Her Highland Fling

by Jennifer McQuiston

  She gingerly reached down under the covers and found her knee was bound up in a bandage of some sort. He turned away, flushing again, and she realized the plaid had slipped down. She was as naked as he was. She gasped, drew the blanket tight to her chin, and stared at him. She looked up and saw that her clothes were hanging on a line above the fireplace—all of them, even her shift.

  “Where—?” she swallowed. Her voice was hoarse, her throat as raw as her knee. “Who are you?” she tried again. She felt hot blood fill her cheeks, and panic formed a tight knot in her chest, and she tried again to remember what had happened, but her mind was blank. If he was—unclothed, and she was equally unclothed—

  “What—” she began again, then swallowed the question she couldn’t frame. She hardly knew what to ask first, Where, Who, or What? Her mind was moving slowly, her thoughts as thick and rusty as her tongue.

  “You’re safe, lass,” he said, and she wondered if she was. She stared at him. She’d seen men working in the summer sun, their shirts off, their bodies tanned, their muscles straining, but she’d never thought anything of it. This—he—was different. And she was as naked as he was.

  An Excerpt from

  RUNNING HOT

  A Bad Boys Undercover Novella

  by HelenKay Dimon

  Ward Bennett and Tasha Gregory aren’t on the same team. But while hunting a dictator on the run, these two must decide whether they can trust one another—and their ability to stay professional. Working together might just make everyone safer, but getting cozy . . . might just get them killed.

  “Take your clothes off.”

  He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re attracted to me.” Good Lord, now Tasha was waving her hands in the air. Once she realized it, she stopped. Curled her hands into balls at her sides. “I find you . . . fine.”

  Ward covered his mouth and produced a fake cough. She assumed it hid a smile. That was almost enough to make her rescind the offer.

  “Really? That’s all you can muster?” This time he did smile. “You think I’m fine?”

  He was hot and tall and had a face that played in her head long after she closed her eyes each night. And that body. Long and lean, with the stalk of a predator. Ward was a man who protected and fought. She got the impression he wrestled demons that had to do with reconciling chivalry and decency with the work they performed.

  The combination of all that made her wild with need. “Your clothes are still on.”

  “Are you saying you want to—”

  Since he was saying the sentence so slowly—emphasizing, and halting after, each word—she finished it fast. “Shag.”

  Both eyebrows rose now. “Please tell me that’s British for ‘have sex.’ ”

  “Yes.”

  He blew out a long, staggered breath. “Thank God, because right now my body is in a race to see what will explode first, my brain or my dick.”

  Uh? “Is that a compliment?”

  “Believe it or not, yes.” Two steps, and he was in front of her, his fingers playing with the small white button at the top of her slim tee. “So, are you talking about now or sometime in the future to celebrate ending Tigana?”

  Both. “I need to work off this extra energy and get back in control.” She was half-ready to rip off her clothes and throw him on the mattress.

  Maybe he knew because he just stood there and stared at her, his gaze not leaving her face.

  She stared back.

  Just as he started to lower his head, a ripple moved through her. She shoved a hand against his shoulder. “Don’t think that I always break protocol like this.”

  “I don’t care if you do.” He ripped his shirt out of his pants and whipped it over his head, revealing miles of tanned muscles and skin.

  “You’re taking off your clothes.” Not the smartest thing she’d ever said, but it was out there and she couldn’t snatch it back.

  “You’re the boss, remember?”

  A shot of regret nearly knocked her over. Not at making the pass but at wanting him this much in the first place. Here and now, when her mind should be on the assignment, not on his chest.

  She’d buried this part of herself for so long under a pile of work and professionalism that bringing it out now made her twitchy. “This isn’t—”

  His hands went to her arms, and he brushed those palms up and down, soothing her. “Do you want me?”

  She couldn’t lie. He had to feel it in the tremor shaking through her. “Yes.”

