The Sweet Spot

by Laura Drake

  When he backed up, she tightened her legs. “It’s okay, baby. I just want to see you.” He unbuttoned the top button of the ridiculous pajamas with shaking fingers. Then the next.

  She had a moment of panic, imagining him doing the same with his girlfriend. When he looked into her eyes, all she saw was a humble reverence.

  Oh, Lord, thank you for my Jimmy.

  She liked the sound in her mind so much she said it out loud. “Mine.” It tasted celebratory on her tongue, like a sparkling, biting sip of champagne. She threw her head back as Jimmy smoothed the flannel from her shoulders.

  Then there were only sensations: the sound of their labored breathing, the smell of his cologne, and its taste on her tongue when she licked his chest. Freeze-frame stills: the white, high arch of her foot, gliding over his calf. Her fingers, disappearing into his hair. They flashed by almost before she could acknowledge them. The pale slope of her breast, the vulnerable skin in the hollow of his neck, the small star-shape scar on his shoulder. Electricity gathered low in her belly, sizzling and arcing, building, until it burst through her in a bolt of lightning. She came apart in his hands at the same moment he came apart in hers.

  Tears ran from the corners of her eyes to the pillow, mingling with his. They weren’t born of sadness or regret but from the joy of letting go.

  Later, Char lay cradled in Jimmy’s arms. Her hand strayed to his thigh now and again, to remind herself this was real. Head on his bicep, rear snugged against him, she felt his chest rumble against her back as his deep voice wove a cocoon of peace.

  “Ben and I are picking up Travis tomorrow and taking him to buy a decent pair of boots. I think by this time next year, he’s going to be winning events. He says he wants to hit the circuit when he’s done with high school, but I’m trying to get him to consider Austin Community for two years, at least.”

  “Hmmmm.” She purred.

  Fingers stole up the back of her neck into her hair. He absently fisted it in his hand, and at that familiar tug, her world settled.

  Jimmy was home.

  She drifted off, listening to his deep voice in the dark.

  CHAPTER

  29

  In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.

  —Robert Frost

  Char awoke like the click of a light switch, from oblivion to alert in a nanosecond. Something heavy weighted her chilled chest. She cracked an eyelid. A familiar muscular forearm lay draped across her naked breasts. A trill of lightness ran through her, matching the song of the mockingbird outside the window.

  She closed her eyes and lay unmoving, listening to Jimmy’s deep breathing and the shush of her dad’s slippered step in the hall. What would he say when she and Jimmy walked in the kitchen, sleep tousled and conspiratorial? She blushed.

  The bedcovers rustled and the bed bounced. She opened her eyes to Jimmy’s smile. He lay, head resting on his fist. His arm tightened around her. “He’ll be happy for us.”

  She smiled back. He always could read her mind. Or maybe the blush had given her thoughts away. “If it’s a bad day, he’ll think you never left.”

  “Either way, it’s gonna be all right.” He slapped her hip lightly. “Come on, Little Bit, we’ve got cattle to feed before church.” He crawled over her and off the bed, reaching to retrieve articles of his scattered clothing. “I’ve got a change of clothes in the truck, and—”

  She sat up, clutching the sheets to her chest. “A bit cocky about the outcome, were you?”

  “Hell no, Charla Rae.” He turned to her, frowning as he pulled up his jeans and zipped them. “Management or no, when you work at a feedlot, you learn pretty quickly to carry an extra set of clothes, just in case.”

  “Oh.” She’d been awake all of two minutes and been in interminable painful blush the whole time. She fell back against her pillow.

  He leaned down, and his long kiss made her want to pull him back into the warm nest of mussed sheets for a few hours. They had a lot of lonely nights to put behind them.

  “You sure are adorable in the morning light, Mrs. Denny.”

