Lethal in Love

by Michelle Somers

Unsteady fingers scrunched the soggy mess into her pocket and she sniffed again. Then her gaze trapped his and she dragged in a deep breath. ‘I want you.’

  The shackles around his chest lifted. Her words filled his heart like sunshine after the blackest of storms.

  She scooched towards him and next thing he knew her hand was rummaging around in his front jeans pocket. The tears were gone and from the light in her eyes he guessed his body’s immediate reaction hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  ‘Now, where did you put my ring?’ She fished around some more.

  He groaned. ‘You’re doing that on purpose.’

  ‘Doing what?’ Her fingers climbed the length of his erection, her eyes glinting innocently as he nearly lost it. He tried to pull her hand away and failed.

  ‘Minx!’

  She laughed and it was the most wondrous sound in the world. Thank heavens, she eventually found the box and offered it to him. ‘Ask me again.’

  His heart drummed. ‘Are you going to make me beg?’

  Her lips quirked. ‘Would you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Do I have to?’

  ‘Try me.’ She grinned, and he grinned right back.

  Once again he dropped to one knee. Only this time was different. This time he didn’t doubt her answer.

  ‘Jayda Thomasz, will you marry me?’

  ‘Yes!’

  He’d never got that thing with women and happy tears, but he was sure as hell glad he knew they existed. Because they were in Jayda’s eyes once more and he wouldn’t make the same mistake second time round.

  He slid the ring onto her finger and she threw herself into his arms, toppling him backwards. His head barely missed the edge of his glass-topped table as his back slammed against the hardwood floor. He gasped, dragging air into his stunned, oxygen-deprived lungs.

  She straddled his hips and he was more than happy to let her do just that, and anything else that took her fancy. That included appeasing the building throb between his legs.

  Breathing suddenly lost its importance.

  He swore. ‘You’ve got to stop putting me through hell like that.’

  ‘And you’ve got to stop assuming the worst. I love you, you idiot!’ She slapped his chest. ‘I’ve loved you since you brought me coffee and pastries and walked me into the shower then put me to bed. You’re exasperating, thoughtful, gentle, kind and sexy. And I love every infuriating inch of you.’

  He ran his hands over her ribcage and revelled in her shudders as he cupped her breasts. ‘You forgot funny.’

  Her lips twitched. ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘I’ll have you know there are people out there who think I’m hilarious.’

  ‘And I’ll have you know that not everyone has the impeccable taste I have when it comes to humour.’

  ‘Ouch! That smarts.’

  ‘I have a feeling you’re about to get over it very,’ she pulled her tee over her head, ‘very,’ she reached back and unhooked the scrap of white lace hugging her breasts, ‘soon.’

  His mouth dried.

  She tossed the bra over her shoulder. ‘I’ve never made love to a fiancé before. It’s about time that changed.’

  She wriggled back and unzipped his fly, easing his erection from his jocks. Slowly her palm ran over his flesh and she dipped her head, lips poised. His cock twitched, so damn hungry it hurt. Then her breath caressed him and the gates to heaven opened wide.

  She tilted her head and eyes of rainforest green swallowed him whole. ‘Love me, Seth.’

  Coherent speech was hopeless, but he managed one word as he encouraged her upwards.

  ‘Always.’

  About the Author

  Michelle Somers is a bookworm from way back. An ex-Kiwi who now calls Australia home, she’s a professional killer and matchmaker, a storyteller and a romantic. Words are her power and her passion. Her heroes and heroines always get their happy ever after, but she’ll put them through one hell of a journey to get there.

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  Michelle lives in Melbourne, Australia with her real life hero and three little heroes in the making. And her writing companion, a black cat named Emerald who thinks she’s a dog. Her debut novel, Lethal in Love, won the 2016 Romantic Book of the Year (Ruby) Award and 2013 Valerie Parv Award. It was first published in 2013 by Penguin Random House as a 6-part serial, then re-released a year later as a complete story. The sequel, Murder Most Unusual, was released in 2017.

