Excerpt From: A Bit of Me

Xavier Talbot rolled over in bed and groaned. His head was throbbing and his mouth was as dry as could be. He suspected sunlight was creeping in through the blinds, not that he was willing to open his eyes and check. It was too bright behind his eyelids for the blinds to have been pulled closed properly. Xavier dragged an arm up over his brow and winced as his muscles protested the move.

What the hell had he done last night?

A groan from beside him had Xavier’s eyes popping open. Who the hell had he done last night?

Images flashed through his mind, blurry scenes from the night before. Walking into his office, finding… Oh no!

Xavier didn’t want to look. He really, really didn’t. That didn’t stop him from craning his neck and turning his head.

His stomach lurched as blond hair tipped with blue brushed against his nose. The hair moved, his bed partner’s head tipped back, and Xavier found himself looking down into worried blue eyes. Shit!

"Morning," Billy said, his voice thick with sleep and his breath ripe with the vestiges of alcohol.

"Jesus!" Xavier snapped to full awareness as he scrambled back, both from shock and to escape Billy’s potent morning breath. Had Xavier been a little less hungover and a lot less shocked he might not have misjudged how much mattress he had left.

As it was, he hit the floor with a resounding thud that shot through his entire body and knocked the air right out of his lungs. He wheezed, feeling like he’d been kicked in the gut. Billy peered over the edge of the bed, his eyes lit with amusement.

"If I’d have batted my eyes at you and called you Big Daddy, would you have gone right through the wall?"

Xavier narrowed his eyes at the little shit and then breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed Billy still had his silver shirt on. It wasn’t much of a shirt, granted, but it gave Xavier hope that he hadn’t done anything stupid, like fuck the man.

He cringed and closed his eyes. That would be like fucking his brother, and that was just…gross. But the thought spurred his brain into gear, and memories of last night came flooding back. He’d been in a foul mood because he was short staffed, because a couple of idiots had got into a fight over a twink, because the deposit from the night before hadn’t added up and he had a sneaking suspicion of why that was so—he’d had problems with his brother Randy ‘borrowing’ cash from the register before. The last thing he’d needed was to walk into his office and find Randy sitting at his desk.

Well, that was almost the last thing he’d needed. Seeing Billy’s blond and blue hair bobbing up and down had been the straw that broke the camel’s back—or Xavier’s temper.

Normally he kept a tight rein on his emotions, but finding his moronic brother using his office as a fuck room had thrown gasoline on the ember of anger boiling in his gut. And to know it was Billy Randy had been in there with—Xavier growled and opened his eyes to glare at the smaller man.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he snarled. Billy was like a brother to him, more so than Randy had ever been. Granted, Billy was a much younger, much more annoying, trouble-making brother—and those last two descriptions were really saying something, considering the crap Randy always seemed to stir up. But at least Billy’s brand of trouble wasn’t malicious. He was just naïve and he didn’t ever think about repercussions, whereas Randy was a bully who got off on his delusions of power.

Randy was an ass.

Billy shrugged and looked remorseful, sort of. He was hard to read sometimes. "Well, I told Randy I didn’t want to, but he wouldn’t leave me alone so I thought if I got him off he’d just shut up. It seemed like the quickest way to get him to go away."

Excerpt From: A Bit of Me

Xavier Talbot rolled over in bed and groaned. His head was throbbing and his mouth was as dry as could be. He suspected sunlight was creeping in through the blinds, not that he was willing to open his eyes and check. It was too bright behind his eyelids for the blinds to have been pulled closed properly. Xavier dragged an arm up over his brow and winced as his muscles protested the move.

What the hell had he done last night?

A groan from beside him had Xavier’s eyes popping open. Who the hell had he done last night?

Images flashed through his mind, blurry scenes from the night before. Walking into his office, finding… Oh no!

Xavier didn’t want to look. He really, really didn’t. That didn’t stop him from craning his neck and turning his head.

His stomach lurched as blond hair tipped with blue brushed against his nose. The hair moved, his bed partner’s head tipped back, and Xavier found himself looking down into worried blue eyes. Shit!

"Morning," Billy said, his voice thick with sleep and his breath ripe with the vestiges of alcohol.

"Jesus!" Xavier snapped to full awareness as he scrambled back, both from shock and to escape Billy’s potent morning breath. Had Xavier been a little less hungover and a lot less shocked he might not have misjudged how much mattress he had left.

As it was, he hit the floor with a resounding thud that shot through his entire body and knocked the air right out of his lungs. He wheezed, feeling like he’d been kicked in the gut. Billy peered over the edge of the bed, his eyes lit with amusement.

"If I’d have batted my eyes at you and called you Big Daddy, would you have gone right through the wall?"

Xavier narrowed his eyes at the little shit and then breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed Billy still had his silver shirt on. It wasn’t much of a shirt, granted, but it gave Xavier hope that he hadn’t done anything stupid, like fuck the man.

He cringed and closed his eyes. That would be like fucking his brother, and that was just…gross. But the thought spurred his brain into gear, and memories of last night came flooding back. He’d been in a foul mood because he was short staffed, because a couple of idiots had got into a fight over a twink, because the deposit from the night before hadn’t added up and he had a sneaking suspicion of why that was so—he’d had problems with his brother Randy ‘borrowing’ cash from the register before. The last thing he’d needed was to walk into his office and find Randy sitting at his desk.

Well, that was almost the last thing he’d needed. Seeing Billy’s blond and blue hair bobbing up and down had been the straw that broke the camel’s back—or Xavier’s temper.

Normally he kept a tight rein on his emotions, but finding his moronic brother using his office as a fuck room had thrown gasoline on the ember of anger boiling in his gut. And to know it was Billy Randy had been in there with—Xavier growled and opened his eyes to glare at the smaller man.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he snarled. Billy was like a brother to him, more so than Randy had ever been. Granted, Billy was a much younger, much more annoying, trouble-making brother—and those last two descriptions were really saying something, considering the crap Randy always seemed to stir up. But at least Billy’s brand of trouble wasn’t malicious. He was just naïve and he didn’t ever think about repercussions, whereas Randy was a bully who got off on his delusions of power.

Randy was an ass.

Billy shrugged and looked remorseful, sort of. He was hard to read sometimes. "Well, I told Randy I didn’t want to, but he wouldn’t leave me alone so I thought if I got him off he’d just shut up. It seemed like the quickest way to get him to go away."

Excerpt From: A Bit of You

Jeez, Xavier can be such a grouch! Billy couldn’t be too irritated at the man, though; after all, Xav was getting older and obviously couldn’t handle his liquor worth shit anymore.

Billy snorted as he fixed breakfast for the both of them. Xavier had freaked out last night when he’d found Billy kind of willingly but not totally in a way giving a blow job to Xav’s brother Randy. The fight between the brothers had been scary as hell to witness, especially since Xav was already shit-faced by then and Randy had taken advantage of it by pounding the crap out of his brother. Billy had finally threatened Randy with a letter opener he’d grabbed off Xavier’s desk.

As far as Billy knew, Xavier hadn’t remembered that little nugget, which, considering Randy had just clocked Xav in the temple before that? Yeah, he wasn’t likely to remember much from last night—other than the blow job thing and a fight with Randy following.

Billy was trying his best to hide his own guilt from Xav, but he really, really wished Xav hadn’t walked in on Randy and him last night. Now there was going to be more trouble between the brothers. They didn’t exactly get along to start with, but Billy hadn’t wanted to be the cause of any further estrangement between them, which was why he’d just blown Randy anyway rather than go running to Xav. Xav was the only family Billy had, even if they weren’t related by blood. He’d never been close to Randy—and a blow job or whatever didn’t change that, especially not when Billy hadn’t wanted Randy’s nasty dick in his mouth.

Besides, sex was just sex, it didn’t make you like someone, or love them, and Billy loved Xav. He had rescued Billy from the streets when he was just fifteen. Billy had been heading down the path to an early, and most likely violent, death already, so it was a stroke of luck or fate, or whatever, when he’d happened to proposition the handsome man one evening on the street.

And, now, here he was years later, wondering how much damage he’d caused between Xav and Randy. Truthfully, Billy had known Randy hated him for a while now. He hadn’t paid any attention to Billy the first few years he’d lived with Xav, but lately, definitely over the past year, Billy hadn’t been able to ignore the way Randy had been treating him. He wished the fucker had just kept right on ignoring him, but Billy suspected Randy was jealous, more because he thought Billy was getting chunks of Xavier’s money than because Billy and Xav were close. If Randy had wanted to be close to his brother, all he’d have had to do was talk to Xav with consideration instead of constantly bitching at him.

“Right.” Billy snorted. All Randy wanted from his brother was money. Xavier and Randy had both inherited a lot of money after their parents’ deaths. How much, exactly, Billy didn’t know or care. Xavier had been smart with his share and invested. Randy had burned through his in a matter of years and had nothing to show for it other than an unhealthy addiction or three.

Billy poured Xav some coffee and headed to the bedroom to wait for him to get out of the bathroom. He wondered, if things had been different, if he and Xav had met when Billy was an adult—if he’d lived long enough to be an adult—whether they’d have had a different sort of relationship. He didn’t think so, but it was hard to imagine it because Billy kept getting grossed out. Xav was too much like an older brother, or a father even.

Still, Billy got really lonely. Not horny-lonely; that could be cured at the club. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy, and his natural exuberance drew plenty of interested men. The thing was, they were only interested in getting off. Billy hadn’t even had an actual boyfriend.

Maybe if he got out more… Billy sighed. Like that would happen. He worried about Xav being alone so much. Xav didn’t even bother with quick hook-ups any more, hadn’t for a while now, and anyway Billy usually worked at The Xxchange, the club Xavier owned, almost every night. His nights off were usually spent vegging out in front of the TV watching reruns of sitcoms or reading a book. Sometimes both if he was having trouble chilling.

Of course, if he read a romance, like he did sometimes, then he’d even feel lonelier. Billy wondered if guys like those in the books existed. Then he thought about Adam and Les, and a few other gay couples he’d heard about—and there was even a triad or ménage or whatever it was called, and everyone was supposedly all happy and lovey-dovey.

How is it they can all find someone else—or hell, a couple of someone elses, and all be happy and crap when I can’t even get a freaking boyfriend?

Billy stewed on the question for a while until Xav came out of the bathroom. He obviously hadn’t thought Billy’d be sitting there on the bed because Xav was completely naked and, while he was magnificently built, it was kinda like seeing your dad naked. Billy cringed inside but decided, judging by the angry glare Xav was giving him, this was an opportunity to tease them both right out of their funky moods.

Billy pasted on his brightest smile. Too bad he didn’t slap his brain into gear first. “I made you coffee and toast. You look pretty good naked. Your dick’s bigger than Randy’s.”

Xav looked stunned, then he looked green as he turned and ran back into the bathroom, his firm butt flexing and bouncing just a little with each footfall.

Billy sighed and silently cursed himself. Maybe one day he’d learn to think before he spoke. Until then, it sounded like he might have a mess to clean up in the bathroom.

Excerpt From: A Bit of You

Jeez, Xavier can be such a grouch! Billy couldn’t be too irritated at the man, though; after all, Xav was getting older and obviously couldn’t handle his liquor worth shit anymore.

Billy snorted as he fixed breakfast for the both of them. Xavier had freaked out last night when he’d found Billy kind of willingly but not totally in a way giving a blow job to Xav’s brother Randy. The fight between the brothers had been scary as hell to witness, especially since Xav was already shit-faced by then and Randy had taken advantage of it by pounding the crap out of his brother. Billy had finally threatened Randy with a letter opener he’d grabbed off Xavier’s desk.

As far as Billy knew, Xavier hadn’t remembered that little nugget, which, considering Randy had just clocked Xav in the temple before that? Yeah, he wasn’t likely to remember much from last night—other than the blow job thing and a fight with Randy following.

Billy was trying his best to hide his own guilt from Xav, but he really, really wished Xav hadn’t walked in on Randy and him last night. Now there was going to be more trouble between the brothers. They didn’t exactly get along to start with, but Billy hadn’t wanted to be the cause of any further estrangement between them, which was why he’d just blown Randy anyway rather than go running to Xav. Xav was the only family Billy had, even if they weren’t related by blood. He’d never been close to Randy—and a blow job or whatever didn’t change that, especially not when Billy hadn’t wanted Randy’s nasty dick in his mouth.

Besides, sex was just sex, it didn’t make you like someone, or love them, and Billy loved Xav. He had rescued Billy from the streets when he was just fifteen. Billy had been heading down the path to an early, and most likely violent, death already, so it was a stroke of luck or fate, or whatever, when he’d happened to proposition the handsome man one evening on the street.

And, now, here he was years later, wondering how much damage he’d caused between Xav and Randy. Truthfully, Billy had known Randy hated him for a while now. He hadn’t paid any attention to Billy the first few years he’d lived with Xav, but lately, definitely over the past year, Billy hadn’t been able to ignore the way Randy had been treating him. He wished the fucker had just kept right on ignoring him, but Billy suspected Randy was jealous, more because he thought Billy was getting chunks of Xavier’s money than because Billy and Xav were close. If Randy had wanted to be close to his brother, all he’d have had to do was talk to Xav with consideration instead of constantly bitching at him.

“Right.” Billy snorted. All Randy wanted from his brother was money. Xavier and Randy had both inherited a lot of money after their parents’ deaths. How much, exactly, Billy didn’t know or care. Xavier had been smart with his share and invested. Randy had burned through his in a matter of years and had nothing to show for it other than an unhealthy addiction or three.

Billy poured Xav some coffee and headed to the bedroom to wait for him to get out of the bathroom. He wondered, if things had been different, if he and Xav had met when Billy was an adult—if he’d lived long enough to be an adult—whether they’d have had a different sort of relationship. He didn’t think so, but it was hard to imagine it because Billy kept getting grossed out. Xav was too much like an older brother, or a father even.

Still, Billy got really lonely. Not horny-lonely; that could be cured at the club. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy, and his natural exuberance drew plenty of interested men. The thing was, they were only interested in getting off. Billy hadn’t even had an actual boyfriend.

Maybe if he got out more… Billy sighed. Like that would happen. He worried about Xav being alone so much. Xav didn’t even bother with quick hook-ups any more, hadn’t for a while now, and anyway Billy usually worked at The Xxchange, the club Xavier owned, almost every night. His nights off were usually spent vegging out in front of the TV watching reruns of sitcoms or reading a book. Sometimes both if he was having trouble chilling.

Of course, if he read a romance, like he did sometimes, then he’d even feel lonelier. Billy wondered if guys like those in the books existed. Then he thought about Adam and Les, and a few other gay couples he’d heard about—and there was even a triad or ménage or whatever it was called, and everyone was supposedly all happy and lovey-dovey.

How is it they can all find someone else—or hell, a couple of someone elses, and all be happy and crap when I can’t even get a freaking boyfriend?

Billy stewed on the question for a while until Xav came out of the bathroom. He obviously hadn’t thought Billy’d be sitting there on the bed because Xav was completely naked and, while he was magnificently built, it was kinda like seeing your dad naked. Billy cringed inside but decided, judging by the angry glare Xav was giving him, this was an opportunity to tease them both right out of their funky moods.

Billy pasted on his brightest smile. Too bad he didn’t slap his brain into gear first. “I made you coffee and toast. You look pretty good naked. Your dick’s bigger than Randy’s.”

Xav looked stunned, then he looked green as he turned and ran back into the bathroom, his firm butt flexing and bouncing just a little with each footfall.

Billy sighed and silently cursed himself. Maybe one day he’d learn to think before he spoke. Until then, it sounded like he might have a mess to clean up in the bathroom.

Excerpt From: A Boudoir for Three

"I have chosen a husband for you," the Vicomte de Valenne announced. His cold gaze swept over his stepdaughter. "You are to wed the Marquis D’Arly."

Angelique Beaulieu’s eyes widened. Her self—centred stepfather seldom stirred himself to any effort on her behalf. Unease prickled her skin. "I look forward to meeting the Marquis when the social season commences again," Angelique said dutifully. "By winter, I will be out of full mourning and able to attend some quiet gatherings. If I find the Marquis acceptable..."

"The Marquis wants a bride now," he snapped. "The connection is advantageous. If we wait, his choice will settle on another." Her stepfather leaned towards her, one arm raised, his mouth a thin slash. "I expect your obedience and gratitude for the time and money I have spent on your upkeep these last ten years."

"I am indeed grateful, Papa," Angelique said. She did not remind him that her late father’s fortune paid for her upkeep and the Vicomte’s lavish expenditures. The pretence of docility kept the Vicomte’s temper at bay, a lesson she had learned well during her mother’s long illness. "But it is only seven months since Mama died."

"I will not wait for some useless social convention," her stepfather replied. "You are already over nineteen. You have spent the years when you should have been attracting a suitor caring for your mother in her illness. This may be your only chance of finding a husband. You will not refuse this offer." His hand clenched into a fist and Angelique felt the blood drain from her cheeks. She hated the beatings, the humiliation, the sly smirks from the footmen, and the compassionate glances from the servants who remembered her father and happier times. How could marriage be worse than what she had already endured?

A small ember of optimism kindled into life. Her betrothal could be the beginning of a better future, where she would be mistress of her own household—safe and content, perhaps even loved...

* * * *

Angelique’s hopes crumbled to dry, bitter ash when she entered the salon that afternoon and laid eyes on the Marquis D’Arly. The Marquis was old—far older than her stepfather. His white skin clung to his cheekbones like creased wet parchment. He stared at her with pale, cold blue eyes and his narrow mouth twisted into a leer.

All her strength of will went into holding her hand out to greet the Marquis, but nothing could stop the shudder that passed through her when he bent and pressed his scaly lips to her fingers. As the tremor shook her, he looked up and something bright and febrile flashed in his eyes.

"Sit down, my dear," the Marquis said, his voice sounding like the rasp of leaves in a dry winter wind.

