“I only saw one star,” he murmured, his baritone more growl than voice, his heart in his throat and so damned full of love for this fierce woman he could cry. “I only saw you.”
He knew it then. From that day forth, another constellation would glitter in the night sky—the Adam Torrey family of stars. Another beacon would guide him home. He’d found his one sweet spot, and her name was… Shannon baby.
The End
Sneak Preview of LEE
Book 12
In the Company of Snipers
Get me the hell out of here!
Tess Culver exploded through the door and ran, her boots hitting the flat surface of the roof like her life depended on it. Truth was—it did. Either Clint was where he was supposed to be or she was going to die. The jerk better be there.
“There he goes!” Angry voices bellowed behind her. “Hurry! Catch him!”
Ha! The fools on her tail still thought she was a guy. Well, good. Let them think that. Next, there’d be shooting, and all those tough guys could kiss her—
Zip! Ping!
She ducked. Right on schedule, two shots whizzed past her and splattered against the low brick wall that edged the roof. Adrenaline ramped up higher, like she needed more. Fire burned in her lungs. That familiar out of breath taste of copper, sulphur, and bile rose at the back of her throat. A sharp right turn ahead, and glory hallelujah, she’d be home free—if Clint did as he was told, damn his lazy ass.
She skidded around the corner, dug her toes in and headed north to the circular front of the bombed-out palace, the best point for her most daring getaway yet. With her heart pounding incredibly loud in her chest, her feet slapped the surface of the roof louder. And faster. Too quickly the edge approached.
Closer.
Faster.
No more roof to run. Nowhere else to go. She vaulted up onto the curved wall where all could see. Back when Darul Aman Palace was still an actual palace instead of a bombed out relic of bygone days, this might have been a primo place to take in a romantic view. Not tonight.
Zip! Ping!
Whew. That one was close. Clint had better be waiting for me.
Glancing down to the rubble forty feet below, there was no brother waiting for her and no truck. Damn! She whirled to face her pursuers, the prize still snug in her left hand and a sneer blossoming on her face despite her precarious position. These fools would never see her hesitate. Tess Culver didn’t have it in her to admit defeat even in the face of it. One way or the other, these bumbling security guards would remember this day.
For months she’d been on the prowl. Listening. Watching. Connecting dots to explain exactly what was happening to the ancient Afghan treasures suddenly missing from the National Museum in Kabul, the prestigious building just north of where she stood now. One artifact had eventually surfaced in Kuwait, a lovely golden necklace of inestimable value, now lost to the world because it was in the private collection of Saudi Prince Kalim Abdul Hazzan. Then another piece hit the news, a simple carved knife handle of ivory inlaid with lapis lazuli and emeralds, turned up at an auction in, of all places, Sotheby’s in Paris. Like the common people of Afghanistan could just drop in there to view it.
Tess decided right then and there. The plundering and pillaging of Afghanistan’s treasures and artifacts had to stop. That was the day the cat burglar within Tess arrived like a witch summoned from another world. She hadn’t realized she had a knack for thievery until the Sotheby’s story broke, but the exquisite treasures and relics had to be saved. She knew so many of them by name and loved them all. The gold coins from the Yuezhi Chieftan. Hellenistic tritons. Scythian golden artifacts. And more. All now bartered on the black market because of a few greedy men, buyers and sellers, all of them hypocrites and liars who proclaimed national loyalty to the country they claimed they loved while they sacked it.
She spat. Yeah, right. Like liars the world over, they loved themselves more.
All six of the museum guards behind her screeched to a halt, bumping into each other, they’d stopped so quickly. Uniformed and sweaty after chasing her up four flights of stairs from the basement, they looked like the pigs they were. Dumb. Bumbling. Stupid if they thought the edge of the roof would stop her. That they were there participating in the demise of this country by protecting the true thief at large made them accomplices worthy of the same disgust. She had enough to go around.
The one with a thick, black Manchu approached cautiously, his fingers beckoning toward the bag in her hand, but his eyes glued to her. “Give it back.”
“What? This?” she growled hoarsely, her throat ragged from the run. The bag dangled off her index finger like it meant nothing to her. The best part of this heist was these guys didn’t know if she was still armed or not. She wasn’t. She’d accidently dropped her gun when the final door hadn’t opened as easily as she’d expected. Fortunately, the roof was dark. Not knowing whether she was armed or not, combined with shadows kept them nervous. Wary. Off balance. It also gave her a few more seconds to catch her breath. She cocked an ear to listen for the familiar sound of her lazy brother’s truck. Where is he?
Mr. Manchu seemed the bravest of the six since he was the only one who approached. He scowled in that patronizing way of Afghani law enforcement officers when they thought they had the upper hand, or when they assumed their quarry was just a dumb, hungry kid.
“You must return what you have stolen, boy.” He nodded knowingly while he spoke, like she would agree just because he told her to.
Guess again, tough guy.
“Come.” He waggled all four grubby fingers, urging her to repent and give up. “You are young. The chief will go easy on you. I will make certain.”