  She squirmed. She dreaded ruining the day so early. But they’d vowed not to hold anything back from each other, so…

  “Speaking of clothes, Jimmy,” she said, focusing on the lightning bolt crack in the ceiling. “About your championship softball cap.” She took a deep breath. “It’s, uh… trashed. Beyond redemption.” The rest of the story came out in a rush: her ordeal, the day Dirty Tricks had been born. She admitted to pressing it into service as a molasses trough.

  “Nothing will get that stuff out. I washed it. I bleached it. I even used Bon Ami!”

  Jimmy snorted. Then he threw his head back and laughed.

  She watched him, surprise coursing through her. “What?”

  He dropped onto the edge of the bed. Still chuckling, he leaned down, forearms bracketing her head, thumbs smoothing over her temples. “I don’t give a good goddamn about that hat, Charla.” The dark look in his eyes smoked her down to her toes. “I found something I lost that’s a lot harder to win than a cap, or a buckle for that matter.” His lips hovered, more a suggestion than a touch. “I intend to hang on for a lot longer than eight seconds.”

  Aubrey Madison needs to begin a new life.

  Starting up a Pro Bull Riding enterprise with an old-fashioned cowboy could be just the ticket she needs—until her past catches up with her…

  Please turn this page for a preview of

  Nothing Sweeter.

  CHAPTER

  1

  Her new life was going to be so much better than the last one. Aubrey Madison would make sure of that.

  She savored the sight of a solitary saguaro, standing sentinel on the flat Arizona landscape. She savored the red-tipped ocotillo branches that waved in the stiff breeze of the Jeep’s passing. She even savored the chilled air that swirled in, raising the hair on her body in an exquisite shiver.

  God, it’s good to be out of prison.

  Her face felt odd. Until she realized she was smiling.

  Glancing at the gas gauge, she vowed to stop soon. Only long enough to get gas and use the restroom. She had to keep putting on distance.

  What if it’s not possible to outrun your own conscience?

  The pull of the road in front of her was as strong as the push from the view in the rearview mirror.

  A weatherbeaten Sinclair sign in the distance made up her mind. She took the exit leading to a deserted corrugated building that may have once been painted white.

  Pulling to the pump, she killed the ignition and sat a moment, listening to the tick, tick, tick of the cooling engine and the wind keening through the power lines. She stepped out, closing her denim jacket against the wind’s probing fingers.

  A bell over the station door jangled, and a black haired Native American teen glanced from behind the register.

  She took bills from the pocket of her jeans. “I need to fill it up. Where’s the restroom?”

  His expression didn’t change as his stare crawled over her throat. She fisted her hands to keep them still. When he finally pointed to a dark corner, she almost ran to it.

  After solving the most urgent matter, she washed her hands. Her gaze locked on the black-flecked mirror. The ropy scar twisted from behind her ear to the top of her collarbone, looking like something out of a slasher movie. Shiny. Raw. Angry. She jerked her eyes away, turned the water on full force in the sink and tried once again to wash away the shame.

  In her mind, she saw the sign she’d woken up to, in the prison infirmary, hanging on the wall across from her bed.

  IF YOU’RE GOING THROUGH HELL, KEEP GOING.

  —WINSTON CHURCHILL

  In spite of her mantra, the walls closed in, as they always did. Yanking the door open, she fought to keep from running until she was outdoors, the wind kicking around her once more.

  She reached for the gas nozzle, the tightness in her chest easing. When the Feds rele
ased her from eight months of perdition, her mother begged her to stay in Phoenix. But Aubrey couldn’t get a deep breath there. The suburban ranch house crowded her with its memories and worried eyes. This morning she’d packed and escaped.

  Holding the lever in chilled hands, waiting for the tank to fill, she turned her back to the wind. Alone. She pulled the luxury of the empty landscape into her solitary-starved soul and lifted her face to the sun’s tentative warmth, smiling once more.

  Max Jameson twisted the cowboy hat in his hands and lowered his eyes to the body in the gray satin-lined casket. His father’s broad shoulders brushed silk on both sides. His face looked unfamiliar, mostly because it was relaxed. But there was no mistaking the strong jaw and high cheekbones. Max saw them in the mirror every morning.