Angelique moved towards one of the delicate, spindle—legged chairs, but her stepfather directed her to the sofa with one jerk of his chin. Then, defying all rules of decorum, he strode from the room, leaving her alone in the salon with the Marquis. He slid onto the seat next to her, the stuffy summer heat worsened by his miasma of age, sweat and overly sweet perfume. His foul breath poisoned the air as he leaned too close. She pressed herself into the cushioned sofa, fighting the urge to gag.

"So coy!" his whisper grated across her strained nerves. "I am delighted to find you as innocent as I have been promised. Your little cunt will be tight and wet when I take you."

Burning with shocked embarrassment and praying she had somehow misheard, she tried to pull away, to put some distance between them. One of the Marquis’ hands snapped out with snakelike speed and held her fast. The other hand slid up her thigh, delving inwards, pressing the layers of her underskirts against her.

She gasped and began to struggle in earnest, her heart racing. "Let me go. This is not seemly."

Excerpt From: A Brewing Storm

The sky was clear, the stars crisp against the blue-black heavens. It made the approaching clouds seem closer than they were. The two men stood side by side and watched those stars circling overhead. They enjoyed their brightness and mourned their impending loss. Never again would anyone view those stars from quite this perspective. It was definitely a sobering thought, and one of the heavily robed men sighed deeply in acknowledgment of the impending loss.

"You know what they intend?" the taller of the two asked his companion, his tone measured, as though he didn’t want to voice the thoughts swirling in his head.

"I do," his companion replied, his face impassive.

"And you agree?" There was a hint of incredulity in the tone.

"No. You know I don’t. But what else is there?"

"The truth? Honesty?"

The other man laughed, millennia of experience in his voice. "Won’t work. They need to be in control, and they need to have control, otherwise nasty, visceral real stuff might get in the way. You know we don’t do that anymore."

The swirling clouds were closer now, and both men could just make out a mountain range some miles ahead of them. Wherever they touched, once they’d passed, the landscape was just…gone… The two men stood and watched as the clouds encroached upon the towering mountain range. Five minutes later, or maybe fifty, it was difficult to tell, they’d moved on. All that was left was… Well, an absence of light was what it was best described as, but it didn’t even come close to acknowledging the emptiness that followed. They left…nothing. They shifted their perspective, and all that could be seen was just a deep empty void crawling across what had once been a landscape, leaving a hollow in its wake, with nothing to speak of left behind. A deep ravine falling into the emptiness of space was all that was left from their touch.

"We can’t let our people die, Damian, but we can’t let them do this either."

"Do we have a choice?" Damian’s voice was helpless, somehow bereft.

"We do. Or I do. I won’t ask you to be a part of this, Damian. I just need to know you know why I’ll be doing this." There was a plea for understanding, and something more. A plea for forgiveness.

"I know." Damian’s voice was heavy with regret. "Brother, if I could…"

The other man laughed, his bitterness not quite hidden. "I know. You’d be there by my side." His glance slid sideways towards his companion. "But I won’t let them do this, not even to save our people. Especially not to save our people. No matter what it takes."

"I know, and, for what it’s worth, I agree." The leaden weight in the pronouncement silenced them, and they fixed their eyes on the horizon. The swirling mass was now close enough that both men could see that they seemed less like clouds and more like a growing, fetid bruise. The blue streaks were dull and old, and the purple streaks were mottled and dim. As they watched, poisonous streaks of yellow shot with black danced across the surface. They appeared almost sentient, a sense of malevolence emanating from them.

"We will die unless we do something," Damian remarked casually, as though the death of his race was something barely worth mentioning.

"Then we somehow do something else." His companion was adamant. "We don’t destroy a world, and we don’t just let a multitude of worlds die while we stand there and do nothing! We’re better than that, Damian. You know that!"

Damian huffed out a laugh. It was an obvious effort, and there was no humour present. "Are we? Aren’t we just like every other species facing its demise? We’ll do anything to survive. We have done anything to do more than just survive. So this is nothing to our people."

"Doesn’t mean it’s right. We must try to prevent this. You know it. So do I."

"I know." There was a beat, a pause, as both men viewed the approaching horizon again. "You attempt it first. I will try if you fail."

The other man laughed hollowly. "Always the politician, Damian. Fair enough. I will attempt to halt them. If I fail, and you do not try to stop them, I will haunt you." The threat wasn’t an idle one. Damian knew his companion was perfectly capable of being that vindictive.

The clouds grew closer—slowly, steadily closer. They were the end of everything, and they were getting closer every day. In a few hundred years, they would challenge even the Weavers’ seat of power.

And so the two men met in the death throes of one world to discuss the future of another. And in that meeting, deadly murder and mayhem were planned. All to save a world they had not even seen yet.

* * * *

Present Day

Sometimes it didn’t really matter, he knew that. The decisions he made didn’t really change anything. The difficult decisions were always the easiest. It was the little decisions, the daily choices that were the hardest. For Jamie, hiding in the shadows in a nameless alley, there was never any choice, never a decision to make. Don’t do it. Don’t get involved. I could wind up dead that way. Well, even more dead.

Now, for instance, there was a harassed-looking woman at the ATM opposite the alley. Jamie didn’t feel anything for her, for anyone, but he had an intellectual understanding of morals, and he’d long ago decided to impose that code on himself. It was all that kept him from devolving into the animal so many thought he was. So he wouldn’t rob her of the hard earned money she was withdrawing. The guy behind her, though? Well, he was fair game, thousand-dollar suit and all. Jamie briefly wondered why someone dressed that expensively was bothering with an ATM, but then decided he didn’t really care. It was probably money for drugs. Jamie didn’t know of many drug dealers who’d graduated to accepting AmEx. Cash was still the payment method of choice on the streets—all the more reason to take him down, in Jamie’s opinion.

He shrank back farther in the alley’s shadows, briefly wrinkling his nose at the smells that assaulted his heightened senses. He really needed to find better places to lurk, but the alley hid his ‘unusual’ appearance very well, especially with how he looked at the moment. The drunks who stumbled across him just thought he was a figment of their delirium, dismissing the eerie glow from his eyes as something caused by their cheap alcohol. It suited him.

Excerpt From: A Christmas Carol

Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy tavern; and having read all the newspapers, and beguiled the rest of the evening with his banker’s-book, went home to bed. He lived in chambers which had once belonged to his deceased partner. That one piece of a far away life, of filled evenings and nights, Scrooge was but loath to relinquish.

They were a gloomy suite of rooms, in a lowering pile of building up a yard, where it had so little business to be, that one could scarcely help fancying it must have run there when it was a young house, playing at hide-and-seek with other houses, and forgotten the way out again. It was old enough now, and dreary enough, for nobody lived in it but Scrooge, the other rooms being all let out as offices. The yard was so dark that even Scrooge, who knew its every stone, was fain to grope with his hands. The fog and frost so hung about the black old gateway of the house, that it seemed as if the Genius of the Weather sat in mournful meditation on the threshold.

Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particular about the knocker on the door, except that it was very large. It is also a fact, that Scrooge had seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence in that place; also that Scrooge had as little of what is called fancy about him as any man in the city of London, even including—which is a bold word—the corporation, aldermen, and livery. Let it also be borne in mind that Scrooge would not concede to have bestowed one thought on Marley, since his last mention of his seven years’ dead partner that afternoon, not even to himself. And then let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened that Scrooge, having his key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, without its undergoing any intermediate process of change—not a knocker, but Marley’s face.

Scrooge held in place, his heart near a standstill at the unbelievable image he had surely conjured with having spoken of his dead partner just that afternoon. Damn that sod for dredging up ghosts to haunt him.

And out of all of it, Marley’s face.

It was not in impenetrable shadow as the other objects in the yard were, but had a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a dark cellar. It was not angry or ferocious, but looked at Scrooge as Marley used to look: with ghostly spectacles turned up on its ghostly forehead. The hair was curiously stirred, as if in memory by breath or hot air; and, though the eyes were wide open, they were perfectly motionless. That, and its livid colour, made it horrible; but its horror seemed to be in spite of the face and beyond its control, rather than a part of its own expression.

To its point, the horror seeped into Scrooge. His skin bore that chill to its depths; the icy grip of something to which he had long ago left to die as surely as his partner had those seven years ago. His nephew! His nephew had rambled nonsense of love and it had addled Scrooge’s brain, he was certain of it.

As Scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon of Marley’s face, it was a knocker again. To say that he was not startled, or that his blood was not conscious of a terrible sensation to which it had been a stranger from infancy, would be untrue. Fear and loss so keen seared his bones and hammered at his mind. But he put his hand upon the key he had relinquished, turned it sturdily, walked in, and lighted his candle.

He did pause, with a moment’s irresolution, before he shut the door; and he did look cautiously behind it first, as if he half expected to be terrified with the sight of Marley’s pigtail sticking out into the hall. Hope sprang forth to war against fear in those seconds within Scrooge and gave discredit to the moment. But there it was. Scrooge had one fleeting weakness, one wish, to see taut shoulders and arse trapped under linen. To catch a glimpse of long, muscled legs beneath woollen pants.

But there was nothing on the back of the door, except the screws and nuts that held the knocker on, so he said "Pooh, pooh!" and closed it with a bang.

Excerpt from: A Christmas Favour

“Oh, I’m so glad Thanksgiving holidays are over now.” Angela sighed and turned to Mike, gathering a sack of groceries from her car.

Mike took the bag from her. “I know what you mean. Now we’ve got to make it through the Christmas holidays.”

He followed her up the short steps into her apartment.

“I’m going to get my place ready for a spiritual cleansing this week. It’s been a long time,” she continued.

Mike cocked an eyebrow. “You actually do that shit, huh?”

She smirked. “Yes. You knew that about me before we started dating.” She took the sack from him and started putting things away.

“I know. It’s just weird, that’s all.”

Angela frowned. “I thought you liked weird.”

“I do.” Mike reached for Angela’s hand and took it in his. He kissed it as he gazed longingly into her eyes. “I love your eyes, Angela.” He leaned towards her lips and kissed her. She hesitantly pulled away from him.

Mike looked puzzled. “Is something the matter?”

“No. I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep well last night. I think I’d better turn in early tonight. It’s Friday, and I’d like to get some rest. I hope you don’t mind.” She tried her best to look sad, and the puppy dog look won out.

He snorted. “If you’d learn to eat more meat, you’d probably feel better.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “We’ve been over the meat issue many times before. I’ve just never been a big fan of red meat.”

“I know. I’m mostly picking on you anyway, but I am concerned about your health. The protein—”

She pressed two fingers against his lips in slight irritation. “It’s sweet, but I’m fine. I promise.”

His shoulders sagged. “Okay. I promised the boys I’d game with them this weekend, anyway.” Mike tried to mimic the puppy dog look.

“Call me later?” She turned away from him, glancing over her shoulder.

“I sure will. I love you, Angela.” He kissed her, and his smile returned.

“You too.” Angela closed the door quietly. She walked over to the nightstand, picked up a black photo album, and dusted off the cover. Angela found the picture of her and a taller man with long midnight black hair that framed a rough, unshaved face. His arms were around her and they were both smiling. To my best friend, forever and always, Christian, the caption beneath the picture read.

A visit from you would really make my day, she thought. She set down the photo album and went into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea.

Her kitchen was tiny, barely big enough for two people. The rest of her apartment was fairly open—one couch, a few pictures on the walls and some ironwork candleholders over the fireplace that needed cleaning. In one corner, Angela kept a kitty bed for the stray cats she picked up and gave a home to.

After her cup of hot water was boiling, she added the tea bag, stirred it and brought the cup to her nose. The aroma and warmth of green tea helped her nerves. The past week had been stressful. Mike tried to be helpful by coming over to see her, but as usual, he was just in the way. The winter holidays were a mess for her since Christian stopped coming into town. * * * *

Christian picked up his smart phone and pager, stuffed them in his pockets, gathered up his laptop and headed for his car. Work sucked badly when the servers were down in Dallas, because that meant a trip out of town. He could at least call his best friend and former lover. Maybe they could go out for drinks or hang out and spend some time together. He felt guilty. It had been two years since he’d seen Angela and almost as long since he’d last called or written.

Her absence from his life was beginning to bother him, though relationship troubles were routine for him since losing his last girlfriend. It seemed Christian’s very healthy sex drive had interfered with her religious studies and training to be a missionary. She’d always complained about him working so hard in the secular world when he could have been preaching the good faith. He laughed at the idea as he tried to recall her face and couldn’t. He didn’t mind parting with her.

It was still early, but Angela should be at work by now. Chris hooked his Bluetooth earpiece around his ear, picked up his smart phone and dialled her work number, impatient for the phone to connect. The two rings seemed like forever until she answered.

“Hello, Anderson Insurance…”

Her sweet voice was all it took to put him in a better mood.

“Angela, hi.” Chris remembered to breathe.

“Christian…?”

“Yeah, it’s me. It’s uh, been awhile.” He twiddled his thumbs.

“Do you realise how long it’s been?” She sounded irritated with him.

He slumped in his seat and let out a long, slow breath. “Too long. And I’m sorry.”

“You had better be.” A beat passed before either of them spoke again.

“What’s going on? How have you been?” Chris picked up the stylus from his phone, tapped it against the dashboard nervously.

“I’ve been fine. You do remember this is my work line, right?”

He could almost see her smirking at him, the way her eyes narrowed yet still gleamed with desire for him. “Yes, and again, I’m sorry. I only have a moment anyway. I’m coming into town next weekend on business and might be able to get some free time.”

He thought he heard her breath hitch. “Would you like to get together?”

“Sure. I could really use some company.”

Despite the sadness that was in her voice, he was certain he could cheer her up. The thought of smelling her sweet essence, cuddling against her soft skin brought a grin to his face. “All right. I’ll call you as soon as I get in, okay?”

“Please do,” she whispered.

Excerpt From: A Christmas to Remember

Daniel Hoffman stared out of the backseat passenger window of his friends’ black SUV into the foreign, snow-covered terrain. He still wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to spend the holidays with his best friends, Chance Devlin and Jared Lont. The pair made a terrific couple, but they really didn’t need a third wheel tagging along to spend Christmas and the New Year in a cabin on the frozen shores of Lake Huron. He doubted it was the romantic getaway that Chance had pictured when he first proposed the idea to Jared. Daniel shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He had no idea what his friends had been thinking.

He would have been better off staying in the city where there were plenty of things to keep him occupied…and keep his mind off Collin and how wonderful Christmas was supposed to be. He would have been perfectly happy spending the time in the archives helping new genealogists discover their family history, or a more advanced family historian untangle the stubborn threads of a complex line to reveal long held secrets.

For the hundredth time during his waking hours, he cursed himself for getting talked into the vacation. He should be at the archives. Not that his boss would be welcoming or particularly accommodating. Ashley Marks was a great boss, but she had kicked him out the door with orders not to show his face until the seventh of January. He hadn’t taken a vacation, called in sick or missed a day of work in over eighteen months. He had even begun taking private clients and researching their family trees for them.

Daniel sighed. He knew the exact date things had changed - the eleventh of June. The day the state police had come to his work and told him that his partner of three and a half years was dead - killed by mini-van driver who hadn’t been paying attention and who hadn’t really seemed to care that she’d killed someone. She’d repeated plenty of times that she was a Christian and hadn’t meant it, but never once had she said she was sorry. Not even as the judge had convicted her of vehicular manslaughter.

Tears welled as he thought of the last moments with Collin before he had left that morning.

"God, you’re a lousy liar. I hate you, Daniel. You need to figure out if you really want me in your life anymore or not," Collin had shouted before stomping out of the house. "You have until I get home from work - "

"Danny, hey, you with us back there? We’re going to stop at Meijer’s. There are a few things we need to pick up," Jared said, his dark eyes looking at him in the rear-view mirror. "My sister, Janice, called earlier to say that the cabin hadn’t been re-stocked after the hunting trip."

Daniel nodded and turned back to the window. At least that was something he didn’t have to worry about. There were no memories of him and Collin at the cabin. Collin was a city boy through and through. He’d said on more than one occasion that college was as rural as he ever wanted to get. He’d grown up in San Francisco and hated the smaller city surrounding the college he’d attended. Daniel, on the other hand, had grown up a few hours from their destination in Grand Rapids and didn’t mind the country occasionally, even while he loved his home and friends in Philadelphia.

Excerpt From: A Cowboy in Ravenna

Trinity March’s heart slammed against his ribs. He sat up on his sofa bed. He should have been deeply asleep, but the argument at the pack gathering had nagged at him all night.

Trin had brought Calhoun to the meeting, argued they hire him to help protect their women and children. Their alpha had scoffed. So what if one of the villages had been attacked by rogue shifters, with warriors killed, women and children enslaved? They’d been weak. The tribe Trinity had served as shaman was three times as large. They didn’t need an enforcer like Calhoun.

Calhoun’s attitude hadn’t helped. His chilling appearance in black leather and mirrored shades had matched his reputation as he’d leaned against his motorcycle, his scarred face impassive. He hadn’t seemed to care if the pack hired him or not.

Trin shoved hair out of his eyes, knowing he wouldn’t be able to sleep with worry eating his gut. He’d felt this way for months.

He looked out the window and through the yellowed lace curtains he glimpsed a light on in the cabin of his elderly human neighbour, Mr Jenkins. The old man had been limping when they’d both visited their mail boxes yesterday. Trin needed to mix up a remedy, use it as an excuse so he could put a hand on the man’s shoulder, touch him, heal him, if only temporarily.

Thinking of healing eased the tension, brought back normality. He would get up and grind some herbs fresh from the garden out back. Then he’d find a way to convince his alpha to see Calhoun, to speak to him alone.

Outside, that light from Mr Jenkins’ cabin flickered as a shadow moved, fluid as dark liquid.

A wolf.

Trin’s enhanced eyesight caught the turn of the knob on his cabin door. It opened softly, admitting the breath of the night.

The scent he caught was unwashed skin, motor oil and stale beer.

It did not belong to any of his pack mates.

The cabin only possessed two rooms, the great room where he was lying on his sofa bed, and his son Sage’s room. Listening to the drum of his heart, Trin eased the covers off, hyper aware of the too-loud rustle of his bedding.

