Improper Gentlemen

by Diane Whiteside

  “I will not speak against our father and his ways with you, Jemma. However, you will not continue as you have. You were educated well, just as my wife, and yet you spend your days doing nothing save pleasing your whims. You have refused to see Barras every time he has called upon me as thought the match is beneath you, it is not.” Her brother paused making his displeasure clear. “Well, madam, I believe a few duties will help you place some of your spirit to good use. Curan drew in a stiff breath. “I will not force you to wed, because that was our father’s wish. Yet I will not tolerate anyone living in this castle who does nothing to help maintain it. You may have the day to decide what you prefer to do or on the morrow. I will have a list of duties given to you. Food does not appear from thin air, and you shall help make this fortress a decent place to reside.”

  Her brother stood up and strode away, several of his knights standing up the moment their lord did to follow him. Conversation died in the hall and the sounds of dishes being gathered up for washing took over. Jemma watched the maids and cringed. Shame turned her face red, for she noticed more than one satisfied smile decorating their lips.

  Standing up, she left the hall, seeking out the only living creature that she could trust not to lecture her.

  But that was only because a horse could not talk even if she often whispered her laments against its velvety neck.

  In the dim light of the stable, she moved down the stalls until she found her mare. The horse snorted with welcome, bringing a smile to her face, but it was a sad one. Jemma reached out to stroke the light gray muzzle, the velvety hairs tickling her hand. Storm had been her constant companion since her father’s death and she realized that she had never really dealt with that parting. Instead she’d refused to admit that her sire’s departure from this life had cut her to the bone.

  Instead of grieving, she had become a shrew, irritating everyone around her, and escaping to ride across her father’s land while the rest of the inhabitants toiled at all the tasks required to maintain a castle keep.

  Curan and the others labeled it selfish but in truth it was running. She had swung up onto the back of her horse and ridden out to avoid facing the fact that her father was dead. It had never been about escaping her chores or thinking the match with Barras beneath her, she had sought out the bliss of not thinking at all which removed the need to grieve from her mind. She simply ignored the fact that time was passing, choosing to remain locked in a few hours that never progressed. That way, she didn’t have to face the sadness that threatened to reduce her to a pile of ashes.

  Barras . . .

  The burly Scot was something else that she liked to avoid thinking about, yet for a far different reason. He looked at her as though he wanted to touch her. Even now, a shiver rippled down her spine at just the memory of the way his eyes traveled over her curves, tracing them, lingering on them while he eyes narrowed and his lips thinned with hunger. Some manner of sensation twisted in her belly and it set her heart to moving faster but she was unable to decide just what it was. Or maybe she had merely avoided naming it to remain locked in her fairy bubble where she didn’t have to face the grieve that wanted to assault her.

  Don’t miss DEAD ALERT

  by Bianca D’Arc,

  new this month from Brava.

  Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  “I’ve got a special project for you, Sam.” The commander, a former Navy SEAL named Matt Sykes, began talking before Sam was through the door to Matt’s private office. “Sit down and shut the door.”

  Sam sat in a wooden chair across the cluttered desk from his commanding officer. Lt. Sam Archer, US Army Green Beret, was currently assigned to a top secret, mixed team of Special Forces soldiers and elite scientists. There were also a few others from different organizations, including one former cop and a CIA black ops guy. It was an extremely specialized group, recruited to work on a classified project of the highest order.

  “I understand you’re a pilot.” Matt flipped through a file as he spoke.

  “Yes, sir.” Sam could have said more but he didn’t doubt Matt had access to every last bit of Sam’s file, even the top secret parts. He had probably known before even sending for him that Sam could fly anything with wings. Another member of his old unit was a blade pilot who flew all kinds of choppers, but fixed wing aircraft were Sam’s specialty.

  “How do you like the idea of going undercover as a charter pilot?”

  “Sir?” Sam sat forward in the chair, intrigued.

  “The name of a certain charter airline keeps popping up.” Matt put down the file and faced Sam as his gaze hardened. “Too often for my comfort. Ever heard of a company called Praxis Air?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “It’s a small outfit, based out of Wichita—at least that’s where they repair and maintain their aircraft in a company-owned hangar. They have branch offices at most of the major airports and cater mostly to an elite business clientele. They do the odd private cargo flight and who knows what else. They keep their business very hush-hush, ‘providing the ultimate in privacy for their corporate clients,’ or so their brochure advertises.” Matt pushed a glossy tri-fold across the desk toward Sam.