  “Then stop justifying not working this very second and enjoy. It won’t make you less of a professional.”

  That was exactly what she needed to hear. “Okay.”

  His hands stopped at her elbows, and he dragged her in closer, until the heat of his body radiated against her. “You’re a stunning woman, and we’ve been circling each other for days. Honestly, your ability to handle weapons only makes you hotter in my eyes.”

  The words spun through her. They felt so good. So right. “Not the way I would say it, but okay.”

  “You want me. I sure as hell want you. We need to lie low until it gets dark and we can hide our movements better.” The corner of his mouth kicked up in a smile filled with promise. “And, for the record, there is nothing sexier than a woman who goes after what she wants.”

  He meant it. She knew it with every cell inside her.

  Screw being safe.

  An Excerpt from

  SINFUL REWARDS 1

  A Billionaires and Bikers Novella

  by Cynthia Sax

  Belinda “Bee” Carter is a good girl; at least, that’s what she tells herself. And a good girl deserves a nice guy—just like the gorgeous and moody billionaire Nicolas Rainer. Or so she thinks, until she takes a look through her telescope and sees a naked, tattooed man on the balcony across the courtyard. He has been watching her, and that makes him all the more enticing. But when a mysterious and anonymous text message dares her to do something bad, she must decide if she is really the good girl she has always claimed to be, or if she’s willing to risk everything for her secret fantasy of being watched.

  An Avon Red Novella

  I’d told Cyndi I’d never use it, that it was an instrument purchased by perverts to spy on their neighbors. She’d laughed and called me a prude, not knowing that I was one of those perverts, that I secretly yearned to watch and be watched, to care and be cared for.

  If I’m cautious, and I’m always cautious, she’ll never realize I used her telescope this morning. I swing the tube toward the bench and adjust the knob, bringing the mysterious object into focus.

  It’s a phone. Nicolas’s phone. I bounce on the balls of my feet. This is a sign, another declaration from fate that we belong together. I’ll return Nicolas’s much-needed device to him. As a thank you, he’ll invite me to dinner. We’ll talk. He’ll realize how perfect I am for him, fall in love with me, marry me.

  Cyndi will find a fiancé also—everyone loves her—and we’ll have a double wedding, as sisters of the heart often do. It’ll be the first wedding my family has had in generations.

  Everyone will watch us as we walk down the aisle. I’ll wear a strapless white Vera Wang mermaid gown with organza and lace details, crystal and pearl embroidery accents, the bodice fitted, and the skirt hemmed for my shorter height. My hair will be swept up. My shoes—

  Voices murmur outside the condo’s door, the sound piercing my delightful daydream. I swing the telescope upward, not wanting to be caught using it. The snippets of conversation drift away.

  I don’t relax. If the telescope isn’t positioned in the same way as it was last night, Cyndi will realize I’ve been using it. She’ll tease me about being a fellow pervert, sharing the story, embellished for dramatic effect, with her stern, serious dad—or, worse, with Angel, that snobby friend of hers.

  I’ll die. It’ll be worse than being the butt of jokes in high school because that ridicule was about my clothes and this
will center on the part of my soul I’ve always kept hidden. It’ll also be the truth, and I won’t be able to deny it. I am a pervert.

  I have to return the telescope to its original position. This is the only acceptable solution. I tap the metal tube.

  Last night, my man-crazy roommate was giggling over the new guy in three-eleven north. The previous occupant was a gray-haired, bowtie-wearing tax auditor, his luxurious accommodations supplied by Nicolas. The most exciting thing he ever did was drink his tea on the balcony.

  According to Cyndi, the new occupant is a delicious piece of man candy—tattooed, buff, and head-to-toe lickable. He was completing armcurls outside, and she enthusiastically counted his reps, oohing and aahing over his bulging biceps, calling to me to take a look.

  I resisted that temptation, focusing on making macaroni and cheese for the two of us, the recipe snagged from the diner my mom works in. After we scarfed down dinner, Cyndi licking her plate clean, she left for the club and hasn’t returned.