He rolled off the bed and onto the floor, snaking to the ground.

Bang! His pillow exploded.

“Dad!” Sage screamed.

“Get the kid!” a harsh voice ordered. “And for Christ’s sake don’t hurt him like you did the other kids. This one has power, thanks to his papa. I want him undamaged for our buyer.”

Trin recognized that voice. Dempsy, leader of the rogue shifters.

Trin flung himself at the men, his needle claws spearing into someone’s gut, shredding internal organs. He yanked them free, watched the burly man with long, unwashed hair drop his pistol. “Huh?” The stranger touched his unravelling intestines before he fell on them.

Trin’s rep was as a gentle, solitary healer. These rogue shifters had assumed he wasn’t a warrior. They probably thought he wouldn’t fight to protect what was his.

They were wrong.

“Fuck! Kill him!” Dempsy shouted, stepping back as the lamp swung in an arc above, highlighting the pool of blood on Trin’s hardwood floor.

Trin fell to his knees, taking punch after punch, his face splitting. The pain—

Couldn’t shift.

Hands ripped at his clothing. They were going to play with him before they killed him.

“No!” He grabbed Dempsy by the balls, twisting his grip, fired by hate. Dempsy screamed, grabbing his crotch as he crumpled to the floor.

Free, Trin crawled, body blazing pain like ugly neon.

He had to… He had to shift. No matter what, he had to shift! Something stirred inside him. A huge shadow, a claw of death. He would rip him up, comin’ out. Rip him to shit. His wolf, but not his wolf. He shook his head, disoriented.

He staggered to Sage’s room, leaving a bloody handprint on the door as he shoved it open. A spark of agony chewed skin off his shoulder as a bullet thudded into the wall beside him. Hurry, hurry. Dammit, I have to hurry.

Time seemed to slow… He could see each freckle on Sage’s pale face standing like stars on a milky background. Sage, eight years old, wearing his favourite blue pyjamas, huge eyes fixed on his face, looking for direction, for reassurance.

Sage.

Trin scooped up his son, shouldering the door shut behind him. It boomed and trembled. A kick?

They’re coming.

He dropped Sage back on his feet and shoved the chest of drawers they’d painted sky blue in front of the door.

Sage opened his mouth.

Trin covered it, making a ‘shhh’ gesture with his finger to his lips.

He herded Sage to the window, opened it, sweat stinging his skin. The dresser scraped across the floor behind them.

They’re coming.

“No matter what, you don’t come back here,” he told his son. “You run. Run like never before, you hear me, little robin?”

“But I want to stay with you!” Sage whispered. “I can shift, I can fight!”

“No.” God, he hadn’t had time to prepare Sage, to tell him of their special legacy. “Daddy won’t be safe. You need to run. Promise me.”

He didn’t have time to kiss his son, to pull him close. His heart ached with love, with words, useless now. Sage’s eyes, the shape of his face, the sturdy little shoulders.

Trin shoved Sage out the window, saw him look back one last time, saw him running for the trees.

Trin swung around, blades erupting from his fingers, his hair rippling in a rage down his back as his coat grew.

A great grey wolf sprang for the men who had come for his son.

“He’s shifting!” he heard one of the rogue shifters yell. “Shoot him! Shoot the fucker!”

Bullets hit him, blood erupting from his body, hurting, left leg giving out. Couldn’t fall. Not yet, not yet. Trin had to protect his son. Protect. All he was, all he would ever be, a father in his heart, his gut, lit him.

His shadow elongated, distorted like a nightmare smeared across the wall.

Growing, tearing flesh and bone. He screamed… The thing would kill him as it was born.

Shifting again. Becoming.

“Shit! Shadow shifter!”

He was towering death.

They fired, bullets pinging, chewing off wood chips, blood.

Massive claws flashed.

Excerpt From: A Demon in Dallas

"I can’t see a freaking thing down here, it’s too dark," Matt whined.

Hands clenched into fists, I glared at him, my jaw tense. "If you don’t stop whining, I’ll leave you down here to find your own way out."

Matt shut up. The trip to Texas had been his idea, and only two days after arriving, he had me combing the sewers, knee deep in God only knows what. As we headed farther into the labyrinth of tunnels, my already sour mood worsened. Why had I agreed to this? I should have known better.

After a few more minutes of walking on in the worst kind of uncomfortable silence, Matt mumbled, "I was sure he came this way."

He might have missed the glare I tossed in his direction, but I’d be surprised if he couldn’t feel my gaze burning a hole in the back of his head. I’d never have admitted it to Matt, but I was angrier at myself than I was with him. Yet again, I had let him talk me into one of his idiotic plans. Apparently, my stupidity knows no boundaries.

It wasn’t as if we didn’t have enough work to keep us busy in Maine, and you didn’t melt in Maine when you stepped out into the midday sun. That was always a bonus. But no, the idea of a nest of vampires that were getting too big for their cowboy boots had seduced me. It was always the damn vampires that did it. I felt drawn to them like a wolf to the moon— which made sense in its own perverse way. I was a hunter, after all. The need to exterminate the vermin was in my blood, embedded in my DNA.

Matt stayed by my side as we traversed the intricate network of tunnels. He didn’t have the sense of direction that I had been born with, so we had to stick together. If we split up, Matt would be sure to get lost and the last thing I wanted was to have to spend more time in the damn sewer than I needed to.

Placing a hand around my upper arm, Matt pulled me to a stop. He was about my height, if marginally broader, so when I turned we were standing face to face and close enough that I could see his remorseful expression. He let out a long sigh.

"I’m sorry I dragged you into this. You were right. We should have stayed in Maine."

His repentant tone dispelled most of the anger I had been holding onto. There was a reason I hadn’t wanted to come back to Austin, but Matt didn’t know about that. As far as he was aware, I’d walked out on that part of my life two years ago and I hadn’t looked back. I was good at hiding my feelings, even from Matt, who had become like a brother to me over the ten years we’d been hunting together. Or maybe I was just a damn good liar—too good.

I shrugged. "Don’t sweat it. I’m a big girl. I agreed to come along. Now that we’re here, let’s kill us some vamps, yeah?"

A goofy grin was his only reply. When we turned a corner, the dimly lit, narrow passageway opened up into a cavernous room. The stark brick walls held small fitted lights, but they let off hardly any illumination. Our prey was standing in the back, casually leaning against the wall when we entered. His eyes glowed yellow in the small beam of moonlight that filtered down from an overhead grating. Even from ten feet away I could smell the stench of death and decay on his breath. The room was just bright enough to see the vampire’s wide, toothy grin.

"Well, it’s about time y’all showed up," he said with a lazy Texan twang. "I ain’t got all night, ya know."

I took a few steps farther into the room to get a better look at the creature. He was wearing pale blue, flared denims and a floral shirt. He wouldn’t have looked out of place in the seventies—in fact, he probably hadn’t taken them off since the seventies. That would certainly explain some of the stink. But the strangest thing about him was his relaxed stance and calm demeanour. Most vampires feared hunters on sight. Reaching into my jacket, I pulled out my favourite silver- tipped stake.

"Oh, I’d put that away if I were you." He swaggered towards us and the stench increased, clogging up the already stale air until it was all I could smell. Some days, I really hated my damn job.

I shrugged. "Sorry, no can do."

"Someone could get hurt," he mused.

"Not someone," I corrected. "Something." It was damn near impossible to think of a vampire as human when their humanity had departed along with their soul. ‘Mindless, emotionless killers’ was the only term that fitted.

His grin broadened. "Details," he drawled, with a swish of his hand.

As we stared at each other silently, my mind went into overdrive. There was something off about this whole situation. His relaxed manner made me jittery. Vampires were undoubtedly the most conceited of the supernatural species, but he would have known we were hunters. So he was either stupid enough to think he could take us or he had a death wish. Of course, there could always be a third alternative—he wasn’t down in the sewer alone and that fact was giving him false confidence.

"Matt, pick up the slack," I instructed.

My eyes never wavered from the soulless creature in front of me. In the ten years we’d worked together, Matt and I had come to understand one another pretty well so I didn’t need to elaborate. In my peripheral vision, I saw him nod then walk back down the tunnel we’d just come through.

"Well, well. Not as stupid as you look." As the creature neared, his haughty smirk exposed yellow, razor-sharp fangs.

I was about to respond with something equally banal when a fight broke out in the tunnel behind me. The harrowing sounds of fists hitting flesh and snapping bones reached my ears along with Matt’s shouts of rage as he fought what sounded like four or five vampires at once.

"Raven! Raven, help me!" Matt shouted.

Damn. I thought about dealing with the creature in front of me first, but then a sound rang out that made my stomach lurch violently and all the air whooshed out of my lungs. Matt screamed— quite literally screamed. The chilling sound echoed off the damp sewer walls, reverberating through my body like it was a physical entity that had taken me by the arms and shaken the living daylights out of me. It was excruciating to listen to.

Excerpt From: A Detour Home

“This is going to be so cool!” Cameron exclaimed, his jaw slack with shock, eyes sparkling with surprise and growing excitement as he regarded his best friend’s smug face. “Wait.” His baby blue eyes narrowed. “You’d better not be joking.”

“Nope.” Jon grinned at Cam’s reaction, one he had been anticipating for hours—ever since he got the phone call from his Uncle Dave offering them jobs on his road crew for the summer. Apparently, he had a state highway repair contract to fulfil and needed more warm bodies.

Jon wasn’t under any illusions. He’d worked for his uncle the previous summer, and it was damn hard work, sometimes twelve-hour days, sometimes even more, all in the hot, humid Midwest weather. But it was great money, way more than any other job guys their age could get. And this year Cam could finally go, too, since Dave had a lucrative clause in the contract for finishing early and needed reliable help.

“It’ll be hard work,” he cautioned lightly, knowing Cam wouldn’t care.

“Who cares? Bring it on,” Cameron almost shouted, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet in that funny way he had. Jon watched him with enjoyment as he pumped his fist in the air a la Tiger Woods, then collapsed in a sprawl beside him on the couch.

“Wow, on our own together all summer! Drinking beer with the guys, staying at hotels, eating out.” Cam’s leg jostled his and Jon looked down absently to where they pressed together.

“Hey, look at you,” Jon observed with surprise, staring over at Cameron with new eyes. “Geez, your thighs are almost as big as mine.” He exaggerated somewhat, but Cam had filled out quite a bit when he hadn’t been looking.

Excerpt From: A Digital Prison

"Don’t you know who I am?" I barked as he snatched the bag from my head and ripped the tape from my mouth.

But of course he did. And that was why he had targeted me. I was Rihku—right-hand woman and lover to the infamous freedom fighter Apollo. I had written the code that had taken down the firewalls to the Chrome Tower, letting our footmen enter their systems for a precious fourteen unrestricted seconds and extract the information we all had known was there—finding the proof that had sparked the digital revolution.

And now I sat here, hair sticking to my forehead with sweat and face flushed with an anger that kept my fear at bay, kidnapped and tied to a chair.

The man who stood before me, wry smile across his face and the black sack that had moments ago been suffocating me now hanging limply in his hand, was unmistakable. Never before had I laid eyes on Cet. His control over masking-codes was second to none, and he would sometimes even exist within the System as pure information, visually undetectable, like a ghost, everywhere and nowhere, quietly watching, subtly manipulating.

But he was the only human in the System who had deep red stat lines—the electronic lines of energy that ran over the skin and glowed through digi-fabric like circuitry, allowing our interaction with, and existence in, this digital dimension. The rest of the grid was divided between those who followed Cet, boasting harsh yellow, and those who opposed him. My stat lines were cyan blue.

I took him in with my hard stare, sized him up. He wasn’t as I had expected. He was broader than I had pictured—for some reason, in my mind he had been wiry and dark. His sandy hair was just long enough to show a wave. His eyes were a cold and pale blue, fiercely intense and in stark contrast to the apparent placidity of his features. But he paced with a rigid spine, with the stance and timely manner of one with all the power in the world. It was that demeanour that made me feel certain that I was indeed face to face with Cet. The way he held his head high, the slow and deliberate fall of his foot as he walked around me—his utter certainty of his power over me.

"I’m not afraid of you," I said. "They’ll come for me, you know."

I didn’t fight against my bonds as his pacing brought him to my back, and I felt the brush of his gloved fingers against the ends of my cropped hair. He laughed softly.

"They won’t find you," he said. The certainty in his voice caused a chill to run through me. Part of me knew that it was true. If they hadn’t found him in all this time, how would they find him now? But I knew that Apollo wouldn’t rest until I was safe. The irony of the situation was that I knew that somewhere, out there in the physical world, my body was safe from harm, plugged into the System and sustained by generated brainwaves—because all human experience was dictated by brain functioning, even to the point of self-sustenance, at the right frequencies and with the correct programming. But without access to a port, I was stuck here, in this digital prison.

Excerpt From: A Firm Hand

James Montford slowed his horse to a walk as he took in the view of Mariah Griffin trotting her prize black mare. The woman’s lush curves and fearless nature called to him.

When she looked over her shoulder for him, she pulled up and turned to trot in his direction. “Are you tired, my lord?” Her breasts bounced as she brought her horse to a stop. The dress was in no way revealing, but James had an active imagination.

“Not at all. Simply enjoying the view of your uncle’s estate.” He knew she’d never believe it, which was precisely why he’d said it.

“If you’re bored, please do not continue on my account. Alice’s headache ruined your afternoon of riding with her. I simply needed to get some air, and on my uncle’s estate I can ride alone with no impropriety. You need not feel obligated.” She walked her horse around his, circling him like a vulture.

“I enjoy riding as well, Miss Griffin. Your company only adds to the view.” James had no designs on Alice, Mariah’s cousin, but her parents wanted him for a son-in-law. With neighbouring estates, the socialisation was inevitable. Until Mariah’s arrival, part chaperone and all friend for Alice, James had not spent much time here.

He and Mariah spoke rather openly to one another but stayed away from any topics of significance. That suited him well. He was in no haste to marry. The institution made most people he knew miserable. Mariah didn’t pressure him about Alice or any other attachment.

“View?” She looked down with a grin. “My mare is not for sale, my lord.”

He chuckled. She rebuffed his compliment and yet a touch of pink glowed in her cheeks. “I’m not shopping for horses. I have a well-stocked stable.”

“So I hear. My aunt wanted me to invite you to dinner. Hopefully, Alice’s headache has passed.” Mariah’s face turned serious as she nodded to the sky. “Rain is coming. We should go back.”

“Eager to escape me?” He glanced up and saw her assessment was accurate. Annoyance boiled in his veins. Nature plotted to keep him from some relaxing time alone with Mariah. His desire for her fought his need to remain unattached.

Mariah made him feel things no other woman had. But she was a lady, the daughter of a rich man. Innocent and honourable in all things. Yet they had a connection. He was an earl, worthy of her, but if she knew his true nature, he suspected she’d run.

He knew she had three brothers. Perhaps if he treated her like a little sister, the lust would pass. “Shall we race?” he asked.

She nodded. Few men would suggest such a thing to a grown woman, but they’d begun a habit of teasing one another already. He wanted to watch her best him. It’d provide interesting dinner conversation.

“One, two, three.” He took off, and she didn’t sprint past him. Her lighter body and sleeker horse should’ve overtaken him at the average pace he’d set his mount. James wondered if she was now taking in the view? He felt lightheaded for a moment as his stomach ached in confusion and desire. To possess her was a dream, but dreams were false and easy. Reality hurt people, and he had no wish to upset anyone. He’d created a quiet life he could tolerate.

He pulled up at the stable and entered. Dismounting, he looked about for the stable boy and heard rustling in the hay. Defiling a chamber maid was no excuse for neglecting duty. James rounded the stall to chastise the couple. He stopped in his tracks and wanted to use his riding crop in a multitude of ways. Alice’s headache had apparently been cured by the affections of the vicar.

“Edmund?” James levelled a challenging glance at the man.

The vicar stepped in front of the dishevelled young woman. “Forgive me, my lord.”

“Your lordship.” Alice tried to cover herself.

“You’ve won, my lord. The rain is starting. Where is everyone?” Mariah followed James’ path, and her jaw dropped as she took in the scene.

James helped her off her horse, relishing the feel of her firm body beneath his hands. She barely gave him a nod as she glared at her cousin. The play of the race and the weather no longer proved of interest to either of them.

“Alice!” Mariah grabbed her cousin and pulled her away from Edmund’s arms. “What are you doing?”

Excerpt From: A Fistful of Emmett

“I’m sorry Emmett, but we’re gonna hafta let ya go. I hate to do it. The bank ain’t givin’ us any options. They’re takin’ the place. Beth Anne and I’ll give you a nice reference letter if ya need it. You’re a good worker. You should be on your feet in no time. You can stay here fer a while. At least until the auction.”

Well didn’t that beat all? What the fuck was he supposed to do now? FBR Acres had been his home for goin’ on ten years. Fred hadn’t told him things had gotten that bad.

“Is there anything I can do?” Emmett took his hat off and ran a hand through his hair. He was uncomfortable about money talk as it was, but this was the only family he had and he’d do anything for them.

“It’s too late. We just can’t do it anymore. We’re gonna retire down Florida way. The kids are puttin’ us up for a bit.”

“Shit, Fred. You should have told me. I would have helped.” He hit his hat against his leg to get rid of some of the dust, and put it back on his head.

“Couldn’t let ya do that, Em. Even with your help, we would have gone under and we weren’t takin’ ya with us. Things just ain’t what they used to be,” Fred lamented.

“When’s the auction?”

“We got two weeks to get everything ready. We ain’t takin’ much with us. The bank is takin’ the rest. Lock, stock and barrel. We get to keep the vehicles and of course the personal items. Red is yours free and clear. Also have a little cash set aside as your last payment. We worked it out the other night. I hate that I have to do this, Em.” Fred frowned and squinted—a sure sign he was upset with the way things had gone down. Emmett had seen that look a time or two over the years.

