by Misty Evans
Julia warns: “Beware of sexy spies bearing gifts. Trust no one and sleep with a gun under your pillow.” Conrad warns: “Sex, lies and tantalizing suspense ... don't worry, I'll protect you."
Enjoy the following excerpt for Operation Sheba:
The wind chimes outside the patio doors clanged gustily in the wind. Julia sat on the floor, arms wrapped around her bent legs, watching the wind blow sheets of rain across the cracked concrete patio.
"Would it help,” Conrad said quietly from behind Julia, “if I said I was sorry? Again?” His silhouette reflected in the glass as lightning ripped through the black sky.
She had sought solace in her apartment, locking the door behind her and leaving the lights off. An attempt, Conrad knew, to keep him out so she could hang her head and lose the control she had been fighting so hard to keep after learning of Michael Stone's betrayal.
"No. It wouldn't help.” Her voice sounded steady and yet still smart with emotion. “You'd be lying. You're not sorry it's Michael."
"But I am sorry the asshole did a number on you."
Julia's eyebrows rose as she calmly accused him. “The pot calling the kettle black."
Conrad clenched his jaw to fight back a response that would only get him in deeper shit. He couldn't win this argument. No sense trying.
Julia, sensing his refusal to argue, shook her head mildly and ignored him again. A crack of lightning, the follow-up roll of thunder a few seconds later. Long minutes of silence.
Conrad shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Damn this sucked. He wanted her to lash out at him, yell, slam a door, cry in his arms again—like that hadn't freaked him out a little, she never cried, but even that was preferable to this sudden silence—do something to blow off her anger and hurt. Then he could help her. But this ... this withdrawal wasn't healthy. The emotions would detonate inside her.
Maybe he should get in her face, argue with her until she broke. Tell her why he wasn't like Stone. She would break, he knew that, and he damn sure would be there to pick up the pieces this time. “You have to talk to me, Jules."
"No, actually, I don't. Leave me alone. I need some time to think."
"I have more information, more proof, if you want to see it."
Julia cut her gaze to him as the rain continued to pelt the concrete. “I've seen and heard enough. The less I know, the more ... how did Smitty put it? Effective? Yes that's the word. The less I know the more effective I'll be in your little sting operation."
"So you're going to help us?"
She snorted. “Do I have a choice?"
No, he wanted to say, his need for her help almost as bad as his need for her forgiveness. At the same time he felt compelled after what he'd put her through to give her an out. “You always have a choice. I can't force you to do this, to work with me."
Her body tensed and he knew he'd said the wrong thing, although he wasn't sure why it was wrong. Her help was critical to the success of the operation, but he didn't want to push her into a corner. It would only backfire on him.
Her attention went back to the night outside the door. “What if,” she said, her voice controlled, deliberate, “the roles had been reversed seventeen months ago? What if you thought I was dead, Con, and it was your fault?"
Taking a step back, he let his back slide down the wall on the west side of the patio doors. He let himself think about it for a moment, but a moment was all it took. “I'd have gone crazy."
Her response was just as quick. “But you'd have survived, just like I did.” And accurate.
Lightning flickered, illuminating Julia's body with a blinking, strobe-like effect. The green eyes were black, her lips set in a grim line. Behind her set face, he knew she was coming to grips with Stone's betrayal. With her current situation. With his request for her help. He watched as she continued to stare out at the night. She was right, they were survivors. Whatever the outcome of this operation, they would both survive.
He waited for her to tell him that. To assert that she would be fine. But silence was all he got.
Life with Julia had never been easy, but then he had never opted for easy in his life. To him, nothing easy was worth having. Challenge was what made his blood flow, his pulse pound.
Conrad had a superior operational mind and the balls to put his ideas into action. Intelligence mixed with cool logic and hyperawareness made him excel at everything from running agents to troubleshooting tickets for a sold-out game. Always ready for the next opportunity, he was an artful and cunning risk-taker. He loved the game and he loved to win.
In the 007 version of the Intelligence world, Conrad was an outstandingly good spy.
The problem was he had fallen in love with Julia, his opposite in ways the Myers-Briggs assessment test couldn't begin to measure. And although her scope of assignments had been more limited than his, she was operationally his equal. That had caused just a few problems.
Being a good spook was the antithesis of being a normal person. Those who excelled at flirting with terrorists, assassins, drug dealers and the rest of the Earth's scum usually sucked in the everyday departments of spouse, parent or friend.
That's all right, he thought. Take all the time you need, love. I'm not going anywhere. I'm never leaving you again...
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There are worse things than facing your greatest fear.
Facing It
© 2009 Linda Winfree
A Hearts of the South story
Mired in a brutal marriage for far too long, Ruthie Chason takes her courage and her children in hand to flee the trap that has become her life. Yet she's no fool. She knows he'll come after her once he discovers she possesses criminal evidence that will put him away for good—and seal her deadly fate if he ever catches up with her.
Sheriff's Deputy Chris Parker offers emotional refuge, a safe place to begin to reclaim her life ... if she can let herself trust the strong, quiet cop that far.