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  Michelle loves hearing from her readers, so please visit her website www.michelle-somers.com or chat with her on Twitter, Facebook or Instagram.

  Acknowledgments

  This moment, the unleashing of Lethal in Love into the world, is a dream come true. And behind dreams there are always angels.

  I’m blessed to have many angels in my life, and I’d like to acknowledge some of those who’ve helped me on my journey into published authordom.

  My editor, Lex Hirst. Thank you. For your excitement from the very first moment I pitched Lethal in Love to you and Penguin Random House. For loving Seth and Jayda’s story almost as much as I do. It’s been a privilege and pleasure working with you, and you’ve made my first experiences in the world of publishing a joy.

  To my cheering squad, Mich, Nena and Shazz. You girls are my sanity. You bolstered me up during every one of my doubting moments and celebrated my achievements almost as heartily as I did. Your friendship and love keeps me on the right side of sane, along with the odd shared glass or two of wine.

  Robyn Grady, my mentor and my friend. Your guidance and friendship has meant more than you can imagine. Thank you for being the first to show me that an onion has more than one layer and so, too, do our characters.

  Valerie Parv. What can I say? You are amazing. In all that you do and all that you give. You’re my inspiration and my year’s mentorship with you was one of the highlights of this journey. I’m proud to be deemed one of your minions.

  My critique partners. Those wonderful people who have read Lethal in Love in part or in full and whose feedback smoothed out the wrinkles and made it work. Joanne Levy, Lauren Bradford, Amber Bardan and Sarma Burdeu, and my beta reader, Ariel Moy.

  The inspirational women of the Melbourne Romance Writer’s Guild (MRWG). My journey to publication began from that very first meeting four years ago. I treasure your friendship, laughter and support. You guys rock!

  Romance Writers of Australia (RWA). That body of writers that gives tirelessly to its members. Thank you for nurturing and growing all who enter your ranks. And a mega thank you for the conference pitching program which put me and my story in front of Lex.

  Thanks to those experts whose advice brought authenticity to my story.

  Gordon, for an in-depth, and at times humorous, insight into Victoria Police, and for keeping my ‘artistic license’ on a loose leash.

  Belinda at the Department of Justice and Regulation, for answering my questions on Victoria’s prison system.

  Ray Povh for delivering the blow that brought a killer to his knees. Josephine Caporetto for schooling me in the Italian language of love.

  Much as Lethal in Love isn’t time travel, I’d like to leap into the future and thank one special group—you, my readers. You are the barometer for my success. If I’ve made you forget this world for another, if you’ve laughed, cried or trembled while reading my book, then I’ve done what I set out to do. Thank you. Your ongoing support allows me to continue to do what I love. I hope Lethal in Love gives you as much pleasure as it’s given me.

  I believe that family provides the roots that enable us to grow. Mine is no exception.

  Mum. I don’t remember a time growing up when books weren’t part of our lives. Thanks to you and Dad, I travelled the world, embarked on adventure after adventure and married princes every single day, and all before bedtime.

  Love and kisses to my three beautiful boys: Josh, Nathan and Gabriel. Each one of you is a blessing and a joy. Thank you for encouraging Mummy to follow her dr
eam and celebrating when it came true. You make me believe that anything is possible.

  And last, but by no means least, Danny. My husband, my rock. You show me true love every day. This book is for you.

  Loved Lethal In Love?

  THEN TRY MY SECOND BOOK IN THE MELBOURNE MURDER SERIES, MURDER MOST UNUSUAL

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  Copyright Thrasher Publishing 2017

  She Writes:

  He Watches. . . He Waits. . . He Kills. . .

  Romance novelist Stacey Holland doesn’t believe in love; marriage to a manipulator taught her as much. So she hides away in her fictional world, penning the perfect romance, intertwining the perfect crime. Excitement is for her books – worlds where the mortality of her characters is governed by a tap on her keyboard and the heroine always gets her happy ever after.