“Not your fault. Like ya said, I’ll get back on my feet in no time. I have chores to get done and should finish working on the tractor so it’s ready for next week. I assume that goes in with the auction.”

“Yep.” Fred looked down at his feet.

“Thanks for Red. I appreciate it. And don’t worry so much. In two weeks, you’ll be seeing your grandbabies and living a life of leisure. You deserve it.” Em gave Fred a slap on the back and left for his day of chores.

Just because life was going to hell didn’t mean he could let the chores go. He’d worry about what to do later. Not like he had a lot to pack anyway. His life didn’t lead to much in the way of personal items and he never really went anywhere. The ranch was his home. His day consisted of getting up, working and going to bed, with the occasional trip to Austin for a quick lay. He loved the ranch life or he wouldn’t still be here. It was all he knew.

Fred and Beth Anne had helped his momma raise him. Summers had been the best because he got to spend them at the ranch. Sure, it was work, but he loved the animals and he loved feeling needed. When his momma died, he’d moved in full time to help out and he’d never looked back. Now he would have to leave.

Excerpt From: A Game of Chances

The light on Marcus Duncan’s old-fashioned answering machine blinked steadily, which was just annoying because he knew who it had to be.

He didn’t know why his ex, Steven, would be calling him, but there was no one else who would—not with Steven getting their friends in the split.

A loud, irritated sigh left him, even as he reached out and pressed the play button, his finger staying there for purposes of immediate deletion. He still didn’t want to hear Steven’s voice, not really. Not even now, two months after he’d kicked the bastard out of his?their?old place.

“Hey, Mar?” the voice started, and Marcus smirked at the beep the machine made when he pressed the button. If only it were as easy to erase the fourteen months he’d wasted on Steven in the first place.

“Sorry, I got cu?” the same voice, and this time Marcus snarled just a bit as he repeated his earlier motion, skipping past the message that was obviously a continuation of the last.

“Got cut off?” he spoke to the machine, feeling just a little bit like an idiot, but also…not. A guy needed to vent sometimes, Marcus figured, even if there was nobody there to hear him. “You’re lucky it’s just your messages I’m cutting off, asshole.”

And that was true enough, even though any action that was more proactive than just putting out Steven?along with his assorted random, but very expensive crap?would have landed Marcus in jail. Marcus still would have liked to have—but that was mean. And petty. And would have implied that Steven had had entirely too large of an impact on his life.

Marcus wouldn’t give the jerk the satisfaction.

One more message from the jackass was skipped, and Marcus’ finger was already starting to press the button again before he realised it was a different voice.

Different and… Oh, just listen to that little bit of drawl. It was charming, really, though Marcus would never say so out loud. Charming wasn’t the sort of word he generally flung about, after all.

“Um, hey. I don’t know if… Look, this might be a wrong number, but I’m trying to find an M. Duncan who used to live at 2437 Endwhisle Place? If… Okay, if this is the wrong number, then never mind, but if it’s not, um…I think you forgot to file a change of address with the post office and I’m getting all sorts of mail for you. Some of it looks like it might be important, so… Um, okay. If this is the right M. Duncan, call me back at…”

Marcus scrambled for a pen, finally digging one out of the pile of receipts and scraps of paper on the table by the phone. Then he had to start again, skipping Steven’s messages a second time so he could copy down the number.

The guy hadn’t left a name, but Marcus supposed it didn’t much matter. He apparently had whatever mail had slipped through the cracks at the post office, because Marcus clearly recalled filling out the stupid form. And giving it to one of the clerks, too.

He’d been getting mail at his new place, but that didn’t mean the postal service couldn’t have screwed up a time or two, and who knew how they managed to find every piece of mail for one single person anyway? Marcus surely didn’t.

And hell, if even one envelope was important, Marcus figured he owed the guy. It would have been so much easier to just throw it all away.

He almost picked up the phone, but his stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Things had gotten kind of crazy at the restaurant bar that afternoon, so Marcus hadn’t had time for lunch, which was possibly ironic, and…well, right at the moment, there was a pizza out there just calling his name.

Or maybe Chinese. Marcus wasn’t sure. Probably whatever was closest. He wasn’t fully certain of what that was, though he’d been in his new place for going on three weeks.

He’d know soon enough, he figured, after quickly exchanging sharp black pants for tight jeans, dress shoes for sneakers, and his sweat-stained T-shirt for a similar one that was definitely clean. He might not have loads of free time, what with the hours he worked, but Marcus always made sure to do the laundry at least once a week.

It was one of the things Steven?with his entirely dry-clean-only wardrobe?had always complained about. He’d been of the opinion that Marcus should have spent those two hours catering to him. He’d wanted Marcus to hire a service, for God’s sake. As if doing his own laundry was a sign that Marcus was inferior or something.

Well, maybe he was, but not to Steven. And doing his own wash was necessary, not to mention a skill that had taken Marcus months to get right, even with the advice from his uncle’s housekeeper—and hadn’t Connie gotten a laugh from that?

Marcus had never even seen a washing machine until he’d been twenty-three, and being able to handle his own day to day needs made him feel accomplished. Normal. Not that Marcus had ever bothered to explain that to his now-ex, which sort of implied that they really had been just as badly suited to each other as Marcus had feared, just a few months in. But he’d stuck it out, mostly because he’d never been good at being on his own. He was starting to get good, though—more comfortable with his own company, anyway.

None of which was bringing him any closer to being fed, Marcus reminded himself with a wry grin as he scooped up his keys and headed out the door.

Excerpt From: A Game of Chances

The light on Marcus Duncan’s old-fashioned answering machine blinked steadily, which was just annoying because he knew who it had to be.

He didn’t know why his ex, Steven, would be calling him, but there was no one else who would—not with Steven getting their friends in the split.

A loud, irritated sigh left him, even as he reached out and pressed the play button, his finger staying there for purposes of immediate deletion. He still didn’t want to hear Steven’s voice, not really. Not even now, two months after he’d kicked the bastard out of his?their?old place.

“Hey, Mar?” the voice started, and Marcus smirked at the beep the machine made when he pressed the button. If only it were as easy to erase the fourteen months he’d wasted on Steven in the first place.

“Sorry, I got cu?” the same voice, and this time Marcus snarled just a bit as he repeated his earlier motion, skipping past the message that was obviously a continuation of the last.

“Got cut off?” he spoke to the machine, feeling just a little bit like an idiot, but also…not. A guy needed to vent sometimes, Marcus figured, even if there was nobody there to hear him. “You’re lucky it’s just your messages I’m cutting off, asshole.”

And that was true enough, even though any action that was more proactive than just putting out Steven?along with his assorted random, but very expensive crap?would have landed Marcus in jail. Marcus still would have liked to have—but that was mean. And petty. And would have implied that Steven had had entirely too large of an impact on his life.

Marcus wouldn’t give the jerk the satisfaction.

One more message from the jackass was skipped, and Marcus’ finger was already starting to press the button again before he realised it was a different voice.

Different and… Oh, just listen to that little bit of drawl. It was charming, really, though Marcus would never say so out loud. Charming wasn’t the sort of word he generally flung about, after all.

“Um, hey. I don’t know if… Look, this might be a wrong number, but I’m trying to find an M. Duncan who used to live at 2437 Endwhisle Place? If… Okay, if this is the wrong number, then never mind, but if it’s not, um…I think you forgot to file a change of address with the post office and I’m getting all sorts of mail for you. Some of it looks like it might be important, so… Um, okay. If this is the right M. Duncan, call me back at…”

Marcus scrambled for a pen, finally digging one out of the pile of receipts and scraps of paper on the table by the phone. Then he had to start again, skipping Steven’s messages a second time so he could copy down the number.

The guy hadn’t left a name, but Marcus supposed it didn’t much matter. He apparently had whatever mail had slipped through the cracks at the post office, because Marcus clearly recalled filling out the stupid form. And giving it to one of the clerks, too.

He’d been getting mail at his new place, but that didn’t mean the postal service couldn’t have screwed up a time or two, and who knew how they managed to find every piece of mail for one single person anyway? Marcus surely didn’t.

And hell, if even one envelope was important, Marcus figured he owed the guy. It would have been so much easier to just throw it all away.

He almost picked up the phone, but his stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Things had gotten kind of crazy at the restaurant bar that afternoon, so Marcus hadn’t had time for lunch, which was possibly ironic, and…well, right at the moment, there was a pizza out there just calling his name.

Or maybe Chinese. Marcus wasn’t sure. Probably whatever was closest. He wasn’t fully certain of what that was, though he’d been in his new place for going on three weeks.

He’d know soon enough, he figured, after quickly exchanging sharp black pants for tight jeans, dress shoes for sneakers, and his sweat-stained T-shirt for a similar one that was definitely clean. He might not have loads of free time, what with the hours he worked, but Marcus always made sure to do the laundry at least once a week.

It was one of the things Steven?with his entirely dry-clean-only wardrobe?had always complained about. He’d been of the opinion that Marcus should have spent those two hours catering to him. He’d wanted Marcus to hire a service, for God’s sake. As if doing his own laundry was a sign that Marcus was inferior or something.

Well, maybe he was, but not to Steven. And doing his own wash was necessary, not to mention a skill that had taken Marcus months to get right, even with the advice from his uncle’s housekeeper—and hadn’t Connie gotten a laugh from that?

Marcus had never even seen a washing machine until he’d been twenty-three, and being able to handle his own day to day needs made him feel accomplished. Normal. Not that Marcus had ever bothered to explain that to his now-ex, which sort of implied that they really had been just as badly suited to each other as Marcus had feared, just a few months in. But he’d stuck it out, mostly because he’d never been good at being on his own. He was starting to get good, though—more comfortable with his own company, anyway.

None of which was bringing him any closer to being fed, Marcus reminded himself with a wry grin as he scooped up his keys and headed out the door.

Excerpt From: A Game of Hearts

"Okay, seriously? This is so not what I signed up for." He was complaining. River even knew he was complaining. He didn’t much care, though. The last thing he’d even considered when he and his sister, Moon, had decided to test with the Farmingdale Gentleman’s Club was that he might end up where he was—butt-naked and ass up on a cold table while some nameless guy slathered slickness on his ass. Why was he doing this again?

"You can stop whining any time," the man said, hands still moving, still getting the job done. "Besides, you’ll be thanking me soon. You know what I’m about to do. It’ll hurt without the goop."

River grunted and pushed his hips against the table, trying to get away from the careful but still firm touches. "It doesn’t exactly feel good, even with it."

A snort. "Lord, you guys are all the same. You act tough, but the minute something gets a little bit uncomfortable, you start bitching and moaning. Now, hold still. This won’t take long if you’ll just shut up and let me do it. Then you can go cry about how abused you are."

The guy chuckled and River seriously considered stopping him. Except he was right. It didn’t hurt as much as it had when they’d started. In fact, it was starting to feel almost good. "Fine," River grumbled, pillowing his head on his arms. "Go ahead. Do it. It’s not like I have all day."

"You sure you’re ready?" More of the cool, slick substance touched his bottom and River sighed as the careful spreading made it warmer. "I really don’t want to hurt you any more than I have to."

"I know, okay? Just...get it done, since you’re so damned insistent." He winced at the first sharp pressure, felt the burn. "Don’t stop. Just...fuck, man. Go for it."

The guy made a sound then, but River couldn’t tell if it was annoyed or amused. "Don’t rush me." Okay, amused, River decided. "I’m actually really good at this, or so I’ve been told. So just lie still and let me take care of you, got it?"

More sharp burning, and River closed his eyes and just breathed through it, slow and steady, body held tense and tight, though he knew it wasn’t helping.

"Okay. I’m done." Fuck. Finally. "Let me get you cleaned up and you can be on your way." Soft, damp cloth and a slight citrus scent, soothing his sore ass, and that was actually nice. "Okay. You can get up now."

River grunted and rolled carefully on to his side, then flipped his long blond braid back over his shoulder. "My pants are kind of messed up. Any chance of some scrubs or something?"

The nurse chuckled and tossed thin, folded fabric at him from across the room. "I still can’t figure out how you managed to land ass-first in a fireplace, but at least we got the blisters lanced before they went fully septic. The antibiotic ointment should keep them from coming back, but you’ll need to apply it three times a day for the next week. Also, you want to let the affected area get as much air as possible. And keep it clean."

River sighed and climbed gingerly from the examination table, making a face when the paper stuck to his skin. "Yeah, yeah. Keep my ass covered in gel and let it all hang out. Got it, man." He pulled on the scrub pants, easing them carefully over his burned rear. "That’ll be a big hit up on the Ranch, huh?"

"We’ll all try to restrain ourselves," he heard from behind him and River couldn’t help grinning when he turned to the door. "Now, come on. You’ve got debriefing."

River laughed. "I think I’m about as debriefed as a guy can get, man. And this dude just told me I’m supposed to stay naked as much as possible, so briefs? Not so much."

The too-pretty man in the doorway shook his head even as his laugh joined River’s. "Bad puns must mean you’re feeling better. Come on, River. Report, then you can head on up. I’m sure your usual room is ready and waiting."

"Good," River muttered, relieved. "I’m telling you, Marcus. I could use a little downtime. This last Game." He shook his head at the man he’d got to know fairly well over the last year or so. "Maybe I’ll tell you tonight. Unless you and Tanner have plans, dude."

They might, River figured. Marcus and Tanner were both busy guys; they had to find alone-time when they could. The last thing River would ever do was get in the way of that. Well, unless they asked him to, he thought with a grin as he followed Marcus from the room, moving slowly out of deference to his poor, burned ass.

Marcus glanced back and River figured the guy must have seen his wince because Marcus slowed down to walk beside him. "No special plans, Riv. Why don’t you come to dinner at the house? Cook’s making steak." He smirked. "Or he is since they called up to say you were on-site and injured. We’ll even let you eat on the couch so you can lie on your side."

Right, River reminded himself as he and Marcus made their way to the elevators outside Med. That was why he did it. The sense of family. Like he wasn’t just another Gentleman, but a friend, too. It pretty much made it all worthwhile.

Excerpt From: A Game of Hearts

"Okay, seriously? This is so not what I signed up for." He was complaining. River even knew he was complaining. He didn’t much care, though. The last thing he’d even considered when he and his sister, Moon, had decided to test with the Farmingdale Gentleman’s Club was that he might end up where he was—butt-naked and ass up on a cold table while some nameless guy slathered slickness on his ass. Why was he doing this again?

"You can stop whining any time," the man said, hands still moving, still getting the job done. "Besides, you’ll be thanking me soon. You know what I’m about to do. It’ll hurt without the goop."

River grunted and pushed his hips against the table, trying to get away from the careful but still firm touches. "It doesn’t exactly feel good, even with it."

A snort. "Lord, you guys are all the same. You act tough, but the minute something gets a little bit uncomfortable, you start bitching and moaning. Now, hold still. This won’t take long if you’ll just shut up and let me do it. Then you can go cry about how abused you are."

The guy chuckled and River seriously considered stopping him. Except he was right. It didn’t hurt as much as it had when they’d started. In fact, it was starting to feel almost good. "Fine," River grumbled, pillowing his head on his arms. "Go ahead. Do it. It’s not like I have all day."

"You sure you’re ready?" More of the cool, slick substance touched his bottom and River sighed as the careful spreading made it warmer. "I really don’t want to hurt you any more than I have to."

"I know, okay? Just...get it done, since you’re so damned insistent." He winced at the first sharp pressure, felt the burn. "Don’t stop. Just...fuck, man. Go for it."

The guy made a sound then, but River couldn’t tell if it was annoyed or amused. "Don’t rush me." Okay, amused, River decided. "I’m actually really good at this, or so I’ve been told. So just lie still and let me take care of you, got it?"

More sharp burning, and River closed his eyes and just breathed through it, slow and steady, body held tense and tight, though he knew it wasn’t helping.

"Okay. I’m done." Fuck. Finally. "Let me get you cleaned up and you can be on your way." Soft, damp cloth and a slight citrus scent, soothing his sore ass, and that was actually nice. "Okay. You can get up now."

River grunted and rolled carefully on to his side, then flipped his long blond braid back over his shoulder. "My pants are kind of messed up. Any chance of some scrubs or something?"

The nurse chuckled and tossed thin, folded fabric at him from across the room. "I still can’t figure out how you managed to land ass-first in a fireplace, but at least we got the blisters lanced before they went fully septic. The antibiotic ointment should keep them from coming back, but you’ll need to apply it three times a day for the next week. Also, you want to let the affected area get as much air as possible. And keep it clean."

River sighed and climbed gingerly from the examination table, making a face when the paper stuck to his skin. "Yeah, yeah. Keep my ass covered in gel and let it all hang out. Got it, man." He pulled on the scrub pants, easing them carefully over his burned rear. "That’ll be a big hit up on the Ranch, huh?"

"We’ll all try to restrain ourselves," he heard from behind him and River couldn’t help grinning when he turned to the door. "Now, come on. You’ve got debriefing."

River laughed. "I think I’m about as debriefed as a guy can get, man. And this dude just told me I’m supposed to stay naked as much as possible, so briefs? Not so much."

The too-pretty man in the doorway shook his head even as his laugh joined River’s. "Bad puns must mean you’re feeling better. Come on, River. Report, then you can head on up. I’m sure your usual room is ready and waiting."

"Good," River muttered, relieved. "I’m telling you, Marcus. I could use a little downtime. This last Game." He shook his head at the man he’d got to know fairly well over the last year or so. "Maybe I’ll tell you tonight. Unless you and Tanner have plans, dude."

They might, River figured. Marcus and Tanner were both busy guys; they had to find alone-time when they could. The last thing River would ever do was get in the way of that. Well, unless they asked him to, he thought with a grin as he followed Marcus from the room, moving slowly out of deference to his poor, burned ass.

Marcus glanced back and River figured the guy must have seen his wince because Marcus slowed down to walk beside him. "No special plans, Riv. Why don’t you come to dinner at the house? Cook’s making steak." He smirked. "Or he is since they called up to say you were on-site and injured. We’ll even let you eat on the couch so you can lie on your side."

