by Misty Evans
“Michael,” she said, as if reading his mind. “The sooner we get this finished, the sooner we can go back to bed.”
He smiled at her back, his heart expanding with his love for her. “Blackmailing me again?”
The flat blade of the scraper skimmed a seam of drywall and she chuckled. “Damn right. I want this wall in perfect shape by Thanksgiving.”
“What’s the hurry?”
She flashed him some skin as she bent to follow the seam to the edge. “I invited everyone here for dinner.”
Forcing his mind to shift out of its libido-driven stupor, he leaned back against the edge of his desk. “Everyone?”
She stepped back to survey her work. “My dad, Thad, Ruth and Ella, and, well, I even invited your mom to come up from Nashville.” She snuck a glance at him. Like the ghosts of his yesterdays, the hard edge to her eyes had disappeared. She’d shut the door on her past as firmly as he had. “I hope that’s okay.”
A traditional family Thanksgiving. In his home. With several members of his family. He swallowed the lump in his throat and pushed off the desk. Taking her by the hand, he tossed the blade into the bucket and led her over to the sofa. “Sit.”
“Your house is plenty big enough, and I’ll do all the cooking.” She frowned up at him and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ve always wanted to cook Thanksgiving for a big family. Please, Michael.”
He chuckled under his breath. She didn’t use the word please often. “Brigit, just sit.”
Letting out a deep sigh, she plunked down on the couch. He sat across from her on the coffee table and leaned his elbows on his knees. “You know what I’ve always wanted?”
“World peace?”
“My own family. A wife, kids, the whole enchilada. I always blamed my job as the reason for not pursuing that dream. Now I know it wasn’t the job keeping me from getting married and having kids.” He paused, waiting for his scar to pinch at the idea he was about to announce, but nothing happened in his chest except the solid beating of his heart. “It was finding the right woman.”
Her body tensed and something changed behind her eyes as she caught onto his meaning. Blood rushed to her face, coloring her ivory skin with pink. She blinked and fought a smile. “That’s a big realization.”
“For me, it’s huge.”
He was about to tell her he loved her and pull out the ring, but a loud noise that sounded like his back door slamming shut stopped him. Pongo, who’d been asleep in the hallway, jumped up and took off barking.
Conrad Flynn’s voice echoed from the mudroom. “Anybody home?”
“What the hell is he doing here?” Michael muttered, rising from the table.
“I called him.” Brigit cringed. “He said he’d help us prime the wall.”
“Great.”
Michael tromped into the kitchen to find Flynn filling the fridge with Sam Adams and Julia unpacking a grocery sack. “We brought lunch,” she said.
Michael leaned into Flynn’s side. “Jesus Christ, your timing sucks.”
Flynn’s eyes widened at Michael’s death glare. “You didn’t do it yet?”
Julia handed Flynn a pile of lunchmeat. “Do what?”
“Nothing,” he and Flynn said at the same time.
A moment later, Zara and Lawson came through the back door with Ace and his girlfriend, Cari, tagging along behind them. Ace held up a stack of CDs. “Where’s the stereo, Big Mike? Let’s get this party started.”
Julia and Zara started putting sandwiches together while Conrad, Lawson and Ace filed into the den. Michael looked around for Brigit, but she’d disappeared, probably upstairs to put a shirt on. He left the group and took the stairs to his bedroom two at a time, hoping she was putting on one of his shirts.
He found her sitting in the middle of his bed, fingers rubbing the gold four-leaf clover charm on the bracelet he’d given her on their first date. She glanced up at him, tears shining in her eyes, as he stopped in the doorway. “Are you sure?” she said, nearly rubbing a layer of gold off the charm.
Music began to thump downstairs as Ace took advantage of Michael’s sound system. As he gazed into Brigit’s eyes, his heart seemed to match the rhythm. With a steady hand, he pulled the ring from his pocket and held it out for her to see.
Her hand flew to her chest and her eyes popped off the chart. “Oh, my, God. That’s one huge rock. Did you do some mining down in Bolivia too?”
He moved to sit on the bed next to her and took her left hand away from her heart. “I’m very sure this is what I want, but I can’t order you to marry me.”
Laughter from below rose over the music and drifted up the stairs. Brigit eyed the diamond and then locked her gaze on him, determination, mingled with youthful hope, burning in her eyes. “Try me. Right now. Give me the order to marry you.”
He brushed his lips against hers, the words and the memories they conjured jacking his blood and making his voice hoarse with sudden lust. “Marry me.”
“Your wish,” she whispered, the tip of her tongue sliding out and teasing him, “is my command.”
Slipping the ring on her finger, he kissed the tip of it. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
With that, he shut the bedroom door on the party and went to work ordering Brigit out of her clothes.
About the Author
Misty lives with her real life hero and hubby, Mark, her twin sons Sam and Ben, and her big dog, Max, in a small town along the Mississippi River. She’s an award-winning, multi-published author who divides her writing time between suspense and paranormal. Once a month, she indulges her love of fashion by blogging at www.solestruckfashions.com.