  * * *

  Homicide detective Chase Durant’s cases are real and gritty and one wrong move could be his last. The Force is his life – he doesn’t have room for more. Love and relationships hold no place for a man whose fate is predetermined by the genetic roll of a dice. With uncertainty on the horizon, he won’t promise a future he can’t guarantee.

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  Then a sadistic killer breathes Stacey’s gruesome murders to life and the pair are thrown together in a sick game of murder and lies.

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  When tempers flare, and the murders get personal, can author and detective fight their growing attraction all-the-while fighting the killer determined to destroy them both?

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  ‘Wicked murders, witty one-liners and totally satisfying romance.’

  JUANITA KEES

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  'Michelle Somers doesn't just paint a picture, expecting readers to fill in the blanks – she immerses them in a high definition, surround sound movie experience. A must-read author.'

  AMAZON REVIEW

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  Read on for an excerpt . . .

  Prologue

  They make it look so easy in books. Murder the victim, move the body.

  Stacey Holland adjusted her grip on the mannequin and puffed the hair from her eyes. Squinting through darkness, she shrugged off the wish to be somewhere else. Warm wouldn’t hurt. The Bahamas. Or curled up on her couch, a good book in one hand and a spiced cider in the other. And a tub of the best choc-chip cookies in the universe.

  Instead, she was Arctic-blast cold, plotting the perfect murder for her perfect manuscript. Because nothing less than perfection would do.

  Damn the drill of her mother’s voice. Fame’s not won from the back-row seats, my girl. Get out there, get dirty and get it right.

  She scrunched her nose against the crack of mud on her skin. Yep, if nothing else, she ticked that second-to-last box, tenfold.

  A cow mooed in one of the far paddocks and another answered its call. The chill night air sliced through her wet clothes, labour’s sweat covering her skin, a trickle running down her collarbone and falling between her breasts.

  She tightened her grasp on the fibreglass hand, breathed deep and heaved. Planting her gumboots into the rain-soaked grass, she braced, leaned back, used every last kilo that usually made her despair but now gave her leverage.

  Plop.

  The ground slammed hard against her butt. If she’d shed those extra inches the fall would’ve hurt a helluva lot more. As it was, the jar slammed her tailbone and juddered up her spine.

  Mud soaked through her jeans.

  Great.

  Goose pimples pricked her skin. Needled her blood. Chilled her bones. She shuddered. Slumped toward her bent knees. Stuck.

  Her choc-chip-cookie obsession prevented her from slumping further than a few inches forward. Her head dropped to her palm, the squish against her forehead barely registering on her icko-meter. What was a little more mud?

  She’d never been a “why me?” kinda girl, but now was as good a time as any to start. On paper the corpse would have moved.

  Reality’s a killer. Her lips twitched.

  So, why am I butt-deep in what better be mud?

  Because death and despair are my fictional friends. And simply, superbly delicious.

  The snort left her lips before she realised it had formed. It didn’t matter that the alliteration was as ridiculous as her ass dancing the hippo-shuffle through mud puddles and paddies.

  Cold shivered through her body, a sensation chased closely by a sharp, “so what?” shrug. If it took mud-dancing to reach bestseller status, then she’d schlep a whole vat of mud back to her car.

  Her heart skipped a heady cha-cha through her chest. She grinned, shook herself off, slithered and squelched her way to her feet. Her butt still protested, but it could have been worse. Could have been her arm broken, not the mannequin’s.

  She brushed the muck from her hands, then crouched and clicked the ball joint back into its socket. Too thunderous for stealth. But thankfully, no one was around for miles.

  Not that it mattered. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. Much.

  Not long now.

  Light winds fluttered the leaves above, eddying musty scents through the air. A promise of more rain.

  He squinted through his night-vision lenses, his steel-tipped boots planted firmly in the muck.

  A head-lamp bobbed through the black—distant, indistinct, like a lone firefly in search of its mate.