Right, River reminded himself as he and Marcus made their way to the elevators outside Med. That was why he did it. The sense of family. Like he wasn’t just another Gentleman, but a friend, too. It pretty much made it all worthwhile.

Excerpt From: A Game of Schemes

Today

Darkness was an old friend. It wrapped him in shadow deeper than night and hung on him like a blanket on a cage, hiding him from prying eyes or accidental glances. And darkness was in his nature, in a strange sort of way, though it hadn't always been.

There had been a time when he wasn't cloaked in the colour of night, when his idea of a good time had involved less skulking and sneaking and fewer risks, or at least risks of a different nature. When he had believed in the innate goodness of people in general, though he really should have known better. His eyes had been opened to that fallacious concept, and not too long ago, either.

Whether it was too late or not was another question entirely, but he would never know if he didn't take the chance.

The wind whistled outside the windows, slashing rough and cold through the skeletons of trees gone dormant in preparation for the winter that fast approached. The sound alone made him shiver, or so he told himself. Better to shake from anticipation of the coming season than to admit even to himself that he was afraid.

It wasn't the sort of fear to freeze a man in his tracks, nor yet the variety that might cause one to reconsider. It was still fear, but there was a certain sense of thrill wrapped up in it, some biological function of adrenaline that urged him on. It spoke to his primal mind, a sort of this can be done and you're the one to do it, or something equally senseless but inescapable. And he would do it.

He would do it or...well, not die trying. There was little chance that he'd be so lucky, if caught. And that was the part that gave him some small bit of pause, but it was too late to back out. Too late to make other arrangements. There was no time, and he knew it better than anyone else.

The wind screamed again, rattling the glass this time, and he moved, shaken from his thoughts by the sense of time passing and the knowledge that he had a job to do.

He had one shot at it. Only one. He'd played out the plan in his mind at least a thousand times. It would work, or at least it could work.

He had one shot. He wouldn't screw it up, either. Not if he could help it.

Careful steps along the darkened hallway, senses sharp and aware. His unwitting hosts believed he'd left—headed into what passed as a town for a bit of fun. That lie would be useless if he were seen where he wasn't supposed to be.

He had no doubt that he could concoct some other story, should he be found before he'd penetrated too deeply, but that would mean he'd failed. With less than another twenty-four hours in his current location, this was it. All or nothing.

The darkness seemed to breathe around him as he closed in on the end of the hall, though it was only his imagination—and perhaps his own heart beating. It was the tension singing through his veins that made it seem so, he was sure.

The last door on the right was his goal. The last door before the hallway ended in a T and would force him to go one way or the other, through better-lit passages towards either more public areas or the private and guarded wing belonging to the family. Neither of those two options worked for what he was doing.

The hinges of the last door on the right barely whispered steel-on-steel when he opened the door slowly and slipped inside, but he hadn't expected anything else. He'd oiled the metal himself the night before, when he'd been invited to the small family gathering in the private wing. Fifteen seconds was all it had taken. Fifteen seconds to drizzle unguent over too-tight hinges, then discard the small squeeze bottle in the vase nearby.

The cleaning staff changed the flowers every three days. Even if he couldn't collect the proof of his passage later, by the time they emptied that particular vase, he would be well away from the complex, and even the entire country. And it still would never be traced back to him, but he didn't like the thought that some innocent servant might be blamed. Assuming there was such a thing as an innocent servant, of course, but even if there wasn't, no servant would be guilty of what he was about to do.

He allowed himself one brief, relieved breath once he'd closed the door behind him. He didn't lean against it, though he wanted to. In a building the age and size of the one he was currently ghosting his way through, even the stress-creak of an old wooden door might give him away. The security personnel weren't hapless, after all. They were simply set in their ways and unaware that he'd been watching them, learning their routines.

Thin leather soles made quick work of moving stealthily around the edges of the room and he pushed past the hanging velvet curtain that hid the closet enclosure. The first time he'd been in the room, the dust from the curtain had made him sneeze for nearly ten minutes, but that had been almost a month earlier. Either the dust had redistributed itself or he'd become used to it. Nobody, it seemed, used the closet in the largely neglected, oddly shaped room that had possibly been somebody's study, once. Nobody seemed to use the study at all, for that matter, as it held old, broken furniture and lamps. He didn't know why those things were being kept, but it wasn't his business.

He'd stayed in this very complex, years earlier, when he'd been but a child. Somewhere between other places his family's travels had taken them. He'd hidden in the same closet he'd just entered, a time or two back then. And being a boy with dreams and a ridiculous desire for adventures as fascinating as those he'd seen on screens and in books, he'd looked for the unexpected and had found it.

He had never mentioned the secret passageway from the grim, neglected room, and now that he was making use of it to fulfil his obligations, he never would.

The hidden entry made a small whine when he flipped the tiny toggle that triggered its opening, but it was such a subtle sound that he didn't worry. He'd barely heard it himself, after all, so there was little chance that anyone else might have. Even so, he waited thirty seconds, just in case, though he didn't know how on earth he would explain even being there, much less the soundless hinges on the door to the hall. When nothing changed, he stepped inside the passageway, ducking his head to clear the lintel, and pushed the panel behind him closed carefully.

A laugh fought for freedom when the red-lensed flashlight he'd brought showed him that the candle he'd used to wander the passageway so many years earlier still sat beside the wall, along with the old disposable lighter he'd discovered in one of the cars while playing one day. What had he been thinking, running around in the guts of a sprawling building of wood and stone with an open flame?

Still, it was a good sign that nobody had discovered the hidden secrets of the place. Not that he'd really expected anyone would, but the candle and lighter—along with the absence of any fresh footprints in the dust on the floor—had him feeling more hopeful. He left the detritus of his childhood behind, moving slowly through the passages he knew.

Straight ahead, sixty steps, though it had been eighty when he was younger. He saw the bent nail that had caused the little scar on his ribs and smiled, though he didn't have time for strolling down memory lane. The nail was only waist-high now.

He turned left a few feet later when the passageway branched, then went straight on, being very quiet now, his red beam trained at the floor less than a foot in front of him. He was behind the entry to the family wing, and the guards weren't likely to think any sounds he made were anything more than mice, or possibly rats. To the best of his recollection, the walls in this area were on the thin side.

"...getting fucked, probably."

Excerpt From: A Game of Schemes

Today

Darkness was an old friend. It wrapped him in shadow deeper than night and hung on him like a blanket on a cage, hiding him from prying eyes or accidental glances. And darkness was in his nature, in a strange sort of way, though it hadn't always been.

There had been a time when he wasn't cloaked in the colour of night, when his idea of a good time had involved less skulking and sneaking and fewer risks, or at least risks of a different nature. When he had believed in the innate goodness of people in general, though he really should have known better. His eyes had been opened to that fallacious concept, and not too long ago, either.

Whether it was too late or not was another question entirely, but he would never know if he didn't take the chance.

The wind whistled outside the windows, slashing rough and cold through the skeletons of trees gone dormant in preparation for the winter that fast approached. The sound alone made him shiver, or so he told himself. Better to shake from anticipation of the coming season than to admit even to himself that he was afraid.

It wasn't the sort of fear to freeze a man in his tracks, nor yet the variety that might cause one to reconsider. It was still fear, but there was a certain sense of thrill wrapped up in it, some biological function of adrenaline that urged him on. It spoke to his primal mind, a sort of this can be done and you're the one to do it, or something equally senseless but inescapable. And he would do it.

He would do it or...well, not die trying. There was little chance that he'd be so lucky, if caught. And that was the part that gave him some small bit of pause, but it was too late to back out. Too late to make other arrangements. There was no time, and he knew it better than anyone else.

The wind screamed again, rattling the glass this time, and he moved, shaken from his thoughts by the sense of time passing and the knowledge that he had a job to do.

He had one shot at it. Only one. He'd played out the plan in his mind at least a thousand times. It would work, or at least it could work.

He had one shot. He wouldn't screw it up, either. Not if he could help it.

Careful steps along the darkened hallway, senses sharp and aware. His unwitting hosts believed he'd left-headed into what passed as a town for a bit of fun. That lie would be useless if he were seen where he wasn't supposed to be.

He had no doubt that he could concoct some other story, should he be found before he'd penetrated too deeply, but that would mean he'd failed. With less than another twenty-four hours in his current location, this was it. All or nothing.

The darkness seemed to breathe around him as he closed in on the end of the hall, though it was only his imagination-and perhaps his own heart beating. It was the tension singing through his veins that made it seem so, he was sure.

The last door on the right was his goal. The last door before the hallway ended in a T and would force him to go one way or the other, through better-lit passages towards either more public areas or the private and guarded wing belonging to the family. Neither of those two options worked for what he was doing.

The hinges of the last door on the right barely whispered steel-on-steel when he opened the door slowly and slipped inside, but he hadn't expected anything else. He'd oiled the metal himself the night before, when he'd been invited to the small family gathering in the private wing. Fifteen seconds was all it had taken. Fifteen seconds to drizzle unguent over too-tight hinges, then discard the small squeeze bottle in the vase nearby.

The cleaning staff changed the flowers every three days. Even if he couldn't collect the proof of his passage later, by the time they emptied that particular vase, he would be well away from the complex, and even the entire country. And it still would never be traced back to him, but he didn't like the thought that some innocent servant might be blamed. Assuming there was such a thing as an innocent servant, of course, but even if there wasn't, no servant would be guilty of what he was about to do.

He allowed himself one brief, relieved breath once he'd closed the door behind him. He didn't lean against it, though he wanted to. In a building the age and size of the one he was currently ghosting his way through, even the stress-creak of an old wooden door might give him away. The security personnel weren't hapless, after all. They were simply set in their ways and unaware that he'd been watching them, learning their routines.

Thin leather soles made quick work of moving stealthily around the edges of the room and he pushed past the hanging velvet curtain that hid the closet enclosure. The first time he'd been in the room, the dust from the curtain had made him sneeze for nearly ten minutes, but that had been almost a month earlier. Either the dust had redistributed itself or he'd become used to it. Nobody, it seemed, used the closet in the largely neglected, oddly shaped room that had possibly been somebody's study, once. Nobody seemed to use the study at all, for that matter, as it held old, broken furniture and lamps. He didn't know why those things were being kept, but it wasn't his business.

He'd stayed in this very complex, years earlier, when he'd been but a child. Somewhere between other places his family's travels had taken them. He'd hidden in the same closet he'd just entered, a time or two back then. And being a boy with dreams and a ridiculous desire for adventures as fascinating as those he'd seen on screens and in books, he'd looked for the unexpected and had found it.

He had never mentioned the secret passageway from the grim, neglected room, and now that he was making use of it to fulfil his obligations, he never would.

The hidden entry made a small whine when he flipped the tiny toggle that triggered its opening, but it was such a subtle sound that he didn't worry. He'd barely heard it himself, after all, so there was little chance that anyone else might have. Even so, he waited thirty seconds, just in case, though he didn't know how on earth he would explain even being there, much less the soundless hinges on the door to the hall. When nothing changed, he stepped inside the passageway, ducking his head to clear the lintel, and pushed the panel behind him closed carefully.

A laugh fought for freedom when the red-lensed flashlight he'd brought showed him that the candle he'd used to wander the passageway so many years earlier still sat beside the wall, along with the old disposable lighter he'd discovered in one of the cars while playing one day. What had he been thinking, running around in the guts of a sprawling building of wood and stone with an open flame?

Still, it was a good sign that nobody had discovered the hidden secrets of the place. Not that he'd really expected anyone would, but the candle and lighter—along with the absence of any fresh footprints in the dust on the floor—had him feeling more hopeful. He left the detritus of his childhood behind, moving slowly through the passages he knew.

Straight ahead, sixty steps, though it had been eighty when he was younger. He saw the bent nail that had caused the little scar on his ribs and smiled, though he didn't have time for strolling down memory lane. The nail was only waist-high now.

He turned left a few feet later when the passageway branched, then went straight on, being very quiet now, his red beam trained at the floor less than a foot in front of him. He was behind the entry to the family wing, and the guards weren't likely to think any sounds he made were anything more than mice, or possibly rats. To the best of his recollection, the walls in this area were on the thin side.

"...getting fucked, probably."

Excerpt From: A Game of Skills

It was the small tinge of wildness in the blond’s eyes that had Morgan Day pausing—wildness at rest, because the young man wasn’t at all agitated. He wasn’t doing anything but standing there, tray in hand while he stared at Morgan. Then Morgan saw a small ripple of recognition swim over those near-black eyes and only years of hiding in plain sight allowed him to keep his response to a purely internal shit.

He forced his own gaze to pass over the young man. Forced himself to pat his pockets as if he’d slowed merely to confirm that he had everything he needed. His steps were measured and sure as he moved on, eyes straight ahead as his mind muttered left, right, left, right, feet following the careful cadence from long years of practice. He held to it until he rounded the corner, at which point, he…ran.

Blocks passed in an eternity that seemed to stretch on and on, but he didn’t dare move any faster. He could hurt someone by accident, moving at full speed, but more importantly, running full-tilt into some strolling person just wandering about as people were prone to do on warm and sunny Saturday afternoons might hurt him. Might slow him down enough that he wouldn’t make it in time.

The deli slipped past then a block farther, the laundry. He slowed there to look through the glass storefront then slid back into his fast jog. Plenty of people, but not the ones that mattered. Then the little grocery where they did all their shopping and three doors down, the local pawn shop.

Morgan ducked inside, one hand digging deep into his pants’ pocket as he tried to remember exactly how much cash he had with him.

Not enough. He knew that for a fact as he exited the store, one side of his jacket weighed down by his purchases. Not nearly enough, which meant he would have to take a chance later, but he’d work it out. He would. It wouldn’t be the first time, after all.

Two more blocks that he ran by memory, knowing what lay between the pawn shop and the dingy little second storey walk-up they were calling home for the moment.

“Ellie!” he called out, even as he fumbled with his keys, the urgency singing through his veins, screeching a nails-on-chalkboard soprano that hurt so much nothing would help other than having it stop. “Ellie! Rico! We gotta move!”

The door swung too far, knob slamming into the wall behind it from his hard shove.

“Morgan!” Ellie shrieked, the sound loud and strident and almost as bad as the urgent need to get the hell away, to get out. “There goes our deposit, damn it!”

“Christ! Fuck the deposit, Ellie, we need to fucking go!”

He was already shoving a few extra things into the big duffel bag he would shoulder like he always did, and Rico was doing the same, though slower and with a smaller bag. But Ellie? God damn it, Ellie was just standing there as if they had all the time in the world. As if she’d really believed they’d be staying this time. In Brooklyn. For long enough to get the deposit back on the one room shit-box when their so-called lease expired.

“Damn it, Ellie,” Morgan growled, ignoring her crossed arms and narrowed green glare. “Get your shit! We’re already on borrowed time!” His own bag full enough that he could barely clip the top closed, he tossed it at the door and started in on her backpack. Her entirely empty camping backpack. “Jesus fucking Christ! Which part of ‘always be ready’ do you not understand? Or are you just tired of breathing?”

It wasn’t until he came out of the bathroom a few minutes later to throw what Ellie called her ‘girly supplies’ into her bag that she seemed to realise he was serious, and damn it, Morgan would make her pay for making him touch them. Later. Once they were gone and safe. Once Rico was safe.

“You’re serious,” Ellie nearly whispered, her usually gold-toned face suddenly white and stark. Good. It meant she was remembering. Meant she was finally catching up with just how screwed they would all be if she didn’t get her ass in gear.

“I’m always serious,” Morgan grunted, checking the straps on Rico’s backpack, which was necessarily much smaller than Ellie’s, but no less important to them all. “Here,” he said, giving Rico a smile as he pulled the snub-nosed revolver from his jacket and handed it over. “You remember how to use this, don’t you, Rico? Brace yourself against a wall or something big and sturdy—”

“Point, aim low and shoot. Duh.” Well, at least Rico was on board, which was more than Morgan could say for Ellie because she was still just standing there, bone-pale and shaking.

“Damn it, Ellie, get your fucking bag on and let’s go!” He could be wrong. It was possible. Maybe the guy at that café hadn’t really recognised him, but Morgan couldn’t take that chance, couldn’t afford to even hope. Not with Ellie and Rico’s lives depending on him to trust his instincts. “Or do you want the kid in their hands?”

If he’d cared any less for Rico, he would have gone easier on Ellie, but while his and Ellie’s lives were at stake in one way, Rico’s was endangered in an entirely different manner. Morgan would die himself if it meant keeping Rico from whatever the people after them had planned, even without knowing exactly what that was.

It couldn’t be good; that much Morgan was sure of. Any group that would resort to illegal means to ‘acquire’ a child once the legal avenues had been exhausted couldn’t possibly want that same kid for philanthropic reasons.

“Okay,” Ellie finally answered, pack on her back and strapped solidly around her waist. “Let’s do this.” She was breathing fast and hard, but she looked steady, finally. Ready.

Thank God, if he even existed. If he did, Morgan figured he’d forgive the uncertainty. After all, God would have to know exactly what the three of them had been through in the last two years. It was enough to shake anyone’s faith, especially someone who’d never been a true believer.

“You and Rico will need to hide once we get to the bodega,” Morgan said, giving Ellie a quick nod when he saw the nine millimetre held down beside her leg. She was thinking again. Good. “I have to collect that package then we’re out of here.”

“For fuck’s sake, Morgan, you couldn’t have taken care of that first?”

Morgan nodded, short and sharp, as he hit his zone and emotion drained away. “I could have. I thought it was more important to get the two of you out of here before our ‘visitors’ crashed the party. Now shut the fuck up and follow my lead. You too, Rico. We’re nowhere near out of the woods yet.”

“Or even out of Brooklyn,” Rico piped in, and Morgan would have to remember that later. Would have to tell Rico that being precocious was all well and good, but being a smug little pain in the ass was another thing entirely. Later.