  Just like you to duck out when the going gets tough, Old Man. His mouth twisted as his father’s familiar chuckle echoed in Max’s mind. Leave me holding a sack of rattlesnakes. Lotta help you are.

  No response, which, on several levels, was probably a good thing.

  Max scanned the empty viewing room. He dreaded the remainder of the day: the funeral, the cemetery, the reception at the ranch. “Your dad is reunited with your mother after thirty-five years.” The thought of solicitous friends spouting platitudes was enough to make him bolt for the barn, saddle his horse, and get the hell out of his own life.

  He surveyed his father’s waxen features. Yeah, and don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same, you old boot.

  “Maxie?”

  The singsong cadence in that single word snatched him back, to when the man in the casket was a mountain and a little kid with worshipful eyes dogged Max’s footsteps. Only one person on earth dared to call him that.

  Strap yourself in, Daddy, it’s gonna get bumpy. He turned to face Wyatt.

  His younger brother stopped a few steps short of the casket, his gaze dropping to his father. A worried frown marred the angelic face from Max’s childhood. Wyatt looked familiar, but different too. Soft cheeks had hardened to a man’s and his golden locks were gone, shorn short.

  Well. The prodigal returns. No points for bravery maybe, but—

  “Did he suffer, Max?” Wyatt’s voice wavered, his gaze locked on his father’s face.

  “Nope. One minute he’s pounding in a post for the new fence line. The next, he’s on the ground. Gone.”

  Wyatt’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. “Jesus, Max. Do you have to be so cold-blooded?”

  So much for the new and improved Max he’d committed to just this morning, lying in bed, probing the scabbed-over edges of the hole in his life. “Kinder and gentler” melted before the blowtorch that was his life lately. “Just telling you what happened. Sugar coating won’t make it any prettier.”

  A hurting smile twisted Wyatt’s mouth. “You sound just like him.”

  Max knew he hadn’t meant the words as a compliment. “Let’s grab a cup of coffee before the vultures show up.” He settled his Sunday Stetson on his head. “You and I have a bucket of trouble, little brother. And trouble don’t wait.”

  THE DISH

  Where Authors Give You the Inside Scoop

  From the desk of Vicky Deilng

  Dear Reader,

  Some characters demand center stage. Like Andrew Carrington, the Earl of Bellingham, known as Bell to his friends. Bellingham first walked on stage as a minor character in my third historical romance How to Ravish a Rake. I had not planned him, but from the moment he spoke, I knew he would have his own book because of his incredible charisma. He also had the starring role in the e-novella A Season for Sin. As I began to write the e-novella, I realized that it was almost effortless. Frankly, I was and still am infatuated with him. That makes me laugh, because he is a figment of my imagination, but from the beginning, I could not ignore his strong presence.

  After A Season for Sin was published, I started writing the full-length book WHAT A WICKED EARL WANTS so that Bell could have the happily ever after he richly deserved. A chance encounter brings Bellingham and the heroine, Laura, together. Bellingham is a rake who hopes to make a conquest of her, but despite their attraction, there are major obstacles. Laura is a respectable widow, mother, and daughter of a vicar. Bellingham only wants a temporary liaison, but he finds himself rescuing the lovely lady. His offer of help leads him down a path he never could have imagined.

  I’ve dreamed about my characters previously, but my dreams about Bell and Laura were so vivid that I woke up repeatedly during the writing of WHAT A WICKED EARL WANTS. Usually when I dream about my books in progress, I only see the characters momentarily. But when I dreamed about Bell and Laura, entire scenes played themselves in my head, DVD style, and sometimes a few of them in a night. While I didn’t get up in the middle of the night to write those scenes down, thankfully I remembered them the next morning and some of those dreams have made their way into the book. I’ll give you a hint of one dream I used in a scene. It involves some funny “rules.”

