and Now copyright © 2016 by Cheryl Etchison Smith.
HERO OF MINE. Copyright © 2016 by Codi Gary. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
EPub Edition AUGUST 2016 ISBN: 9780062372284
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062372291
Avon, Avon Impulse, and the Avon Impulse logo are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers.
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