  Three-eleven north is the mirror condo to ours. I straighten the telescope. That position looks about right, but then, the imitation UGGs I bought in my second year of college looked about right also. The first time I wore the boots in the rain, the sheepskin fell apart, leaving me barefoot in Economics 201.

  Unwilling to risk Cyndi’s friendship on “about right,” I gaze through the eyepiece. The view consists of rippling golden planes, almost like . . .

  Tanned skin pulled over defined abs.

  I blink. It can’t be. I take another look. A perfect pearl of perspiration clings to a puckered scar. The drop elongates more and more, stretching, snapping. It trickles downward, navigating the swells and valleys of a man’s honed torso.

  No. I straighten. This is wrong. I shouldn’t watch our sexy neighbor as he stands on his balcony. If anyone catches me . . .

  Parts 1 – 6 available now!

  An Excerpt from

  RETURN TO CLAN SINCLAIR

  A Clan Sinclair Novella

  by Karen Ranney

  When Ceana Sinclair Mead married the youngest son of an Irish duke, she never dreamed that seven years later her beloved Peter would die. Her three brothers-in-law think she should be grateful to remain a proper widow. After three years of this, she’s ready to scream. She escapes to Scotland, only to discover she’s so much more than just the Widow Mead.

  In Scotland, Ceana crosses paths with Bruce Preston, an American tasked with a dangerous mission by her brother, Macrath. Bruce is too attractive for her peace of mind, but she still finds him fascinating. Their one night together is more wonderful than Ceana could have imagined, and she has never felt more alive.

  The darkness was nearly absolute, leaving her no choice but to stretch her hands out on either side of her, fingertips brushing against the stone walls. The incline was steep, further necessitating she take her time. Yet at the back of her mind was the last image she had of Carlton, his bright impish grin turning to horror as he glanced down.

  The passage abruptly ended in a mushroom-shaped cavern. This was the grotto she’d heard so much about, with its flue in the middle and its broad, wide window looking out over the beach and the sea. She raced to the window, hopped up on the sill nature had created over thousands of years and leaned out.

  A naked man reached up, grabbed Carlton as he fell. After he lowered the boy to the sand, he turned and smiled at her.

  Carlton was racing across the beach, glancing back once or twice to see if he was indeed free. The rope made of sheets was hanging limply from his window.

  The naked man was standing there with hands on his hips, staring at her in full frontal glory.

  She hadn’t seen many naked men, the last being her husband. The image in front of her now was so startling she couldn’t help but stare. A smile was dawning on the stranger’s full lips, one matched by his intent brown eyes. No, not quite brown, were they? They were like the finest Scottish whiskey touched with sunlight.

  Her gaze danced down his strong and corded neck to broad shoulders etched with muscle. His chest was broad and muscled as well, tapering down to a slim waist and hips.

  Even semiflaccid, his manhood was quite impressive.

  The longer she watched, the more impressive it became.

  What on earth was a naked man doing on Macrath’s beach?

  To her utter chagrin, the stranger turned and presented his backside to her, glancing over his shoulder to see if she approved of the sight.

  She withdrew from the window, cheeks flaming. What on earth had she been doing? Who was she to gawk at a naked man as if she’d never before seen one?

  Now that she knew Carlton was going to survive his escape, she should retreat immediately to the library.

  “You’d better tell Alistair his brother’s gotten loose again. Are you the new governess?”

  She turned to find him standing in the doorway, still naked.

  She pressed her fingers against the base of her throat and counseled herself to appear unaffected.

  “I warn you, the imp escapes at any chance. You’ll have your hands full there.”

  The look of fright on Carlton’s face hadn’t been fear of the distance to the beach, but the fact that he’d been caught.

  She couldn’t quite place the man’s accent, but it wasn’t Scottish. American, perhaps. What did she care where he came from? The problem was what he was doing here.