Excerpt From: A Game of Skills

It was the small tinge of wildness in the blond’s eyes that had Morgan Day pausing—wildness at rest, because the young man wasn’t at all agitated. He wasn’t doing anything but standing there, tray in hand while he stared at Morgan. Then Morgan saw a small ripple of recognition swim over those near-black eyes and only years of hiding in plain sight allowed him to keep his response to a purely internal shit.

He forced his own gaze to pass over the young man. Forced himself to pat his pockets as if he’d slowed merely to confirm that he had everything he needed. His steps were measured and sure as he moved on, eyes straight ahead as his mind muttered left, right, left, right, feet following the careful cadence from long years of practice. He held to it until he rounded the corner, at which point, he…ran.

Blocks passed in an eternity that seemed to stretch on and on, but he didn’t dare move any faster. He could hurt someone by accident, moving at full speed, but more importantly, running full-tilt into some strolling person just wandering about as people were prone to do on warm and sunny Saturday afternoons might hurt him. Might slow him down enough that he wouldn’t make it in time.

The deli slipped past then a block farther, the laundry. He slowed there to look through the glass storefront then slid back into his fast jog. Plenty of people, but not the ones that mattered. Then the little grocery where they did all their shopping and three doors down, the local pawn shop.

Morgan ducked inside, one hand digging deep into his pants’ pocket as he tried to remember exactly how much cash he had with him.

Not enough. He knew that for a fact as he exited the store, one side of his jacket weighed down by his purchases. Not nearly enough, which meant he would have to take a chance later, but he’d work it out. He would. It wouldn’t be the first time, after all.

Two more blocks that he ran by memory, knowing what lay between the pawn shop and the dingy little second storey walk-up they were calling home for the moment.

“Ellie!” he called out, even as he fumbled with his keys, the urgency singing through his veins, screeching a nails-on-chalkboard soprano that hurt so much nothing would help other than having it stop. “Ellie! Rico! We gotta move!”

The door swung too far, knob slamming into the wall behind it from his hard shove.

“Morgan!” Ellie shrieked, the sound loud and strident and almost as bad as the urgent need to get the hell away, to get out. “There goes our deposit, damn it!”

“Christ! Fuck the deposit, Ellie, we need to fucking go!”

He was already shoving a few extra things into the big duffel bag he would shoulder like he always did, and Rico was doing the same, though slower and with a smaller bag. But Ellie? God damn it, Ellie was just standing there as if they had all the time in the world. As if she’d really believed they’d be staying this time. In Brooklyn. For long enough to get the deposit back on the one room shit-box when their so-called lease expired.

“Damn it, Ellie,” Morgan growled, ignoring her crossed arms and narrowed green glare. “Get your shit! We’re already on borrowed time!” His own bag full enough that he could barely clip the top closed, he tossed it at the door and started in on her backpack. Her entirely empty camping backpack. “Jesus fucking Christ! Which part of ‘always be ready’ do you not understand? Or are you just tired of breathing?”

It wasn’t until he came out of the bathroom a few minutes later to throw what Ellie called her ‘girly supplies’ into her bag that she seemed to realise he was serious, and damn it, Morgan would make her pay for making him touch them. Later. Once they were gone and safe. Once Rico was safe.

“You’re serious,” Ellie nearly whispered, her usually gold-toned face suddenly white and stark. Good. It meant she was remembering. Meant she was finally catching up with just how screwed they would all be if she didn’t get her ass in gear.

“I’m always serious,” Morgan grunted, checking the straps on Rico’s backpack, which was necessarily much smaller than Ellie’s, but no less important to them all. “Here,” he said, giving Rico a smile as he pulled the snub-nosed revolver from his jacket and handed it over. “You remember how to use this, don’t you, Rico? Brace yourself against a wall or something big and sturdy—”

“Point, aim low and shoot. Duh.” Well, at least Rico was on board, which was more than Morgan could say for Ellie because she was still just standing there, bone-pale and shaking.

“Damn it, Ellie, get your fucking bag on and let’s go!” He could be wrong. It was possible. Maybe the guy at that café hadn’t really recognised him, but Morgan couldn’t take that chance, couldn’t afford to even hope. Not with Ellie and Rico’s lives depending on him to trust his instincts. “Or do you want the kid in their hands?”

If he’d cared any less for Rico, he would have gone easier on Ellie, but while his and Ellie’s lives were at stake in one way, Rico’s was endangered in an entirely different manner. Morgan would die himself if it meant keeping Rico from whatever the people after them had planned, even without knowing exactly what that was.

It couldn’t be good; that much Morgan was sure of. Any group that would resort to illegal means to ‘acquire’ a child once the legal avenues had been exhausted couldn’t possibly want that same kid for philanthropic reasons.

“Okay,” Ellie finally answered, pack on her back and strapped solidly around her waist. “Let’s do this.” She was breathing fast and hard, but she looked steady, finally. Ready.

Thank God, if he even existed. If he did, Morgan figured he’d forgive the uncertainty. After all, God would have to know exactly what the three of them had been through in the last two years. It was enough to shake anyone’s faith, especially someone who’d never been a true believer.

“You and Rico will need to hide once we get to the bodega,” Morgan said, giving Ellie a quick nod when he saw the nine millimetre held down beside her leg. She was thinking again. Good. “I have to collect that package then we’re out of here.”

“For fuck’s sake, Morgan, you couldn’t have taken care of that first?”

Morgan nodded, short and sharp, as he hit his zone and emotion drained away. “I could have. I thought it was more important to get the two of you out of here before our ‘visitors’ crashed the party. Now shut the fuck up and follow my lead. You too, Rico. We’re nowhere near out of the woods yet.”

“Or even out of Brooklyn,” Rico piped in, and Morgan would have to remember that later. Would have to tell Rico that being precocious was all well and good, but being a smug little pain in the ass was another thing entirely. Later.

Excerpt From: A Gamma's Choice

Kaden Danes stood in the doorway of the kitchen tent and peered inside at the hustle and bustle. He'd waited years for this moment. Finally at eighteen, the age of consent, he could become a kitchen hand. Unfortunately there were two small problems-his feet refusing to enter and the swirling nausea churning around his stomach with tornado-like velocity.

"Don't just stand there, boy! If you want something come inside." Denel Jackson, the kitchen manager, flashed him a disapproving look with his sharp brown eyes. Kaden had studied the man before applying, determined to learn all he could about the person who could shape his future. He'd talked to people who'd worked with Denel in the past and had researched the man's reputation online. Everyone had told him the manager made a fair but tough mentor and Kaden would be lucky if he could convince Denel to take him on.

"Sorry, sir." Kaden cast his eyes respectfully downward. "I've come to work in the kitchens if you'll have me."

He forced his fidgety muscles to remain still while the manager looked him over. He knew what Denel saw when he looked at Kaden but he hoped to get the job anyway. Kaden bit his lip trying to hold back the urge to plead with the manager. If Denel didn't want him he'd try to leave gracefully.

"Kind of pretty to work the kitchens, aren't you?" Denel asked after a minute that felt stretched to eternity.

"Yes, sir." Kaden couldn't deny the facts. His mother's genes had made him delicately built, and by everyone's account, too pretty for a man. Hopefully it wouldn't hold back his career. Kaden swallowed the lump of nerves in his throat, not daring to look up. His entire life hung in the balance of the manager's decision.

Most gammas raced to be part of the sex squad as soon as they came of age, eager to service all the beta soldiers. Kitchen work generally went to omegas and older, mated gammas. But Kaden dreamt of cooking. Mixing flavours, toasting spices and cooking meat until it reached its pinnacle of taste—those were the hopes filling his head at night.

"I-I've always wanted to cook, sir," Kaden confessed. He blushed beneath Denel's intense stare but refused to back away. He needed this. He had to get this position. His entire life depended on the kitchen manager's answer.

"Really?"

Kaden glanced up in time to catch the look of surprise in the manager's eyes before returning his gaze to the floor. He nodded. "Yes, sir."

Denel folded his arms over his chest. Kaden's heart sank. "Have you cooked before?" Denel asked.

Kaden couldn't blame the man for his disbelief. Most male werekin didn't want to become cooks. It didn't fit the tough alpha mould. However, Kaden had never been the stereotypical werekin and he refused to give up on his dream. If he had to, he'd pursue his goals in the humans' territory.

Participating in the war and doing his part were important to Kaden, but he'd never be a fighter. Violence didn't settle well with his naturally passive nature, even though he knew the wolves couldn't let the vampires win. Shifters would be endangered if the vampires had their way. The war between the two forces, now in its sixth year, had no end in sight and since the vampires truly wanted all werekin dead, Kaden didn't anticipate it ending soon.

"My nana taught me how to cook." Kaden smiled at the memory. As the youngest grandchild by a wide margin, Kaden had always been the one left behind when the others ran off to hunt. His grandmother, a human, had kept young Kaden busy preparing food for when the others returned. When she'd died last year, he'd vowed to keep his promise to her and follow his passion. The rest of his family had thought he'd lost his marbles. None of them would stand in his way, but they didn't outwardly support him either. He had to do this to honour her. Still looking respectfully to the side, he could only hear the manager come forward.

Excerpt From: A Gentleman's Harlot

Pearl Lewis looked up from her sewing, needle poised above the small square of white fabric. “What did you just say?” She stared at Frances, one of two childhood friends who had come for afternoon tea, taking in her flushed cheeks and devilish smile. Frances’s words had held such a hint of daring, of non-conformation, that Pearl wanted her to repeat them just so she could revel in them again.

Sitting on Pearl’s left, Frances smiled and shook her riot of blonde curls back from her face, the corn colour enhanced by the sunlight streaming through the two windows behind their wing chairs. “I said, would you not just love to visit the new men’s club and become one of their women?”

Pearl tried to hide a smile. Frances’s shocking statements never failed to amuse her. She dropped her needle to her lap and covered her mouth with one hand. Her cheeks flushed at the thoughts Frances’s suggestion brought, and she closed her eyes for a moment to sift through the images. Men fondling women—Oh God, how…naughty!—women touching men there, and several people at once, all naked, all having…sex.

Pearl opened her eyes to find her other friend’s face directly in front of hers, Elizabeth’s black hair hanging rod straight as she hunkered down and placed her hands on her knees. Her dark blue eyes were hooded due to the unsightly frown she wore, and Pearl started, slapping her hand over her heart.

“Oh, you scared me, Beth! I did not expect to see you there like that.”

Elizabeth leaned closer, head tilted, the ornately carved mahogany mantelpiece behind her framing her as though she were a painting. Elizabeth regarded her with such scrutiny Pearl grew uncomfortable.

“What did you see just then?” Elizabeth asked, her voice quiet, a hint of reproach in her tone. The case clock beside the crackling fire ticked for several seconds, and her mouth formed a tight pink line that did not become her. She whispered, “With your eyes closed. What did you see?”

Pearl cleared her throat and looked away from Elizabeth to Frances, who smothered a giggle behind her long, slender fingers. Pearl tried to convey that she needed help by widening her eyes, but

Frances made much ado about continuing with her sewing, pursing her lips in concentration.

“I…I really do not think,” Pearl turned back to Elizabeth, “it is proper for me to say.”

Elizabeth widened her eyes and reared back, as though in shock that Pearl had refused to share her thoughts.

Pearl rushed on. “Oh, it is not because I do not want to share. I do, but you are so…sensitive about certain things that I would hate for you to leave here somewhat…disturbed.”

“Disturbed?” Elizabeth stood abruptly and paced up and down the cream and blue patterned rug before the fireplace, her dark green dress swishing with each step. “Whatever do you mean?” She paused, staring first at Frances and then at Pearl. “Oh! You were not thinking…you did not…?”

Pearl clamped her lips closed, nodded and looked down at her lap, picking up her sewing. “I thought things I perhaps should not have, Beth.” She jabbed the needle through the material—a handkerchief she was embroidering on each corner—and pricked her finger. “Ouch!” She jumped up, placed her sewing on the chair seat and popped her finger into her mouth. The taste of copper flooded her tongue.

“Really, Pearl! You are almost as bad as Frances.” Elizabeth paced again, throwing an appalled glance at the blonde. “I wish you two would hurry along and get married like me. Then perhaps you would not wish to discuss such a thing as being a gentleman’s harlot. Pearl, your mother and father would spin in their graves if they heard even a snippet of the conversations you two have, and it is a blessing your aunt is old and easily fooled. If she were to walk past this door she would never let you leave this house!”

Pearl chanced a peek at Frances, who eyed her from beneath lowered lashes, her lack of control obvious as her cheeks reddened and her mouth curved. Frances released a peal of laughter, throwing her head back.

Pearl giggled, unable to remain chastised. “Oh, Beth, please! Surely you know Frances was only talking. It is not as though she intends to do such a thing.” Pearl looked at Elizabeth.

She stalked back to her seat and sat with dignity and grace. “One never knows with Frances,” she muttered, lifting her reticule on to her lap and dropping her sewing inside. “And, much as I love you both, I really do not feel I can visit for afternoon tea once a week if the conversation is going to revolve around things like…that. The gentleman’s club of which you speak is situated in a terrible part of the city, so I heard. Frances, how you could even contemplate visiting such an establishment, even if it were in a respectable part of London, is beyond me.” She glared at Frances, then stood and hung her bag over her forearm. “And to think only an hour ago we were discussing the terrible murders that have been occurring,” she paused for her usual dramatic effect, “in the very same area!” Sharp lines marred her forehead. “I shall wait out in the foyer. Gerald will be here shortly to collect me.” She flounced from the room, shutting the door loudly behind her.

Pearl stared at the door, her mouth hanging slightly open. Frances’s laughter filled the room again, and Pearl turned to look at her, ready to admonish the young woman, but she failed. Her own laughter spilled, loud and hearty, and tears welled in her eyes.

“Oh, we should not laugh at her, Frances.”

Frances composed herself and adjusted the neckline of her rose-pink dress, patting it once satisfied it lay in place. “She has become so priggish since she married Gerald that I cannot stand it. I say these things to rile her, you know.”

“I am well aware of that.” Pearl smiled. She took her sewing from her seat and put it on the round occasional table between their chairs. She glanced out the window at the front lawn, spying Gerald’s coach trundling up the curved driveway. “He is here. Should I see her out?”

Frances snorted. “Oh, leave Mrs Prissy to see herself out. If she sets eyes on us any more today she is likely to explode. Besides, your aunt might have waylaid her. I hear someone talking.”

Excerpt From: A Gentleman's Harlot

Pearl Lewis looked up from her sewing, needle poised above the small square of white fabric. “What did you just say?” She stared at Frances, one of two childhood friends who had come for afternoon tea, taking in her flushed cheeks and devilish smile. Frances’s words had held such a hint of daring, of non-conformation, that Pearl wanted her to repeat them just so she could revel in them again.

Sitting on Pearl’s left, Frances smiled and shook her riot of blonde curls back from her face, the corn colour enhanced by the sunlight streaming through the two windows behind their wing chairs. “I said, would you not just love to visit the new men’s club and become one of their women?”

Pearl tried to hide a smile. Frances’s shocking statements never failed to amuse her. She dropped her needle to her lap and covered her mouth with one hand. Her cheeks flushed at the thoughts Frances’s suggestion brought, and she closed her eyes for a moment to sift through the images. Men fondling women—Oh God, how…naughty!—women touching men there, and several people at once, all naked, all having…sex.

Pearl opened her eyes to find her other friend’s face directly in front of hers, Elizabeth’s black hair hanging rod straight as she hunkered down and placed her hands on her knees. Her dark blue eyes were hooded due to the unsightly frown she wore, and Pearl started, slapping her hand over her heart.

“Oh, you scared me, Beth! I did not expect to see you there like that.”

Elizabeth leaned closer, head tilted, the ornately carved mahogany mantelpiece behind her framing her as though she were a painting. Elizabeth regarded her with such scrutiny Pearl grew uncomfortable.

“What did you see just then?” Elizabeth asked, her voice quiet, a hint of reproach in her tone. The case clock beside the crackling fire ticked for several seconds, and her mouth formed a tight pink line that did not become her. She whispered, “With your eyes closed. What did you see?”

Pearl cleared her throat and looked away from Elizabeth to Frances, who smothered a giggle behind her long, slender fingers. Pearl tried to convey that she needed help by widening her eyes, but

Frances made much ado about continuing with her sewing, pursing her lips in concentration.

“I…I really do not think,” Pearl turned back to Elizabeth, “it is proper for me to say.”

Elizabeth widened her eyes and reared back, as though in shock that Pearl had refused to share her thoughts.

Pearl rushed on. “Oh, it is not because I do not want to share. I do, but you are so…sensitive about certain things that I would hate for you to leave here somewhat…disturbed.”

“Disturbed?” Elizabeth stood abruptly and paced up and down the cream and blue patterned rug before the fireplace, her dark green dress swishing with each step. “Whatever do you mean?” She paused, staring first at Frances and then at Pearl. “Oh! You were not thinking…you did not…?”

Pearl clamped her lips closed, nodded and looked down at her lap, picking up her sewing. “I thought things I perhaps should not have, Beth.” She jabbed the needle through the material—a handkerchief she was embroidering on each corner—and pricked her finger. “Ouch!” She jumped up, placed her sewing on the chair seat and popped her finger into her mouth. The taste of copper flooded her tongue.

“Really, Pearl! You are almost as bad as Frances.” Elizabeth paced again, throwing an appalled glance at the blonde. “I wish you two would hurry along and get married like me. Then perhaps you would not wish to discuss such a thing as being a gentleman’s harlot. Pearl, your mother and father would spin in their graves if they heard even a snippet of the conversations you two have, and it is a blessing your aunt is old and easily fooled. If she were to walk past this door she would never let you leave this house!”

Pearl chanced a peek at Frances, who eyed her from beneath lowered lashes, her lack of control obvious as her cheeks reddened and her mouth curved. Frances released a peal of laughter, throwing her head back.

Pearl giggled, unable to remain chastised. “Oh, Beth, please! Surely you know Frances was only talking. It is not as though she intends to do such a thing.” Pearl looked at Elizabeth.