“Chief? You mean Sherazi?” she taunted. Assistant Museum Curator, Mr. Abdul Sherazi, the lowest of the low, had yet to make his appearance on the roof, not like she’d expected him to climb all those stairs. A chubby thief like him had to keep a low profile, almost as low as a thief like her. Only their motives differed. He was selling the treasures of his country to the highest bidder, for greed and greed alone. But she was stealing them to save them from men like him, for honor, for time and for Afghanistan’s posterity. She had a contact who could and would give this particular national treasure safe passage to a museum in Paris. It might not be available to the common Afghani citizen, but it would be protected until the future day that Afghanistan was safe again.
A thinner guard stepped forward, his gun clasped in both hands and aimed at her head. “You’ll never get away. There are six of us and only one of you.”
Yeah, but you’re all fat and stupid.
She panted for more air, analyzing alternatives. Six armed men on a roof? Her back to the edge? These idiots still believed she was a boy? A girl couldn’t get any luckier. Still... She glanced to the barren yard below and the wall beyond. Clint better damned well better get his dumb ass in gear! I’m running out of time.
Time for a little one-upmanship. She needed to stall. Hoping these guys were all lousy shots, Tess shook the knitted cap off her head and let her other accomplice, the wind, catch the length of her hair. It was important these guys know they’d been beaten by the best, and her name was—
“He is a woman! An American woman!” Mr. Manchu hissed. Another guard spit in disgust. Yeah. She got that a lot from the macho guys in this country who thought women were created to serve. Not her. Not Tess Culver.
At last, an engine rumbled below. Clint was there. About time!
Relief washed through her. She scanned the wall’s edge, searching for her mark. The letter X she’d scratched on the wall during her one and only dry run meant life tonight. Any deviance spelled splat in bright red. Three grand stories down was a helluva drop. She slid her boot heel over the X and offered a charming smile to the men who would never be as smart as she.
“You will die in prison for this crime!” Mr. Manchu growled. “I will make sure of that now! A thousand lashes with a good, stiff cane are not enou
gh for an infidel like you!”
“No. I will kill her here and now.” Skinny Guy couched to a firing position, one knee on the ground and licking his lips like he couldn’t wait to end her. She got that a lot, too.
Another guard stepped forward, his lip curled in a sneer. Then another. Suddenly, every guard turned brave, like they all wanted a piece of her. How strange in this culture that a thieving boy got more respect than a thieving woman. “No, wait. We must rush her. Catch her. Then she will be ours to do with as we please.”
“Sorry guys. That ain’t never gonna happen,” she taunted as she verified her landing zone. Clint. Truck. Good to go.
Ping.
Damn. Which one of these guys shot me? That was way too close.
“No. No. No.” Still holding the bag where they could all see it, she waggled her finger at the guard crouched to his knee, scolding. “If you shoot me, this little baby will be gone for good. I’ll drop it. You don’t want that, do you? What will your boss say when you fail to return it to him so he can sell another piece of Afghani history to line his pockets?”
He squinted down the barrel of his pistol. Closing one eye, he scrunched his face, and lined her up again.
She blew out a breath of satisfaction. Men. They never listen. Oh, well. Time to go. Tess blew him a kiss over her fingertips and calmly said, “Bye boys.” Spreading her arms wide, she tipped backwards, and dropped. It was a short trip, but one she’d planned thoroughly for.
The crush of the air bags on the flat bed beneath her whooshed a very welcome ‘gotcha’ when she landed. I love you, Clint!
Tess rolled a backward somersault onto her feet, and danced off the inflatable bag to the wooden rail of the bed. While Clint maneuvered the truck along the Palace grounds, gears shuddering and headed to Char-Qala Road, she swung feet first over the railing and angled her svelte body through the open passenger window and into the cab, her hair still fluttering in the breeze. The treasure in her hand felt sweet. The safety of the passenger seat cushion on her backside didn’t feel half bad either. She’d done it. Again! One more treasure saved! One more crook cheated of his payoff!
Raking a hand through her hair, she pushed the tangled mass over her shoulder where it belonged. No need for that windblown look now. Sex appeal had served its purpose tonight. Those idiot guards were probably staring over the edge of the palace roof at this very moment and wondering how a mere woman could have outsmarted them. Ha! Men are so dumb.
“You were late enough. You need a better watch, Clint. One that tells time.” she muttered, stashing the prize beneath the seat but not making eye contact with her brother. Not yet. He wouldn’t like it when she did.
Stunts like this only worked with precision planning and timing. Besides, another theft from the Taliban would not go unnoticed. She’d actually been surprised there were only six guards after her tonight. She’d expected more considering the value of the item in her bag. Glancing out her side window, she watched for trouble. So far, so good. No one followed, and she heard no sirens, but what if Clint had arrived even one minute later? This could’ve gone really bad. What the hell was he thinking? Of saving his lazy ass?
He hadn’t answered. She didn’t really care. Her brother was like that. Weren’t most men? Sullen. Moody. Easily irritated by women smarter than them, or always too tired, too hungry, forever complaining, and whining because they couldn’t get laid. Whatever. Let him sit there and want. As long as he drove fast and got this big rig under cover like they’d planned, she didn’t really care what her brother thought.