  “Looks pretty slick.”

  “That they are,” Matt agreed. “So slick that even John Petit, with his multitude of CIA connections, can’t get a bead on exactly what they’ve been up to of late. I’ve been piecing together bits here and there. Admiral Chester, the traitor, accepted more than a few free flights from them in the past few months, as did Ensign Bartles, who it turns out, was killed in a Praxis Air jet that crashed the night we took down Dr. Rodriguez and his friends. She wasn’t listed on the manifest and only the pilot was claimed by the company, but on a hunch I asked a friend on the National Transportation Safety Board to allow us to do some DNA testing. Sure enough, we found remnants of Beverly Bartles’s DNA at the crash site, though her body had to have been moved sometime prior to the NTSB getting there. The locals were either paid off or preempted. Either option is troubling, to say the least.”

  “You think they’re mixed up with our undead friends?” They were still seeking members of the science team that had created the formula that killed and then turned its victims into the walking dead. Nobody had figured out exactly how they were traveling so freely around the country when they were on every watch list possible.

  “It’s a very real possibility. Which is why I want to send you in undercover. I don’t need to remind you, time is of the essence. We have a narrow window to stuff this genie back into its bottle. The longer this goes on, the more likely it is the technology will be sold to the highest bidder and then, God help us.”

  Sam shivered. The idea of the zombie technology in the hands of a hostile government or psycho terrorists—especially after seeing what he’d seen of these past months—was unthinkable.

  “If my going undercover will help end this, I’m your man.” He’d do anything to stop the contagion from killing any more people.

  Sam opened the flyer and noted the different kinds of jets the company offered. The majority of the planes looked like Lear 35’s in different configurations. Some were equipped for cargo. Some had all the bells and whistles any corporate executive could wish for and a few were basically miniature luxury liners set up for spoiled celebrities and their friends.

  “I hoped you’d say that. I’ve arranged a little extra training for you at Flight Safety in Houston. They’ve got Level D flight simulators that have full motion and full visual. They can give you the Type Rating you’ll need on your license to work for Praxis Air legitimately.”

  “I’ve been to Flight Safety before. It’s a good outfit.” Sam put the brochure back on Matt’s desk.

  “We’ll give you a suitable job history and cover, which you will commit to memory. You’ll also have regular checkins while in the field, but for the most part you’ll be on your own. I want you to discover who, if any, of their personnel are involved and to what extent.” M
att paused briefly before continuing. “Just to be clear, this isn’t a regular job I’m asking you to do, Sam. It’s not even close to what you signed on for when we were assigned as zombie hunters. I won’t order you to do this. It’s a total immersion mission. Chances are, there will be no immediate backup if you get into trouble. You’ll be completely on your own most of the time.”

  “Understood, sir. I’m still up for it. I like a challenge.”

  Matt cracked a smile. “I hear that. And I appreciate the enthusiasm. Here’s the preliminary packet to get you started.” He handed a bulging envelope across the desk. “We’ll get the rest set up while you’re in flight training. It’ll be ready by the time you are. You leave tomorrow for Houston.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sam stood, hearing the tone of dismissal in the commander’s voice.

  “You can call this whole thing off up until the end of your flight training. After that, wheels will have been set in motion and can’t be easily stopped. If you change your mind, let me know as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Unspoken was the certainty that Sam wouldn’t be changing his mind any time soon.

  And keep an eye out for

  SEVEN YEARS TO SIN by Sylvia Day,

  coming next month!

  Alistair Caulfield’s back was to the door of his warehouse shipping office when it opened. A salt-tinged gust blew through the space, snatching the manifest he was about to file right out of his hand.

  He caught it deftly, then looked over his shoulder. Startled recognition moved through him. “Michael.”

  The new Lord Tarley’s eyes widened with equal surprise, then a weary half-smile curved his mouth. “Alistair, you scoundrel. You didn’t tell me you were in Town.”

  “I’ve only just returned.” He slid the parchment into the appropriate folder and pushed the drawer closed. “How are you, my lord?”

  Michael removed his hat and ran a hand through his dark brown hair. The assumption of the Tarley title appeared to weigh heavily on his broad shoulders, grounding him in a way Alistair had never seen before. He was dressed somberly in shades of brown, and he flexed his left hand, which bore the Tarley signet ring, as if he could not accustom himself to having it there. “As well as can be expected under the circumstances.”

  “My condolences to you and your family. Did you receive my letter?”