  He dropped the binoculars, letting them hang from his neck, drawing on his cigarette, watching the smoke curl upward and mingle with the frostbitten sky.

  Expectation slinked like a wild dingo up his spine. Stealthy. Ravenous. Insatiable.

  A crack echoed through the paddock. He tensed, cigarette dangling between his lips. The faraway yellow flickered, bobbing its leisurely way toward the barbed boundary fence. Then a car door slammed. Another.

  Dark swallowed the light. An engine growled then dulled as a double-wide beam tore through the ankle-length grass.

  He pressed back, tree bark pricking his neck like a goad of conscience, had he been prone. The headlights bounded through the entry paddock until swallowed by the shadows.

  His nostrils flared, drawing in smoke and icy anticipation.

  Ten minutes of darkness ensured she wouldn’t return.

  Stacey Holland. Author extraordinaire.

  The beat of his heart quickened, the heady scent of imminent death pricking his senses. She thought she knew loss. Pain, even. She didn’t know shit from shitake. But she’d learn soon enough. He was one hell of a teacher.

  And soon she’d lap up every one of his lessons. Would drop to her hands and knees at his feet, greedily begging for more.

  His lips spread wide, the smile of a lover seconds before satisfaction. He stubbed his cigarette into the ground. Dropped it into a zip-lock bag and into his pocket. It paid to be careful. Others had been caught with less evidence.

  His Ute wasn’t far. A hundred metres or so away, behind the hay barn. He opened the boot and wide eyes stared out from the cramped plastic-lined interior.

  ‘Showtime.’

  He withdrew a tiny bottle from his pocket, grinning as the man shrunk further back, like a steer roped and ready for a butcher’s knife. He found the racing pulse at his neck. Felt the blood course its tribute through the body for the last time.

  ‘It’s useless wasting your energy, trying to change destiny. You can’t. Fighting will only prolong the pain.’ He snatched the blue collar and dragged him closer. ‘Be a good boy and I might let you go. What do you say?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. Truth? He didn’t care. Either way the man would die, the method already prescribed.

  He patted his inside jacket pocket. The knife hadn’t moved.

  Palm braced against the man’s temple, his thumb and forefinger folded back the eyelid. Clear liquid spilled from the nozzle onto the red-rimmed iris, pooling at the edges as if clamouring for escape. There was none.

  He increased pressure against the sweat-soaked temple, stalling movement that might see the liquid spill f
ree. He didn’t have to wait long. Life’s force raced its death march through the trembling flesh until it could run no more. The body spasmed, stilled. The pulse at his neck sprinted erratically, then stopped.

  Extracting the body from the boot was easy. It hung limply over his shoulder, still limber, still warm. Muscles flexed, he steadied, then began the trek. Only a kilometre to the spot she’d chosen for him.

  Only a kilometre to her scene of the crime.

  2 days later . . .

  It’s just research, you nut.

  Rain streamed down Stacey’s hood, plops the size of elephant’s tears dripping onto her already sopping face. She rolled her eyes and huddled further under the building’s narrow eaves.

  Try telling that to my heart.

  Driving tight fists deep into her pockets, she blew, but no amount of puffing dislodged the hair plastered across her cheek. She relented, dragged a hand out and pushed the strands back, before returning her frozen fingers to the warmth.

  Somehow imagination helped romance flow easily onto her pages. Suspense was a different, prickly-thorn-in-your-butt story. Hence the reason she stood outside Detective Chase Durant’s precinct, sodden and shivering, in the wettest May on record for twenty years, trying to still her senses before she bowled inside and had to unglue her tongue from the roof of her mouth. Again.

  He did that to her. Why?

  She’d never been a sucker for broad shoulders and fathomless blue eyes. Or a smile that made her knees fold like the billows of an accordion. She wrote sexy detectives, and he happened to be a particularly sexy detective, in the flesh. Maybe that was it. Or her overactive imagination getting the better of her. Or maybe she needed to take Shazz’s advice and get out more.