Chris surprises himself when he agrees to act as guardian for Ruthie and her children. He does it as a favor, then finds something about her calm strength soothes his battered soul. Now if only he can silence the demons from his past that make him cautious of falling too fast for any woman.
Their need explodes into a heart-stopping night of passion that exposes their deepest vulnerabilities. But just as they begin to explore how healing love can be, violence tracks them down. And backs them into a desperate corner...
Warning: Contains a to-die-for deputy with secrets in his past, a woman ripe for the love of a good man, and a controlling husband bent on revenge. Deep emotion, passionate lovemaking and violent mayhem to ensue.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Facing It:
"You said we needed to talk. Of course, I also promised to kiss you senseless once I had you completely alone, and this is the first chance I've had to do that. So what comes first?” She set the plates she carried on the counter and turned to take the glass casserole from him. He stared at her, his eyes blazing with a sudden fire. Her stomach lifted and turned over, a deep fluttering kicking off lower with a series of tiny, stinging aches.
His Adam's apple bobbed with a swallow. “Having you kiss me senseless sounds pretty damn good right now."
The serving dish hit the countertop with a dull thud. She reached for him first. Arms around his neck, she leaned up and kissed him. With a smothered groan, he wrapped her close and plundered her mouth. She met the ferocity of his possession with an intensity of her own, holding his face and sucking his tongue between her lips.
"God, Ruthie.” He backed her into the counter, fumbling at the tiny buttons on her blouse. She went for the hem of his cotton polo and tugged it free of his jeans before rubbing her hands up the sleek warmth of his waist and rib cage. He growled in pleasure and kissed her again, giving up on her buttons and shoving the fabric out of his way instead.
Lost in the heated wonder of his mouth, she arched into him, bare midriff brushing against his stomach.
The contact sent sharp desire piercing through her, weakening her legs and filling her with fierce triumph. Stephen had not stolen the ability to need and desire from her. She wanted this, wanted Chris.
He stroked his thumbs across the lower edge of her sternum and sensation danced out from the caress. She loved the hot, rough touch of his skin on hers. Nipping lightly at his bottom lip, she scraped her nails along his waistband, just below the small of his back. His knees dipped, his pelvis bumping hers, almost as though his legs had buckled.
"Jiminy Cricket.” The rumble of his choked laughter shivered against her mouth. He brushed his palms back and forth over her waist.
She trailed her fingertips across the light stubble on his jaw. “Take me to bed."
"Hell.” His breath rushed out on a shocked exhale and his lashes fell. “Are you sure?"
"Absolutely.” She ran her thumb across his lower lip. Leaning closer, she tilted into him and let her tongue take the same path her thumb had. The pale blue of his eyes darkened, grew hot and stormy. “I want you, Chris."
"I don't want to rush this, don't want to mess us up. This isn't why I invited you here—"
She stopped the words with a fingertip atop his lips. “Nothing you could do would mess us up. Do you not get how important you're becoming to me?"
"Ruthie.” The warmth of his mouth moved against her skin. “There's—"
"Time for that later.” She dropped her hand and leaned in to feather her lips over his. “I need you."
For a long moment, he stared at her before he stepped back, took her hand and led her down the hall. In the dimness of his bedroom, she stood before him, her desire for him making her bold. Holding his gaze, she lifted her hands to unbutton her blouse. Finally, she shrugged free of the thin garment and he wrapped a warm palm around her nape, pulling her in for another of those passion-drugging kisses.
She fisted the hem of his shirt and dragged it upward, over his head. Deeply golden filtered sunlight fell on his torso, highlighting his tightly muscled chest and abdomen. Her mouth dry, she let her hands drift over his shoulders, across firm pectorals, down his arms, to his hands. A long, thin line of puckered flesh ran from shoulder to elbow. He flinched when she brushed it, and she moved her hand quickly to his chest. With scrupulous care, she avoided the scar there, a pale, flat mark at his ribs.
A shaky laugh erupted from his mouth and he buried his face against her hair. His hold at her hips tightened, his fingers seeming to tremble. “Shit, this is a bad idea. I don't know what I'm doing anymore, don't know how to—"
"Chris, stop. It's all right.” She whispered the words near his ear. She folded her arms about him and held him closer. With her palms flat on his back, she discovered yet another mark on his shoulder blade, a jagged twin to the one on his arm. She rubbed her cheek against his neck. “Just hold me a moment."
He embraced her, too tightly but somehow just right at the same time. The thin lace of her bra did little to deflect the heat of his skin on her own. She curled into him and scattered tiny kisses along his throat, over his shoulder, all the while playing her hands over his back. Desire with all the burn of fine, smooth whiskey poured through her.
He exhaled hard, stirring her hair. “She ruined me."
Hatred for the unknown woman blazed to life, strong and virulent. Ruthie tamped it away and leaned back to meet his troubled eyes, brimming with mingled despair and desire. “I don't believe that."
"I don't want to be this way with you, awkward and damn near afraid."
"Stop thinking so much. Just ... touch me.” Taking his wrists, she lifted his hands to her body, molding his palms around the curves of her breasts. Still holding his forearms in a light grasp, she trailed her fingers over the backs of his hands as he shaped and caressed her. Her head fell back and her hair tumbled free from her already messy knot. “Oh yes, like that."