Still it irked her. Clint should be happy at her success. He should be proud. She’d just pulled off the heist of the century and risked her life to do it, not his. In fact, now that she’d thought more about it, he should be damned happy.
“It wouldn’t hurt you to show a little enthusiasm,” she snapped at him.
“Oh, baby. I’m damned enthused,” a sexy baritone rumbled.
Her heart leapt to her throat, and whoa. Her nipples peaked to life at the sexy male with simmering green eyes glowering back at her. “Who the hell are you? Where’s Clint?”
Junior Agent Lee Hart grabbed her wrist at the same time Tess latched onto the door handle and simultaneously, reached beneath her seat for her ill-gotten booty. He’d expected she’d run, but there was no way this little gal was getting away from him.
“Back off,” she snarled, shoving her door open with one booted foot and ready to jump.
“Not going to happen.” He yanked her back into the cab and against him. The door slammed like he meant it to when he executed a hard right off the palace grounds. Tess Culver was every bit as determined. She hadn’t let go of the door handle or the prize, not like that bag in her hand was his first priority. Still, if he lost it, Alex would have his head.
“I said let me go!” She turned on him with all of her one hundred twenty pounds of feminine fury He endured the ensuing clawing, scratching, and pummeling. It made driving in a straight line a little tough, but not bad enough he’d let go of the steering wheel or her wrist.
Tires screeched around another corner, a difficult maneuver for a big rig going as fast as it was. Letting his foot off the gas, he let the truck right itself, while he continued onto the designated pick-up location. Not necessarily the one she’d intended, but safe and quiet nonetheless.
“Let me go,” the spitfire behind that whirl of hair and nails demanded. She’d released the handle to beat on him more efficiently, while holding the bag with her ill-gotten booty far away from him. Not a problem. Being assaulted with one female hand and two booted feet was not that lethal. He’d been in tighter spots and been hit with plenty more.
“Give it up, Princess. You’re caught.” He kept his voice calm and just a little condescending, but his shackle on her wrist stayed extra secure. This little gal knew a lot of tricks; he had to give it to her. Sideways in her seat now, she twisted, kicked and spit, a real wildcat in her endeavors to break free. He didn’t care what she tried until she aimed one boot heel at his head.
“Come on. Don’t do that,” he asked nicely. “It’s just going to hurt.” You not me.
A split second before she followed through with that smart aleck kick, he exerted pressure on her wrist, which radiated up her slender arm to her shoulder. Snap. Crackle. Pop. Dislocated. Just like that.
“Ouch! Damn it!” she shrieked, sagging back into her seat, her tongue licking over lipstick red lips, her tangled hair hanging in spirals over her angry, sweaty face. She clutched her injured arm with the hand that held the bag. “You bastard,” she ground out, blowing her hair out of her eyes with a big breath. “You broke my arm.”
“Told you it was going to hurt. It’s not broken though. I wouldn’t do that to you.” He spared a quick glance, not sure why he felt the need to explain. Damn, even mad like she was, she was pretty, all the more dangerous in Lee Hart’s book. He always was a sucker for sassy brunettes.
About the Author
Irish Winters is an award-winning author who dabbles in poetry, grandchildren, and rarely (as in extremely rarely) the kitchen. More prone to be outdoors than in, she grew up the quintessential tomboy on a farm in rural Wisconsin, spent her teenage years in the Pacific Northwest, but calls the Wasatch Mountains of Northern Utah home. For now.
The wife of one handsome husband and mother of three perfect sons, Irish divides her time between writing at home, and travelling the country with her man while writing. (Seriously, what else?)
She believes in making every day count for something, and follows the wise admonition of her mother to, “Look out the window and see something!”
To learn more about Irish and her books, please visit www.IrishWinters.com.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, I thank God for the supreme gift of being born in America, the land of the free because of the brave. He’s blessed me with a little bit of talent and an over abundance of inspiration.
My sincerest appreciation
to Jeanne Taylor Thomas and Darby Briar, my ass-the-chair partners in crime who never fail to make me laugh. You gals have taught me how to reach higher and you keep me humble, a good combination in best friends.
To Bob Houston, the formatting expert who never fails to come up with the perfect finished product, to Kelli Ann Morgan, the genius cover artist who makes my heroes sexy and patriotic, to Lauren McKellar and Katie Johnson, the delightful editors who polish my heroes until they shine, and to my faithful fans and good friends the world over—I wouldn’t be where I am today without each and every one of you.
As always, I end with my husband, Bill. My real hero. Because of you, The TEAM lives.
The rest of The TEAM
ALEX
MARK
ZACK
HARLEY
CONNOR
RORY
TAYLOR
GABE
MAVERICK
CASSIDY
Coming soon
Lee (2016)
Jake (2016)
Hunter (2017)
Eric (2017)
Ky (2017)
Follow Irish Winters on
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GOODREADS
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Adam Page 40