To learn more about Misty, please visit www.readmistyevans.com. Send an email to Misty at [email protected] to receive her newsletter or join her Yahoo! group to join in the fun with other readers as well as Misty at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/MistyEvansSuspense.
Look for these titles by Misty Evans
Now Available:
Super Agent Series
Operation Sheba
I’d Rather Be in Paris
Proof of Life
Tickle My Fantasy
Witches Anonymous
He makes the rules. She breaks them. This battle of wills just crossed the line…to deadly.
I’d Rather Be in Paris
© 2009 Misty Evans
Super Agent Series, Book 2
Elite CIA operative Zara Morgan has a reputation as a loose cannon with a penchant for breaking the rules. Now she’s got a chance to prove she can be a competent field officer, but the test doesn’t end there. She’s been paired with sexy covert ops team leader Lawson Vaughn, a man who lives and breathes protocol.
Methodical is Lawson’s middle name. He specializes in high-risk search and rescue, not missions that involve tracking down terrorists. Especially while trying to keep the lid on a partner who has a problem with authority and skates by on wits and bravado.
Even before they get on the plane for Paris they’re under each other’s skin…and fighting a scorching sexual attraction. Drawn into an unauthorized game of vengeance, Lawson is forced to dance a tightrope in order to protect his partner from their quarry—a terrorist who’s about to unleash a biological nightmare on the Muslim world. And Zara is the first target.
With her life, and that of millions of innocent people, on the line, Lawson must become the one thing he despises. A renegade.
Warning: Either you’re in or you’re out. There’s no playing it safe anymore.
Enjoy the following excerpt for I’d Rather Be in Paris:
He couldn’t believe it. Zara was kissing him back.
When she rose up on her toes and sighed into his mouth, all his brain processes shut down. The kiss turned wetter, hotter and when her hands went under his jacket, pulling him in tight, his brain exploded in an array of fireworks.
Jesus, she wasn’t just kissing him back, she was inhaling him.
This is wr
ong. She’d just been through a hell of an experience and here he was, jumping at the chance to wrap his arms around her and console her. He was taking advantage of her at a weak moment.
There’s not an ounce of weakness in her.
He broke the kiss and slid his lips to her neck. She tilted her head to give him better access, and he buried his mouth in the curve of her shoulder. She hitched her breath in that familiar way, and he enjoyed the response her body gave as she arched into him a little further.
She’d been emitting that whole woman-in-charge aura since the minute they’d walked off the plane at Charles de Gaul. Even up to a few minutes ago, she’d been cool, calm and collected every step of the way.
Jesus, he hated women ball-busters, but this take-charge woman was starting to grow on him. Hell, she wasn’t just growing on him. At the moment, with her hands tangled in his hair and her tongue halfway down his throat, he was ready to drop her robe on the ground and let her drive more than his getaway car…
The sound of a motorcycle cut through the lust building in Lawson’s body and he stilled, every sense on high alert. He raised his head and listened.
“Lawson?”
He put a finger to his lips and his eyes slid to the left, checking the dark highway. Traffic was light and the bike was still a half-mile away. No sirens, but something about it had his gut knotting and the spot between his shoulder blades twitching.
Lawson tried to place the make and model of the bike. High-precision, high-speed. Ducati.
“Get in the car,” he said and hustled Zara into the backseat. For once, she didn’t protest or ask why. He ran around to the driver’s seat and jumped in, jerking the car into drive and pulling onto the road in a spray of gravel.
Zara’s voice sounded calm. Too calm. “Police?”
The motorcycle’s headlight hit the rearview mirror. It was picking up speed. He planted his foot on the accelerator while he adjusted the seat to fit him. “Keep your head down.”
The Audi was an older model, but the owner had kept it in good condition. It wasn’t as easy to manipulate as the Duke but it was damn close. Germans, they knew how to build kick-ass cars.
“Darn it,” Zara said from the backseat. Her head was down but Lawson saw clothing flying around.
“What?”
“I don’t have any underwear.”
He was pushing one hundred miles an hour on the speedometer and the bike was still crawling up his ass. The headlight in his mirrors blinded him enough to keep him from identifying whether there was more than one person on the bike, and more importantly, whether or not either of them was armed.
He heard the sound of a zipper from behind him, and Zara muttered something in French. Then the back window shattered and she screamed.
His blood ran cold. Question answered. The men on the bike were definitely armed. Swerving the car from side to side to make them a harder target to hit, he asked the real question burning in his gut. “Zara? Are you all right?”
The second it took her to answer was the longest one he’d ever endured. “I think so,” she said, her voice still sounding unnaturally calm. “But there’s glass everywhere. I’m afraid to move.”
He let out the breath he was holding and zigzagged by a car in front of them. An oncoming car dodged out of his way, horn blaring, but the flustered driver blocked the motorcycle for crucial seconds.
He had two options. Evade the threat or eliminate it. “Get up here and drive.”
“What?”
“Come on, you’re a woman of action, right? You wanted to drive, so get up here and drive the damn car.”
Zara’s head rose from the backseat, her gaze catching his in the rearview mirror as she leaned forward. “Stop yelling at me.”