  “I’m not a governess,” she said. “I’m Macrath’s sister, Ceana.”

  He bent and retrieved his shirt from a pile of clothes beside the door, taking his time with it. Shouldn’t he have begun with his trousers instead?

  “Who are you?” she asked, looking away as he began to don the rest of his clothing.

  She’d had two children. She was well versed in matters of nature. She knew quite well what a man’s body looked like. The fact that his struck her as singularly attractive was no doubt due to the fact she’d been a widow for three years.

  “Well, Ceana Sinclair, is it all that important you know who I am?”

  “It isn’t Sinclair,” she said. “It’s Mead.”

  He tilted his head and studied her.

  “Is Mr. Mead visiting along with you?”

  She stared down at her dress of unremitting black. “I’m a widow,” she said.

  A shadow flitted over his face “Are you? Did Macrath know you were coming?”

  “No,” she said. “Does it matter? He’s my brother. He’s family. And why would you be wanting to know?”

  He shrugged, finished buttoning his pants and began to don his shoes.

  “Who are you?” she asked again.

  “I’m a detective,” he said. “My company was hired by your brother.”

  “Why?”

  “Now that’s something I’m most assuredly not going to tell you,” he said. “It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Mead. I hope to see more of you before I leave.”

  And she hoped to see much, much less of him.

  An Excerpt from

  RETURN OF THE BAD GIRL

  by Codi Gary

  When Caroline Willis learns that her perfect apartment has been double-booked—to a dangerously hot bad boy—her bad-girl reputation comes out in full force. But as close quarters begin to ignite the sizzling chemistry between them, she’s left wondering: Bad boy plus bad girl equals nothing but trouble . . . right?

  “I feel like you keep looking for something more to me, but what you know about me is it. There’s no ‘deep down,’ no mistaking my true character. I am bad news.” He waited, listening for the tap of her retreating feet or the slam of the door, but only silence met his ears, then the soft sound of shoes on the cement floor—getting closer to him instead of farther away.

  Fingers trailed feather-light touches over his lower back. “This scar on your back—is that from the accident?”

  Her caress made his skin tingle as he shook his head. “I was knocked down by one of my mother’s boyfriends and landed on a glass table.” />
  “What about here?” Her hand had moved onto his right shoulder.

  “It was a tattoo I had removed. In prison, you’re safer if you belong, so—”

  “I understand,” she said, cutting him off. Had she heard the pain in his voice, or did she really understand?

  He turned around before she could point out any more scars. “What are you doing?”

  She looked him in the eye and touched the side of his neck, where his tattoo began, spreading all the way down past his shoulder and over his chest. “You say you’re damaged. That you’re bad news and won’t ever change.”

  “Yeah?”

  To his surprise, she dropped her hand to his and brought it up to her collarbone, where his finger felt a rough, puckered line.

  “This is a knife wound—just a scratch, really—that I got from a man who used to come see me dance at the strip club. He was constantly asking me out, and I always let him down easy. But one night, after I’d had a shitty day, I told him I would never go out with an old, ugly fuck like him. He was waiting by my car when I got off work.”

  His rage blazed at this phantom from her past. “What happened?”

  “I pulled a move I’d learned from one of the bouncers. Even though he still cut me, I was able to pick up a handful of gravel and throw it in his face. I made it to the front door of the club, and he took off. They arrested him on assault charges, and it turned out he had an outstanding warrant. I never saw him again.”

  Caroline pulled him closer, lifting her arm for him to see a jagged scar along her forearm. “This is from a broken beer bottle I got sliced with when a woman came into my bar in San Antonio, looking for her husband. She didn’t take it well when she found out he had a girlfriend on the side, and when I stepped in to stop her from attacking him, she sliced me.”

  He couldn’t stop his hand from sliding up over her soft skin until it rested on the back of her neck, his fingers pressing into her flesh until she tilted her chin up to meet his gaze.