She stalked back to her seat and sat with dignity and grace. “One never knows with Frances,” she muttered, lifting her reticule on to her lap and dropping her sewing inside. “And, much as I love you both, I really do not feel I can visit for afternoon tea once a week if the conversation is going to revolve around things like…that. The gentleman’s club of which you speak is situated in a terrible part of the city, so I heard. Frances, how you could even contemplate visiting such an establishment, even if it were in a respectable part of London, is beyond me.” She glared at Frances, then stood and hung her bag over her forearm. “And to think only an hour ago we were discussing the terrible murders that have been occurring,” she paused for her usual dramatic effect, “in the very same area!” Sharp lines marred her forehead. “I shall wait out in the foyer. Gerald will be here shortly to collect me.” She flounced from the room, shutting the door loudly behind her.

Pearl stared at the door, her mouth hanging slightly open. Frances’s laughter filled the room again, and Pearl turned to look at her, ready to admonish the young woman, but she failed. Her own laughter spilled, loud and hearty, and tears welled in her eyes.

“Oh, we should not laugh at her, Frances.”

Frances composed herself and adjusted the neckline of her rose-pink dress, patting it once satisfied it lay in place. “She has become so priggish since she married Gerald that I cannot stand it. I say these things to rile her, you know.”

“I am well aware of that.” Pearl smiled. She took her sewing from her seat and put it on the round occasional table between their chairs. She glanced out the window at the front lawn, spying Gerald’s coach trundling up the curved driveway. “He is here. Should I see her out?”

Frances snorted. “Oh, leave Mrs Prissy to see herself out. If she sets eyes on us any more today she is likely to explode. Besides, your aunt might have waylaid her. I hear someone talking.”

Excerpt From: A Ghost on Two Wheels

"Barney!" I lean out of the back door and holler up into the meadow. "Barney, damn it, come on in!" As I have for the past several days, I hope to see him dart out from our rickety barn, his namesake and his favourite haunt, and plummet down the gentle slope to our back door like a ginger lightning bolt. Barney enjoys nothing more than lurking in that dusty old barn, chasing field mice and sparrows and lizards, then resting after his hunts in my lap.

We inherited Barney when we bought this old farmhouse ten years ago. After we moved in, we told Mack Grayden, the owner, that we’d found a cat in the barn.

Mack had shrugged and spat on the ground. "Just an old barn cat," the crusty old man had grunted. "And I got no use for him where I’m going. Keep him or call animal control to pick him up, don’t matter none to me. Reckon you might want a good mouser, though. Keep mice from gettin’ into the place."

We decided to give the unnamed mouser a trial period. I set out dry cat food in a dish, and the cat acted like it was wild salmon on a bed of caviar. Apparently Mack had never fed the cat at all and had just left him to fend for himself with mice and lizards and whatever else he could catch. The poor, scrawny thing was just skin and bones. We fattened him up, got him checked out at the vet, and invited him into the house. Our hand-me-down cat proved to be a well-adjusted and contented pet, as well as a very, very good eater. He’d rolled with the punches delivered by his neglectful previous owner Mack, and was more than ready for the next phase of his life. Now Barney, as we named the orange barn cat, is part of our family, a huge, tough tomcat who sleeps at the foot of our bed and curls next to me while I write, as loyal as any dog.

I wait and I hope, but there’s no lightning bolt this morning.

Michael comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. "I’m afraid he’s gone, babe," he says quietly, and plants a kiss on my neck. "He’s been missing for six days now."

Fear stings the back of my throat and I swallow painfully. I just can’t bring myself to believe it. "He’s been gone for a week before and come back, hungry and filthy and covered in burrs. He’s probably just out hunting," I insist. I cup my hands around my mouth and shout once more into the air. "Barney! Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!"

Michael leaves me to my yelling and walks to the coffee pot.

I shut the back door with a sigh. "You think he’s really gone for good?" I ask quietly.

Michael pours two cups of coffee and sloshes some cream in the mug intended for me. He hands it to me and answers carefully. "Barney’s an old cat, Ivy," he says quietly. "And he was starting to move pretty slowly. He’s had a good, long life, but he may have gone off to die if he felt the time was near. Outdoor cats do that sometimes, you know." He sees me bite my lip and quickly adds, "But I could be wrong. He could show up any minute, begging for some Fancy Feast and a nap in your lap. What do I know, right?" He smiles at me over his coffee cup, blue eyes glinting warmly.

Two months into his biannual buzz-cut has given a nicely tousled look to his wavy black hair. I love how he can’t be bothered with frequent haircuts, yet manages to look devastatingly hot with his hair at every length from shaved to shaggy. I think that now is my favourite hair length on him, though—long enough to run my fingers through his short waves, and still short enough to stand up on its ends.

"Wanna go for a ride this afternoon?" Michael asks. "I’ve got an appointment this morning, but we could get a nice little putt in after lunch. It’s going to be gorgeous today. I’ve got the Chief waxed and ready to ride." He clears his throat before continuing. "I thought today would be a good day to get started on our new tats. Joe and Chloe have time for both of us at two o’clock."

Excerpt From: A Ghost Story

Manchester, England 1899

From Lord and Lady Maplethorpe:

You are cordially invited to attend an intimate soirée on the evening of February 24th at 8 p.m. The renowned poet Mr Robert Clavell will entertain us with a short dissertation of his recently published poem, Lannisbourne. A light supper and refreshments will be served.

Robert sighed as he read the words printed in an elegant scroll on the very expensive card he held. He wished now he had never agreed to attend or read a stanza or two from his latest poem. Lannisbourne meant more to him than being listened to by a gin-swilling mob of degenerates masquerading as nobility. In his opinion, the secret life he led was a damned sight more palatable than the ghastly indulgences favoured by some of the Maplethorpe’s friends.

Only yesterday, he had heard through the gossip mill that a young girl had been admitted to the local hospital suffering from a severe beating after attending a private party given by some well-heeled fops. Robert had a suspicion as to whom the gossip referred. He shuddered, hoping against hope that George Russell would not be one of the attendees at tonight's soirée. The man was a thorn in Robert's side, a self-proclaimed 'master of the verse', and one to quickly deride Robert's work at every turn in the editorials he wrote for the newspaper bequeathed to him by his late father.

A discreet tap at his bedroom door pulled him from his dark thoughts. "Come in, Danvers."

His manservant appeared in the doorway, a small smile on his lined face. Danvers had been his parents' manservant before their tragic accidental deaths five years earlier in a hotel fire in Venice, Italy. As their only surviving heir, Robert had inherited the townhouse on Featherstone Avenue, and he had asked Danvers to stay on in his employ.

"Mr Edmonton is here, Master Robert. Shall I tell him you will be down momentarily?"

"Ask him to come up please, Danvers. I'm not quite finished dressing."

"Do you require assistance?"

"No, no... I can manage." Robert rarely asked Danvers to assist him with his wardrobe, requiring him only to draw his nightly bath and occasionally help with a bothersome button or collar.

"Very good, Master Robert. I shall send him up directly."

"Thank you, Danvers."

Robert breathed a sigh of relief that he had managed to garner his friend John Edmonton an invitation to tonight's gathering. John, a successful lawyer based in London was in Manchester for a weekend visit, staying at a gentleman’s club. With John there it would be bearable, and perhaps afterwards they could return here for a brandy, and...

Another tap on the door, this one more robust, and John entered, his handsome face wreathed in smiles. "Robert, how dashing you look in your best bib and tucker!"

Robert chuckled and opened his arms to his friend. "And you will turn every head tonight, John."

"The only head I want to turn is the pretty one perched on your shoulders." John wrapped his arms around Robert and kissed him, gently at first, then as longing and need took over, with a fervour that had both men moaning into each other's mouths.

"Oh, Robbie..." John groaned his pet name for Robert softly against his lips. "It’s been too long since last we enjoyed one another's company like this."

Robert ran a hand over John’s thick, sandy-coloured hair, his fingers straying over the nape of John’s neck in a tender caress. "I know, my love, but it's difficult when we live so far apart."

"You could move to London." John kissed Robert's neck. "What is there here for you that makes you refuse to leave?"

"This is my home, John. I have friends here..."

Excerpt From: A Gift of Daybreak

Andy managed to keep the sneer off his face until he left the room the wedding had taken place in. What a sham it’d been and only because the little viper had gotten herself pregnant. A rush job for the sake of propriety. Not that Reece had any sense of propriety and surely the little viper whore didn’t have any, either. Why his cousin had to live dangerously, let alone why he had to make Andy go to Vegas for the damn thing, Andy would never know. The place was so hot. Andy might be a snake, but he liked cooler more temperate temperatures. Of course, he could have made his excuses and turned down the invite, but he’d accepted for some reason unknown to him.

Truth was, Andy was growing bored. Maybe it was that his cousins were now mated and had children or maybe he was just getting to that age. He needed something new in his life. Certainly not a mate or child but something different, perhaps he needed a new yacht. He considered the idea as he walked the halls to his room. Knowing Remy and Reece’s penchant for practical jokes and their drive to make him the butt of every one, he’d requested to be put as far away from them as possible. He was an easy target for them, seeing himself as above such childish pranks.

He’d been glad of the decision to move after seeing the colour of Reece’s hair for the wedding. Dye in his hair gel apparently did wonders. Normally a dark blonde, it’d been coloured into a stunning purple, a colour that didn’t go with his seething face. He did match rather well with Remy who’d been dressed up as Elvis for the occasion. For a moment, Andy had almost felt sorry for their mates, but the girls didn’t seem to mind.

Maybe, I shouldn’t go back down at all, he thought to himself as he fetched his key card from his wallet. It had been a mistake to go into Vegas in the first place. It was full of crime and sleaze. All one had to do was watch the TV to discover that.

He’d just pack his bags and leave, his cousins wouldn’t miss him. He’d already shown face, and the boys would no doubt figure that he’d gotten lucky. That was only if they don’t think too carefully about it, and Andy had never accused his cousins of thinking.

He slipped the card into the lock, opening the door and ready to pack his case. Stopping short, he caught a whiff of scent from his room. There was a female inside. Groaning inwardly at Reece and Remy, he opened the door carefully, scared of what he’d find. He wouldn’t touch a woman from Las Vegas with Reece’s cock, let alone a ten foot pole.

A stately woman dressed in a green safari dress with her hair done up in a multicoloured turban and wearing large, tortoiseshell glasses that spanned above and below her eyes sat in the centre of the room. She was the colour of light coffee, with large berry-coloured lips, and her hands, adorned only with a large diamond ring, sat in her lap.

This was no hooker.

She uncrossed her legs and sat up a little more. “And a good morning to you, Mr. Derrell.” she said in a soft voice, thick with a Mexican accent.

“If your here for turning down service, I’ll pass. Leave the mint on the pillow,” he quipped lightly, leaning against the wall. This woman, whoever she was, was Ophidian, a weresnake, just like him, and she was very unwelcome.

“Your attempts at levity are dry and rather uncalled for,” she said and took off her glasses. She blinked large, almond-shaped, green eyes at him. “And such flip from a snake who grew up in the system… I would have thought Archon Rizdon would have taught you better.”

He felt his eyes narrow. “True she did, but she also taught me manners. One does not simply encroach into another’s territory without permission. I’m staying in this room for however long that may be. Bad form to break into another’s room.”

“You speak about territory when you’re actually in mine.” She stood and went to the window. “I came here for a quiet chat and you feel the need to challenge an Archon?” She shook her head.

“Archon?” he blinked, mentally chastising himself. “Of course, I meant no disrespect. I would be a fool to offer any such challenge, and I assure you I’m not a fool.” He stepped away keeping more of a distance. If this was indeed her territory then she could be only one woman. Olivia. A viper in every respect and a most dangerous woman. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? The happy couple is downstairs, if you wish to offer them your congratulations.”

“And I already have. My mate is conveying my felicitations. I am here to speak to you.”

“Excellent.” The word sounded forced even to him.

Excerpt From: A Highlander in L.A.

Eighteenth-century Scotland

From her vantage point where she sat on the hillside, Fiona MacDonald watched as the young Highlander approached. She sighed as she took in the sheer wondrous physicality of the man. Braw is only half o’ it, she thought. Duncan MacGregor was the epitome of masculine grace and beauty—a prize that any lass would be proud to call her own. But for as long as Fiona had known Duncan, she had also known it was unlikely that any lass would ever bed with him.

Duncan was different from the other men in his clan—and Fiona could only be glad of that, for some of them were rogues, guid-natured rogues perhaps, but lacking the substance that set Duncan apart from them. Not for one moment could Fiona ever imagine any of them stopping to admire the splendour that surrounded Glen Ardor. The forests of lush dark green, the silver rivers where the salmon leapt over rocks, the bluebell and heather-covered hills, the majesty of the mountain crags and the serenity to be found in the quiet of the glens.

No, Duncan’s brothers and friends would no doubt laugh with scorn if they knew that one of them was inspired or even cared about what nature provided. They were far more interested in brawling with the MacAllisters, their neighbouring clansmen, or trying to get between some unsuspecting lassie’s thighs. There was guid in them, Fiona would allow, in that they provided food and warmth for their families, but yearning for something more—something life-changing—was not ever in their minds, not even for a fleeting second.

Fiona knew that Duncan longed for another life. True, he loved the Highlands. He even loved his brothers and friends regardless of their uncouth ways and talk, but Fiona knew there was a secret longing deep in his heart for a different way of life—a life of adventure—and love. Fiona even knew, for that was the way of the witch, that Duncan himself did not fully realise the kind of love he craved. Time and again, she had tried to extract from him in their conversations just one tiny admission that what he felt in his heart and what he dreamed of while lying in his lonely bed was not what his father had planned for him.

Now, watching him climb the hill towards her, she could tell from the brooding look on his handsome face that all was not well with her friend. He raised his hand in greeting, and Fiona smiled, subtly shielding the light of admiration in her eyes for his tall, broad-shouldered figure.

"Fiona, I was hoping I’d find you here."

His deep voice never failed to send chills of secret delight through Fiona’s blood. She had loved him since they had played together as children—a love that had not faded with time nor the knowledge that he could give her no more than his loving friendship.

"I would have come to you, if I had not been banished from the village by your faither and the elders," Fiona said. Her voice still held the bitterness she felt towards Duncan’s clan, a clan that had been hers too until the accusations she could not deny. Whatever they might think of her, she would not lie about her ‘gift’.

"Aye, I’m sorry about that, Fiona." Duncan shifted uneasily but didn’t look away from her steady gaze. "I’ve argued about it ’til I’m blue in the face, but the auld scunners just willna’ listen. If you had just denied the witchcraft charge—"

"And you know why I will not, Duncan! I told them my gift is for the benefit of a’ the folk, but they’re a bunch of dunderheids and canna’ see beyond their own superstitions. Anyway…" She shrugged and shook her head in dismissal, "Enough of that. You look dour. What ails you, Duncan?"

"Och…" He flung himself down on the ground near her. "Faither has told me I’m to marry Margaret MacAllister. She’s a bonnie lass, but…"

Excerpt From: A Knight of Passion

Scottish Highlands, 1338

Lady Riana Ellis dribbled three drops of poison from the wooden phial into the goblet sitting on the nightstand beside the wine she would drink.

Fill the goblet to the brim, and death would be quick.

But the fires of Hell that followed would last forever.

Even hellfire paled in comparison to the nightmare that was Arundel.

If not for her younger sister living as ward of the Duke and Duchess of Arundel, Riana would have ingested poison long ago…if not for the fact the duke and duchess now had food tasters, she would have slipped poison into their food long ago. Instead, she must now feed the lethal fluid to Sir Neas Dunbar in order to save Siusan from the duke’s cock.

Riana fitted the top back onto the phial. She shivered despite the fire that crackled in the hearth to her left, and rubbed gooseflesh from her naked arms. The duchess’ order to murder the knight came with the explicit instruction, “Fuck him hard first.”

Anger clenched Riana’s stomach. The duchess thrived on the fact this would be the man's last night amongst the living, and had issued the edict because she wanted to watch. Her morbid fascination would be Riana’s advantage—if she pulled off what was to be the performance of her life.

The very thought of watching a man fuck the woman who was about to murder him would have the duchess panting like a bitch in heat. Already, she would be sitting behind the large painting that hung over the bed…waiting. Riana had purposely kept her naked breasts from the duchess’ view, knowing just the sight of her rounded buttocks in the soft firelight would hold the older woman spellbound in anticipation of that first glimpse of rosy areolae and dark curls.

In the hours the duchess watched Riana from behind the painting, Siusan and their surrogate father Glen would flee Arundel for a village in the south of France. By the time Sir Dunbar sucked Riana’s nipples into painful hardness, the duchess would be unable to tear herself from watching them. When he finally stuffed his fingers between her folds and rammed his cock into her arse, Siusan and Glen would be riding hard. The knight was sure to do all this and more, for the duchess would instruct him as she did every man Riana serviced: “Ride her hard. She is made for it.”

Siusan and Glen’s final security would be if the duchess had brought one of her favourites from among the servants to suck her cunt while she watched. Once she had satiated her perverted desires, and Riana fed the knight the poisoned wine, the duchess would retire to her chambers and await news that Sir Dunbar had been found dead in his bed.

The Sheriff would be called from his chambers, where the duchess had installed him the night before, and he would conclude the knight had died of a heart attack while rutting between Riana’s legs—even if the duchess had to throw coin his way to ensure the verdict.

If Riana administered the poison first, Sir Dunbar’s heart would slow while he pumped into her, until, at last, the veneer of death would be complete. That would be a sight that could keep the duchess distracted indefinitely. But Riana had been unable to overcome her revulsion at thought of the knight’s cock going limp inside her as his dead weight pinned her to the mattress.

Sir Dunbar had left a trail of English blood across the Scottish Highlands. The duchess was a fool to think anyone would believe the heart that beat within his massive chest could give way due to even the most rigorous thrusts of his cock into a woman’s cunt. Yet, if the duchess had her way, he would fuck Riana, she would hang for his murder, and Siusan would take her place as Arundel’s whore.