Lawson reached back and grabbed her arm, hauling her into the passenger seat. She flailed and fumed and once she’d righted herself, he saw she’d exchanged the robe for her leather jacket and miniskirt. She tugged the hem of the skirt down and sent him a scathing look. “What exactly—?”
“Take the wheel. We’re going to exchange places, okay?”
“While the car’s moving?”
Lawson flipped the steering wheel up as high as it would go. He set her hand on the wheel. “You’re going to slide on top of me, got it? Like you’re going to sit in my lap.”
Her hand tightened and Lawson saw her shift into spy mode. A second later, she climbed across the gearshift and slid between his legs.
He released the wheel and extracted his body from around hers. “Keep the car on the road, but don’t make it easy for them to shoot us again. When I give you the signal, I want you to pull the hand brake and crank the wheel to the left like you’re doing a hard U-turn. You’re going to turn the car counterclockwise and land on three o’clock. The car will be blocking the road and I’ll be facing the motorcycle. Got it?”
She dropped her hand and repositioned the seat. “And what are you going to do?”
Lawson hauled the gun out of his waistband. “My Dirty Harry impersonation.”
“Oh God.” She gripped the steering wheel in a ten-and-two position. “We’re going to die, aren’t we?”
“No,” Lawson grunted, checking the clip in his gun. “We are not going to die. Ready?”
The road ahead was empty of traffic. He moved to lean out the passenger-side window and Zara said, “Wait! What’s the signal?”
“I’ll yell ‘go!’”
“My mother is going to spend the rest of her life scandalized because her only daughter died bare-assed in the middle of France in a stolen car.”
But then she said, “I’m ready.”
And Lawson yelled, “Go!”
The true threat lies within the heart
Deception
© 2008 Sharon Cullen
A Love on the Edge Romance
Kate McAuley once thought Lucas Barone loved her, and returned that love for all she was worth—until the day he walked away without a word. Now, four years later she answers a knock on her door and finds Luke on her doorstep, broken, bleeding and unconscious. He brings with him all kind of emotions, and all kinds of questions. Where has he been? Why did he leave? And what’s an accountant doing with wounds like these?
As a covert ops specialist with the U.S. government, Luke deceived, betrayed and conned so many people he couldn’t keep them straight—except Kate. Their time together was magical, until the call came and he was forced to walk away. For four long years, memories of her have kept him alive and sane. Now, hunted by his own government, desperate and injured, Kate is the only one he can trust.
Kate’s innocent phone call for help sets in motion an evil that reaches the highest echelons of political power. With accusations of murder and treason hanging over their heads, it’ll take every ounce of Luke’s training, intelligence—and Kate’s trust—to keep them alive.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Deception:
“Tell me about your painting,” he said. “What are you working on?” He studied her closely as his mind went to the empty guest bedroom in her home that had once housed her easel and paintings, to the pencils and sketchpad he’d bought that had so far sat unused.
She stiffened. “I don’t paint anymore.”
Luke sat back, his earlier nervousness gone. He was in his element now, a master at retrieving information. And he was determined to find out exactly what had happened to her dreams. “Oh?”
“I, um.” Her gaze lifted to his then skittered away. “I’m a bartender.”
It took him a moment to stop reeling from that bombshell and to absorb the implications. “You’re a painter, Kate. You draw beautiful, emotionally charged pictures, not drafts.” Anger rolled through him at the thought of her dodging the wandering hands of drunks. She was a painter, damn it. A great painter. Well on her way to becoming famous.
She stood suddenly, gathering her plate and his, avoiding his glare. “I’ll clean up since you cooked.”
“Tell me why you’re not paint
ing.”
Pain flickered through her eyes right before she closed them. An answering pain twisted him into knots. Just what had happened to her? His leaving wouldn’t cause the pain he’d seen in her. Something else, something terrible had happened and he needed to know because he wanted to help.
“I, um… It wasn’t paying the bills.”
“You’re lying.”
Her eyes flew open and she pursed her lips, anger darkening her expression. For a second Luke didn’t know if she intended to throw her plate at him or take it to the sink.
“You have no right,” she said, her voice wavering. “You left. And you didn’t come back. You have no right to question my decisions, how I live my life.”
“I can’t pretend not to see your pain, just like you can’t pretend not to see mine. What happened?”
Tears welled in her eyes, overflowed and dripped. “Damn you!” She put the plate down and swiped at her cheeks. “I don’t paint anymore! Is that what you want to hear? I’m a bartender. I pour drinks and listen to people’s pathetic stories. Or at least I did. I’m sure I’m out of a job by now.” Her shoulders shook. “Just when I finally get my life back on track, you come falling through my front door and tear my world apart again!”
She whirled around and ran out, closing the door so hard the boat rocked. Luke stared at the dirty dinner dishes, at the overturned saltshaker and the empty iced tea glasses.
With shaking hands, he picked up his plate and took it to the sink. She had her secrets. He had his. Yet, he couldn’t force her to tell him her secrets when he refused to divulge his. What a pair they made. Haunted, hurting.