The pads of his thumbs flicked over the lace covering her hardening nipples. Bending his head, he took one into his mouth, teeth grating and tugging through the thin fabric. Need arrowed from the point of intense contact to the throbbing between her thighs.
"I want to go slow, make this so good for you,” he murmured. “But it's been a long time, sweetheart, and I don't know if I can."
"Maybe I don't want slow. Maybe I just want you—"
The words died under his mouth and he lifted her against him, before spinning to lay her across the bed and follow her down, his hips between her thighs. “My God, Ruthie, you make me crazy."
"Good.” She wiggled against him, her skirt riding high. Denim scratched the tender inside of her thighs. She ran teasing hands down his spine, dipping beneath his jeans to cup his buttocks and pull him into her. Lord, when was the last time she'd felt like this, free and confident, secure in the knowledge a man wanted her? “What are you going to do about it?"
A sound that was half-chuckle, half-growl escaped him and he lowered his head to her breasts once more. “Is that a challenge?"
She slid her hands around to his fly, making short work of the button and zipper. He hissed a curse when she encircled him, stroking and teasing. “It could be."
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Doing whatever it takes could get them both killed.
Living Lies
© 2008 Dawn Brown
Twelve years after her sister's disappearance, Haley Carling spends her days trying to hold what's left of her family together, running her late father's shop and caring for her alcoholic mother. Then her sister's remains are uncovered in the basement of their old home, and fingers start pointing. At the Carlings.
Dean Lawson, long the prime suspect in the Carling girl's disappearance, is sure he's got evidence proving who the killer is. He's determined to clear his name, and he won't let anything stand in his way. Not even his lingering attraction to Haley.
Haley is just as determined to protect her family from the former town bad boy's accusations. But now someone is stalking her, and Haley realizes Dean's the only one she can trust.
With a killer closing in, Dean wonders if he's made the biggest mistake of his life ... a mistake that could cost Haley her life.
Warning: This title contains a mystery to keep you turning the pages late into the night.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Living Lies:
The Mountainview Motel was neither on a mountain nor did it offer a view of one, as the name implied. Little more than a row of shabby rooms slightly north of town, Haley was surprised the place managed to remain open.
As she drove into the lot, she spotted Dean's car parked in front of one of the rooms and pulled up next to it. What was she doing here, really? Hadn't she had enough drama for one day? Maybe, but she needed to know why he was back. Why now?
With a sigh she opened the door and stepped out into the cold. The walk running the length of the motel had been shoveled, exposing weathered wood planks. She crossed to his door and knocked loudly before she changed her mind.
After a moment, the door swung back and Dean filled the opening. He didn't look at all surprised to see her. Al had probably called to warn him after she'd left.
She could understand how she hadn't recognized him. The boyishness had left his face, making his features sharper, almost predatory and, if at all possible, more attractive. Even his body seemed harder and leaner than she remembered.
Her heart rate quickened, and something fluttered in her stomach. Could he really have killed Michelle?
Killer or not, she would have to say something soon. She couldn't just stand there staring like a twit all day.
"I didn't recognize you earlier,” she said. Better than silence, but only marginally.
Dean leaned casually against the frame. “I figured."
"Erin recognized you.” She should have stuck with silence.
"What do you want, Haley?” His voice was deep and quiet.
"Why are you here?"
He sighed and moved aside. “Do you want to come in?"
She h
esitated. If she went inside that room, would anyone ever see her again? Allister was the only person who knew where she was and she didn't have a whole lot of faith he'd come to her rescue if she needed him to.
"People know where I am,” she said at last.
Dean smirked, but said nothing as she stepped inside, closing the door behind her.
"Nice place you have here, Matthew Clarke,” she said, taking in the faded beige wallpaper and gold shag carpet. An ugly oil painting of a gnarly sea captain hung over the sagging double bed.
"I wanted to keep a low profile."
"I thought you would have stayed with Al."
"Have you seen Al's apartment?” A faint smile touched his lips. “This place is a palace."
He had a point. She had seen Al's apartment once and had gone straight home and showered.
"Sit down,” he offered, gesturing to the only chair in the room. As she pulled it away from the desk, she noticed a thick envelope and file folder with bits of paper curling around the edge stacked neatly in the top corner. She would have loved to go through those pages. To see just what Dean studied on alone in a grubby motel room.
"So,” she said. “Why are you here?"
"Maybe I just wanted to pay my respects.” He sat on the corner of the bed, his eyes bright and his mouth still twisted in that slightly mocking smirk.
"By lurking in the parking lot?"
The grin vanished. “I wasn't in the parking lot the whole time. I watched the service from the door. When I saw you get up and start to leave I decided to go."
"You came back for the memorial?"
"Maybe.” He shrugged.
"Or maybe you're worried there's something to link you to Michelle after all."
A tiny muscle twitched in his jaw. “Is that what you think?"
I don't know what to think, and you're not giving anything away. “I don't think you came back here just to watch Michelle's memorial from an open door. So why not tell me what you're really doing here?"
"What do you want me to say, Haley? That I did it? That I killed her?"