  This couple surprised me repeatedly when I was awake and writing, too. I was enthralled with Bellingham and Laura. Yes, I know the ideas come from me, but sometimes, it almost feels as if the characters really do leap off the page. That was certainly the case for Bell and Laura.

  As the writing progressed, I often felt as if I were peeling off another layer of Bellingham’s character. He is a man with deep wounds and very determined not to stir up the past. Yet I realized that subconsciously his actions were informed by all that had happened to him as a young man. I knew it would take a very special heroine to help him reconcile his past. Laura knows what he needs, and though he doesn’t make it easy for her, she never gives up.

  I confess I still have a bit of a crush on Bellingham. I hope you will, too.

  Enjoy!

  VickyDreiling.com

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  Twitter @vickydreiling

  From the desk of Stella Cameron

  Frog Crossing

  Out West

  Dear Reader,

  My dog, Millie, doesn’t like salt water, or bath water, or rain—but it is the sight of all seven pounds of her trying to drink Puget Sound that stays with me. Urged to walk into about half an inch of ripples bubbling over pebbles on a beach, she slurped madly as if she could get rid of anything wet that might touch her feet.

  That picture just popped into my head once more, just as I thought about what I might write to you about the Chimney Rock books and how stories shape up for me.

  We were standing at the water’s edge on Whidbey Island, looking across Saratoga Passage toward Camano Island. Darkness Bound, the first book in the series, was finished and now it was time for DARKNESS BRED, on sale now.

  Elin and Sean were already my heroine and hero. I knew that much before I finished the previous story, but there were so many other questions hanging around. And so many unfinished and important parts of lives I had already shown you. When we write books there’s a balancing act between telling/showing too much, and the opposite. Every character clamors to climb in but only those important to the current story can have a ticket to enter. The trick is to weed out the loudest and least interesting from the ones we have to know about.

  The hidden world on Whidbey Island is busy, and gets busier. Once you are inside it’s not just colorful and varied, sometimes endearing and often scary, it is also addictive. Magic and mystery rub shoulders with what sometimes seems… just simply irresistible. How can I not want to explore every character’s tale?

  That’s what makes me feel a bit like Millie draining Puget Sound of water—I have to clear away what I don’t want until I find the best stuff. Only I’m more fortunate than my dog because I do get to make all the difference.

  Now you have your ticket to ride along with me again—enjoy every inch!

  All the best,

  From the desk of Rochelle Alers

  Dear Reader,

  How many of us had high school crushes, then years later come face-to-face with the boy who will always h
old a special place in our hearts? This is what happens with Morgan Dane in HAVEN CREEK. At thirteen she’d believed herself in love with high school hunk, Nathaniel Shaw, but as a tall, skinny girl constantly teased for her prepubescent body, she can only worship him from afar.

  I wanted HAVEN CREEK to become a modern-day fairy tale complete with a beautiful princess and a handsome prince, and, as in every fairy tale, there is something that will keep them apart before they’re able to live happily ever after. The princess in HAVEN CREEK lives her life by a set of inflexible rules, while it is a family secret that makes it nearly impossible for the prince to trust anyone.

  You will reunite with architect Morgan Dane, who has been commissioned to oversee the restoration of Angels Landing Plantation. As she begins the task of hiring local artisans for the project, she knows the perfect candidate to supervise the reconstruction of the slave village. He is master carpenter and prodigal son Nathaniel Shaw.

  Although Nate has returned to his boyhood home, he has become a recluse while he concentrates on running his family’s furniture-making business and keeping his younger brother out of trouble. But everything changes when Morgan asks him to become involved in her restoration project. It isn’t what she’s offering that presents a challenge to Nate, but it is Morgan herself. When he left the Creek she was a shy teenage girl. Now she is a confident, thirtysomething woman holding him completely enthralled with her brains and her beauty.

  In HAVEN CREEK you will travel back to the Low- country with its magnificent sunsets; slow, meandering creeks and streams; primordial swamps teeming with indigenous wildlife; a pristine beach serving as a year- round recreational area; and the residents of the island with whom you’ve become familiar.