  “I did. Thank you. I meant to reply, but time is stretched so thin. The last year has raced by so quickly; I’ve yet to catch my breath.”

  “I understand.”

  Michael nodded. “I’m pleased to see you again, my friend. You have been gone far too long.”

  “The life of a merchant.” He could have delegated more, but staying in England meant crossing paths with both his father and Jessica. His father complained about Alistair’s success as a tradesman with as much virulence as he’d once complained about Alistair’s lack of purpose. It was a great stressor for his mother, which he was only able to alleviate by being absent as much as possible.

  As for Jessica, she’d been careful to avoid him whenever they were in proximity. He had learned to reciprocate when he saw how marriage to Tarley changed her. While she remained as cool in deportment as ever, he’d seen the blossoming of her sensual nature in the languid way she moved and the knowledge in those big, gray eyes. Other men coveted the mystery of her, but Alistair had seen behind the veil and that was the woman he lusted for. Forever beyond his reach in reality, but a fixture in his mind. She was burned into his memory by the raging hungers and impressionableness of youth, and the years hadn’t lessened the vivid recollection one whit.

  “I find myself grateful for your enterprising sensibilities,” Michael said. “Your captains are the only ones I would entrust with the safe passage of my sister-in-law to Jamaica.”

  Alistair kept his face impassive by considerable practice, but the sudden awareness gripping him tensed his frame. “Lady Tarley intends to travel to Calypso?”

  “Yes. This very morning, which his why I’m here. I intend to speak to the captain myself and see he looks after her until they arrive.”

  “Who travels with her?”

  “Only her maid. I should like to accompany her, but I can’t leave now.”

  “And she will not delay?”

  “No.” Michael’s mouth curved wryly. “And I cannot dissuade her.”

  “You cannot say no to her,” Alistair corrected, moving to the window through which we could view the West India docks. Ships entered the Northern Dock to unload their precious imports, then sailed around to the Southern Dock to reload with cargo for export. Around the perimeter, a high brick wall deterred the rampant theft plaguing the London wharves, which increased his shipping company’s appeal to West Indian landowners requiring secure carriage of goods.

  “Neither can Hester—forgive me, Lady Regmont.”

  The last was said with difficulty. Alistair had long suspected his friend nursed deeper feelings for Jessica’s younger sister and had assumed Michael would pay his addresses. Instead, Hester had been presented at court then immediately betrothed, breaking the hearts of many hopeful would-be swains. “Why is she so determined to go?”

  “Benedict bequeathed the property to her. She claims she must see to its sale personally. I fear the loss of my brother has affected her deeply and she seeks a purpose. I’ve attempted to anchor her, but duty has me stretched to wit’s end.”

  Alistair’s reply was carefully neutral. “I can assist her in that endeavor. I can make the necessary introductions, as well as relay information it would take her months to find.”

  “A generous offer.” Michael’s gaze was searching. “But you just returned. I can’t ask you to depart again so soon.”

  Turning, Alistair said. “My plantation borders Calypso, and I could use the expansion. It’s my hope to position myself as the best purchaser of the property. I will pay her handsomely, of course.”

  Relief swept over Michael’s expressive features. “That would ease my mind considerably. I’ll speak to her at once.”

  “Perhaps you should leave that to me. If, as you say, she needs a purpose, then she’ll want to maintain control of the matter in all ways. She should be allowed to set the terms and pace of our association to suit her. I have all the time in the world, but you do not. See to your most pressing affairs, and entrust Lady Tarley to me.”

  “You’ve always been a good friend,” Michael said. “I pray you return to England swiftly and settle for a time. I could use your ear and head for business. In the interim, please encourage Jessica to write often and keep me abreast of the situation. I should like to see her return before we retire to the country for the winter.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Alistair waited several minutes after Michael departed, then moved to the desk. He began a list of new provisions for the journey, determined to create the best possible captive environment. He also made some quick but costly adjustments to the passenger list, moving two additional travelers to another of his ships.

  He and Jessica would be the only non-crewmen about the Acheron.

  She would be within close proximity for weeks—it was an extraordinary opportunity Alistair was determined not to waste.

  BRAVA BOOKS are published by

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  Copyright © 2011 Kensington Publishing Corp.

  “Talbot’s Ace” copyright © 2011 Diane Whiteside

  “To Match a Thief” copyright © 2011 Maggie Robinson

  “A Knack for Trouble” copyright © 2011 Diana Groe

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  ISBN: 978-0-7582-5109-1

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