by Linda Swain
Lifting a brow, Michael’s thumb ran gently over the manila colored dossier. Flipping it open, his eyes narrowed in confusion at a photograph. A plethora of roses rambled about a gracious home, weathered with age, wreathed in an almost mystical elegance. “And why is this important to me?” he asked as he continued scanning the printed pages.
“It’s where your dream girl lives. That is, when she’s home. While you were . . . out of touch, I did some checking of my own. Your mystery woman is Paige O’Neal, a writer. Her accolades and awards have her in quite high demand, as well as attracting the attention of important people on both sides of the pond.”
“What kind of attention?” His words were quiet, even casual, as he sipped the coffee the waiter had placed at his hand.
As a large platter was set before him, Michael gazed at his breakfast only to discover that the omelet he had ordered had suddenly lost its attraction. Closing the folder, he toyed with his fork, holding on to the fragile leash of his patience, watching as Miles dove into his own meal.
Miles chewed quietly for a few minutes, aware and pleased by Michael’s growing impatience. “I’ll tell you what is not in that folder.” Placing his fork carefully down, his eyes were suddenly grim. “She seems to have knowledge . . . information to which the average person has no access. Oh, it’s glossed over in her cinema scripts, and in the novels she’s published, but . . .”
“But what?” Toying with his knife, Michael thought of the various ways he could use it to torture Miles. Dear God, will the man get to the point before the end of next week?
“Let’s just say that she’s attracted the attention of people of the highest order – including Alistar Carver.”
“Carver?” Michael growled as he shoved at his meal. If it had seemed unappetizing before, the mention of that name had rendered it completely inedible. “What has that bastard got to do with anything? You know what kind of reputation that he has.”
“And I also know that he’d love to have your guts for garters,” Miles replied mildly.
Both men knew Carver – both in person and by his standing. He had a reputation for getting the job done, regardless of the mess left for others to clean up. Efficiency was prized in their field; ruthlessness was looked upon as an asset, and these things were both attributes that Michael and Miles had in common. But Carver had always gone beyond those things in his search for domination. So, if Carver was also sniffing into this girl's past, it not only smelled of importance, but of disaster.
“Speaking of Carver,” Miles added delicately, “he’s still bent badly over the fact that you put in for retirement. And on that note, have a little gift for luck.”
Michael’s brow lifted as he carefully opened a gaily-wrapped box. Miles wasn’t known for giving gifts on any occasion. Then a grin creased his face as he carefully tucked away both the box and the holstered gun. “What any man needs . . . O’Brian; you’re a man for all seasons.”
“That may be, but why are you retiring? Your medicals seemed to indicate you’re in top form.”
Michael quietly watched a charming family of four leave. “Because it’s killing me, Miles. After a while, I see shadows everywhere, and can’t tell my friends from my enemies. I can’t go back, not to the shadows, not to the adrenaline highs and the cold sweats. Not for all the money in the world.”
Knowing that there was nothing else to be said, Miles reached inside of his rumpled suit coat before shoving a key ring across the table. “Don’t ask how I got that – but it’s the key to the lady’s home. Find out what you need, as fast as you can, and then get the hell out of there. If this woman even knew you had that key for a moment, you might be lodging in a cell courtesy of the California police. So whatever you do – do it quickly.” Withdrawing his hand, he wiped it on his napkin as though the key had stained him somehow. “Oh, before you pop off,” he added carefully as Michael rose to leave, “It’s rumored that her home is haunted. Some old cinema actor lived there at one time . . . Erik Fletcher, I believe.”
Enjoy this excerpt from a friend of mine: Elaine Raco Chase
Meet Adam and Samantha, the explosive duo of Rules of the Game:
"I don't see how you could have possibly thought I would allow you, or anyone else for that matter, to pay for my groceries," she ground out explosively, ignoring the trunk lid that popped open. "Don't bother, I'm calling a neighbor to come and pick me up. Not only do I have money in my pocket but a cellphone as well."
He squinted at the tiny phone that looked more like a toy than a competent electronic device. "You don't have to call anyone." Adam placed his bag in the trunk and wrestled hers free. "I apologize. I'm afraid I got the wrong impression when I didn't see your purse. I'm used to paying for forgetful women," he told her with a twisted smile.
When he turned back, Samantha discovered Adam had trapped her against the car. "That's disgusting!" She snapped. "You must be acquainted with an awful lot of mercenary, grasping women." While she was able to ignore his charming smile, she couldn't ignore the muscular, rock-hard body pressing against her. Staring over his shoulder, she concentrated on the Mall's electronic marquee. A red neon banner highlighted a mattress sale.
Mattress sale! Her breathing sped up. With every expansion of her lungs, her breasts moved against his chest. And the vision of his body. His strong muscular body. Moving over hers. In her. On one of those mattresses.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. She forced her brain to focus on something else. Laundry…yes, laundry was good. Laundry was perfect. She had at least three more loads to do at home. Nothing sexy about dirty clothes. Nothing sexy about an agitator pulsing up and down…up and down.
Her lips pressed together. Tighter. Clamping down on a lot of urges. What the hell was her problem? She didn't want a man in her life. She didn't even want a date. Nothing. She was finished with relationships. Finished with men. Samantha glared at the hot pink neon marquee that now proclaimed forty percent off at Victoria's Secret! A silent groan rolled through her body.
Adam heard her foot drumming faster. She had gone beyond anger. Behind the lenses, her blue eyes had narrowed. "You're absolutely right," he kept his voice low, soothing. "It's becoming very apparent that I've been meeting the wrong type all these years. Perhaps my luck has changed." He flashed an attractive grin to which she did not respond.
But his body was responding. His fingers were eager to tangle in the silken strands of her hair. His mouth was literally watering with the idea of kissing the rage from her full lips. He knew if he started kissing her, he wasn't going to be able to stop. And if he didn't change their dynamics, he'd be on top of her in a heartbeat.
"Look, it's too nice a day to spend mad. Besides, the judge wants us to be friends." He grabbed her arm, and propelled her toward the mall's entrance. "Come on, Miss Logan, you can walk off all that righteous indignation strolling through the stores."