Excerpt From: A Lady for Two

At first, Lise thought it must be her husband, inexplicably home early from his intended fortnight in town. She blew a blonde curl off her forehead, straining her eyes to see through the gloom outside. The tall figure coming up the drive looked just like his, although all features and costume were lost in the growing dimness of approaching twilight. But then she saw the faint stutter in the figure’s stride and knew that it couldn’t be Charles.

Damn it, she thought, another visitor. And a rude one at that. The hour for paying social calls was long past.

Balancing her weight on her knees and only one hand, she waved the other behind her until it hit sweating male flesh.

"Finish quickly," she commanded, pushing her fingers between her legs to help things along. He could never be trusted to think of her pussy when he was pleasuring his cock. "Someone’s coming to visit."

The steady rhythm that was her favourite trait about her husband’s young valet was soon broken as he struggled to finish. He was like that, easily flustered, which was why they only fucked when Charles was out of the house. However much she tried to lure him with a quick tumble in an empty bedchamber, he always demurred. It was one of the things she liked about him, his stiffness that bordered on rigidity in front of others, and his eager willingness to fuck her from behind in private. She enjoyed looking out of the window at the other servants going about their daily chores while he was screwing her.

She looked at her reflection in the window glass, her smooth forehead creased over her wide green eyes, as she tried to think of who the stranger could be. Unannounced visitors often meant bad news, but with a well-run household and a wealthy husband who was very careful of his own safety, she doubted it would be that today.

Whoever the stranger was, he must be shown true Hessell hospitality. Charles would expect it of her. If the stranger had come from far, she would be expected to feed him.

Supper had already been eaten. She hoped that Cook had left some of the roast chicken instead of gobbling it up herself, as she was wont to do. Charles swore that Cook ate more than the two of them combined.

Lise turned her head away from the window, not wanting whoever it was to find her hanging out of it, staring at him, the valet’s pale face sweating over her arse cheeks. Even if it had been her husband, she would not have done anything different. She had cut it close before. Fortunately, she and Charles did not have the type of marriage where she would be expected to meet him in the front hall upon his arrival. Really, she thought, no one seemed to have that sort of marriage, least of all her friends and neighbours, although the prospect of love within marriage was realised often enough in novels.

Her husband would say she read too many novels. He was a typical out of doors gentleman. He only read serious tomes on horticulture to improve his farms and occasionally a book on history to widen his mind. Aside from that, he eschewed words and indoor pursuits. At supper parties, he bored their guests to yawns with his schemes to replace his innumerable fields of barley with wheat and rye, convinced that this was a cure to the agricultural depression that had hit England since the end of the war.

It was always left to Lise to coax one of their guests to the pianoforte and another to sing, or else to ply the former instrument herself and attempt to drown out her husband’s talk of sowing and threshing.

Lise had been raised to consider it poor manners for a gentleman to speak on how he earned his income. But short of speaking to Charles directly, which after three years of marriage she dared not do, she must bear his boorishness. In spite of the depression, the Hessell family’s income from those fields Charles spoke about too often was the only thing she could not complain about.

Excerpt From: A Legend Arises

“Emma!” Ailig Bennett bellowed as he left his horse in the care of his squire and rushed into his keep. Behind him, the ocean crashed against the shore at the foot of the hills where his keep had been built. He cared little for it or the oncoming storm. He pulled off his leather gloves as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior of the great hall.

Servants scurried around, lighting torches to break the oncoming darkness.

“Emma,” he called again. He headed towards the doorway at the back of the wall which would lead to the stairs spiralling to the upper chambers housed in the north tower. The solar was there and no doubt Emma, as well, as she bent over her stitching. He smiled at the thought of pulling his new bride into his arms and unravelling her carefully braided hair.

Would she welcome him with as much vigour as that which coursed through his veins? He’d left her behind on their wedding day, answering the urgent call of his king. On that day he’d hated his liege, but with King Henry’s contingent of messengers waiting, he had been unable to tarry.

Today, finally, he would be one with his bride.

Reaching the floor above the great hall, he strode towards his thinking chamber. Another set of stairs within it lead to the solar. “Emma,” he called more gently as he crested the top of the stairs.

His bride stood in the large chamber, her back to him as she stared through an arrow slot at the waves below. His breath caught at the sight of her long brown braids cascading to her slim waist. He could not wait to give the bride gift he had purchased for her on his journey.

She spun at the sound of his voice, a smile lighting her face.

Perhaps he could wait to gift her. He would wait until after they’d united. His manhood stirred beneath his heavy knee-length mail, lengthening and thickening in his need for his wife. He had waited so long for her, more than the months this latest call to duty had required. Emma had long ago caught his eye. He had curried her favour in the ways he had learned in the king’s courts until her green eyes shone with the love he felt in his middle.

“Ailig,” she exclaimed, dashing towards him. Her arms closed around his neck as he lifted her into his embrace. His mouth took hers as one hand lifted to bury in her hair, already pulling loose strands free. She tasted of honey and Emma. He groaned as his lips pushed hers apart and his tongue delved inside, scraping along hers as he reclaimed her sweet mouth. How he’d dreamed of the pleasure while he had been away, this one pleasure he had indulged before they were wed. This one pleasure he’d taken many times after they were wed, the last moments before the king’s messengers had dragged him away to his duty.

Emma made a small sound and pressed into him, her arms tightening around his neck. Unlike many noble marriages, theirs was a love match. Indeed, Emma had not been a noble until he’d taken her to bride. She’d been the daughter of a merchant in the village a short distance from the keep. Though he was noble, it had taken some time to claim her. Emma had feared marrying a knight and losing him to battle. As if to feed that fear, the king had called him away immediately. It had ripped at Ailig’s gut to see the terror in her eyes.

Excerpt from: A Legend Accomplished

Emily Harteger looked up from the text she’d just scrawled in her notebook, glancing around her as a powerful wave surged up the shore and puddled around her bare feet. She smiled, the warmth of familiarity creeping over her. Before long, the water would surround the stone where she sat. How many times had that happened when she’d been distracted?

She blinked. What was she thinking?

That had never happened to her. She’d never been to this beach before today.

Being here was like déjà vu or something equally weird. For the last fifteen minutes, it had seemed as if she’d finally arrived home. She knew this place.

Everything was familiar—the crash of the waves on the rocks jutting from the ocean. The trees lining the shore. The castle overshadowing the beach as it stood high above her on a rocky hill. Even the wind seemed to carry a familiar scent of ocean and wood smoke.

Yet she’d never been here. She’d never been out of the United States before this week.

She looked up at the shadowy castle, wondering if the interior would be as she’d seen it in her head. Likely not. She was just a romance writer with an overactive imagination. Wasn’t it that imagination that had drawn her here to the northern shores of England?

Another wave engulfed her ankles while she watched the water hypnotically lap at the shore. She breathed in the heady scent of the salty sea air and closed her eyes. This was the sort of place where Ailig and Emma, the hero and heroine of her latest novel, had fallen in love. She imagined what it had been like for young Emma when she’d fallen in love with Ailig. Emily could see her sitting on this rock, waiting for him to arrive so they could have a few stolen moments before her parents realised she was missing.

“My love,” he’d whisper as he knelt beside her knees and cupped her cheek with his work-roughened hand.

Emily jerked as her imagining became so vivid she felt his hand. Her eyes popped open, and she choked back a surprised scream as she stared into a pair of dark blue eyes.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, his voice a deep rumble of concern. “The tide is coming in, and I was afraid you’d fallen asleep.”

Hastily, she stuffed her notebook in the bag beside her and yanked the tote’s strap up her shoulder. “I’m fine. Thanks.” She attempted to smile and soften her snapped words. She didn’t mean to be abrupt. It was just—

He was the very embodiment of the man she’d envisioned as Ailig. Tall and sturdy with dark brown hair and blue eyes. Full lips, prominent cheekbones, muscles made to make a girl feel safe…he had it all. Granted his hair was shorter than Ailig’s whose hair fell to his shoulder blades, but aside from that difference and the modern jeans with a knit shirt, he could be her knight.

Excerpt From: A Lesser Evil

Critics and collectors flocked to the gallery, one of the most influential in San Francisco, eager to see the works creating such a stir in the art world. Rowan McCall’s paintings were re- imaginings of classic works of love and lovers, replacing famous female subjects with men. Scantily clad gay men. It had turned out to be a stroke of genius—as well as his undoing.

Among the most talked about were Rowan’s takes on Goya’s The Naked Maja, Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, and a particularly daring piece inspired by Fra Lippi’s The Annunciation, in which the angel appeared eager to offer the beautiful, long-haired, unworldly man much more than a message from God on the luxurious bed that featured so prominently in the original.

Critics lauded him as a ‘delightful blend of Impressionism and Modernism’.

'Unexpected, yet not accidental. An organic progression based on the art that influenced him.'

'If Picasso and Monet ever had a love child…'

Despite the shock value the art critics accentuated, Rowan never viewed his work as anything but an honest portrayal of what the original artists may have intended but could never paint. Excluding his Annunciation, which he’d known would incite religious controversy. There had been rumours—as well as more concrete evidence—that some of the models used by Michelangelo or Da Vinci may actually have been male, and plenty of speculation about the artists’ sexual orientation. But Rowan had integrated the beauty of the original art with his own unique style. No one had a doubt which works influenced him, but in no way could his work be called derivative in the derogatory and malicious manner in which the art world generally bestowed the word.

It was the night of Rowan McCall’s greatest artistic triumph. He and his partner, Marshall Lee, were thrilled with the turnout. Powell, the gallery owner, worked the room, entreating admirers to put their money where their mouths were and purchase one of the masterpieces. Early in the evening he’d placed the red dot denoting a sale on one of the twelve paintings, and Rowan’s stomach had fluttered at the thought of his first major sale. He glanced into Marshall’s eyes and Marshall squeezed his hand. They shared a brief celebratory kiss, as Rowan overheard a conversation.

"…just a gimmick. He got plenty of attention, but who wants to actually own one of these?"

Rowan couldn’t hear the reply because the speaker had already passed, but the tone and content of the words left a cold lump in his gut that stifled the butterflies.

"Don’t listen to their crap, Row." Marshall smoothed a hand along Rowan’s arm, but Rowan brushed the conciliatory touch away.

The rich and famous had come out to criticise, not to buy, he realised. This wasn’t a breakthrough, this was career suicide. How had he believed Marshall and Powell when they’d said this would put him in the big time?

But by the end of the party, when he, Marshall and Powell were the last three left, all but one painting sported the coveted red dot. I’ve nearly sold out. Just the thought sent a shiver of excitement and relief through him. He and Marshall would celebrate this success later. They gathered their coats and Rowan was taking one last swing past his creations—the images that had obsessed and ruled his life for the past eighteen months— when a straggling guest approached and stood behind Rowan as he gazed over the sole unsold piece.

"Still one left?" the man asked, voice quavering slightly. He shuffled his weight from foot to foot and Rowan interpreted the action as shyness, perhaps embarrassment at his interest in the subject matter—two dancers, inspired by Degas’ ballerinas. Rowan focused his gaze on the canvas, not on the man, giving him some space to talk about the work.

"Are you interested in this one?" Rowan thought this buyer may have waited until the crowd had departed before feeling comfortable enough to approach him.

"Hardly." Now the voice was strong, but cold. Rowan turned to face him, unnerved by the change in tone.

The word still echoed around the nearly empty gallery as the man’s hand came from behind his back.

Rowan watched, rooted to the spot and unable to move despite his brain’s warning.

Cool liquid splashed across his face and chest as he threw himself in front of his painting.

Excerpt From: A Madam into a Mistress

Redemption, Nevada, 1885

Madam Cherie Launbauer flung open the front door to her brothel.

“We’re closed—,”

Her next words died in her throat, and she gasped, her eyes rounding when she saw her guest and recognised him instantly.

The man on her doorstep towered over her, his muscled frame blocking out the moonlight that gleamed against his broad back. His wild blond hair curled against his shoulders, while his full, sensual lips lifted into a heart-stopping smile.

It had been eight years since she’d seen him last, and there were visible changes, but one thing would never change, she was sure, and that was his piercing sapphire eyes that were so intense she swore they could burn a hole straight to her soul. Another thing she sure would never change, no matter how much time passed, was the devastating effect his probing stare always seemed to have on her body. She shivered at the wave of heat that suddenly coursed through her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked shakily, finally finding her voice.

He pushed past her, and she bit her lip to keep from letting out a low moan when his hard, muscled body brushed against hers. He smelled of sandalwood and pure masculinity, a combination that had always been lethal on him, and she shuddered as the scent of him filled her lungs.

“I’m here to arrest you,” he said, shaking her from her thoughts, and she blinked at him wondering if she’d heard correctly.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Ms. Parkins, although I hear it’s Launbauer these days.” He gave her a sardonic grin. “You’re under arrest.”

“For what?” she sputtered.

U.S. Marshal Shane Duckett slid his gaze over the woman before him. These past eight years had certainly been kind to her. He almost wished they hadn’t been. So many times, he’d imagined she was now a dried up old whore—her lifestyle taking its toll on her. But the woman before him seemingly hadn’t aged a bit. Her skin was still as creamy smooth as he remembered, her flowing midnight tresses still unruly. They appeared soft as silk as they fell in wild abandon around her angelic face. Her liquid hazel eyes were still as hauntingly beautiful as they’d been the day he met her.

He hated to arrest her, especially when he knew a jail cell was the last place she belonged. In his bed was certainly a preferable alternative for the lovely, Cherie Launbauer. But he’d come all this way and had dedicated the last six years of his life to tracking her down. He’d spent two years in a federal prison because of her, envisioning this very moment—the day he would haul her back to jail, and nothing would stop him from seeing Cherie was brought to justice.

Excerpt From: A Man Like No Other

“What the fuck?!”

Serefina LeBenoit cursed again as she tracked the movement through the object up to her eye.

“What’s wrong?” a whispered voice questioned in her ear.

“We have a problem,” she muttered, moving the scope between the ongoing deal and the approaching man. He wore a black vest with the letters DEA in white across the front.

He had a fluid grace about him, despite how cautiously he progressed. His blond hair was tied back, and dark glasses sat upon his ruggedly handsome face. Suddenly, he froze and glanced in her direction, a slight frown filled his features. She remained immobile out of instinct even though she knew he couldn’t spot her.

“What’s the prob?” the voice asked. It was male and belonged to Hector.

She wiped the sweat from her brow after the unknown man faced forward again. “God damn DEA agent approaching. You know they can’t travel alone.” The second the agent began moving once more, so did she. “ETA, two minutes.”

She ran with subconscious perception. Having traversed these areas countless times, she had the confidence to do so blindfolded. She ran hard. Fast. Pouring everything into it, for she knew if that man made it before her, there would be bloodshed. She stashed her earwig down the front of her bra and kept going.

She was fast.

He, unfortunately, was faster.

The unmistakable sound of gunfire reached her. Damn it! Sounds like it’s all going to hell over there. Have I cursed the DEA yet?

Gun deals were dangerous anyway. Throw in the unexpected arrival of a federal agent, and sure as shittin’, this would happen.

Trigger-happy, over-testosteroned…

Her mood dropped even further south when she came around the final corner. DEA swarmed, they were cuffing others, her team included, and shouting to one another. A glint to the right caught her eye and she turned. There was a shooter in another corner sighting down on the agent she’d had in her own scope. She never hesitated, just took aim and fired. Seconds later, she found herself slammed on the ground, gun scattering across the pebbled ground, an agent digging his knee into her back. The hiss of pain almost slipped through but it stopped courtesy of the anger flooding her.

Black boots filled her vision and she looked up. Her blond Adonis stood there, powerful arms crossed, staring at her with blue eyes. His face was composed of sharp angles—nothing soft about him—and raw masculine strength. Intense, panty-wetting strength. The kind which would have affected her if not for the fact she was in the process of being cuffed, the small sharp rocks slicing into her skin. Even so, dude was hot.

Damn hot. And when did I claim him as mine?

He stepped forward, reminding her of a predator when she was jerked to her feet. His height added to the intimidation factor. Well, it would have had she been intimidated. As it was, she wasn’t. However, with each passing second, her ire grew. If there was one thing she hated it was incompetence. She flicked her eyes in Hector’s direction and sent him a look she knew he would understand for silence and pass it along to the rest. Then she lifted her chin and held the gaze of the man before her.

“Who are you?”

His voice, while angry, was decadent, rough-hewn and dangerous. She stared at him. He had a body to die for. One that would give her hours of pleasure to explore.

Okay, I obviously need to get laid.

“I’ll ask you again. Who are you?”

The rough baritone had a deep Texas drawl to it and felt like he pulled velvets and silks across her naked body. Harsh, intense need filled her from the soles of her feet to the top of her head.

Really, really need to get laid.

Sinfully long lashes lowered when he narrowed his gaze. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?”

“Do you?” she retorted, not backing down from his acute look.

“I’m arresting you.”

Excerpt From: A Marriage of Convenience

Michael Taylor had been talking on his cell phone when he’d stepped into the busy beer tent line. A jostle from behind had almost shoved him into the woman in front of him. His hand had swiped across the bottom of her back and in that second, everything else had faded away. Electrical currents had showered him. The second her soulful brown eyes had landed on his, it was as if he’d just hit mach one in his jet.

He’d stood still as her eyes had travelled hungrily over him. Part of him had wanted to preen while more of him had wanted to lift her up, carry her away from everyone and kiss her senseless. And keep going from there.

What the hell am I thinking? I don’t know this woman, but damn if I don’t want to.

She wore a purple open-backed shirt that perfectly offset the nutmeg hue of her skin and a pair of hip hugging black jeans. He saw sandals on her feet and if he moved his head just so, he could see the dark purple on her toenails.

While their physical connection was over almost immediately, the ardent impression still lingered between them. He wasn’t blind to the desire swirling in her eyes no matter how she tried to pretend indifference.

Paying for her beer along with his, it seemed only natural to settle his large palm against the smooth, dark skin of her back as they left the overcrowded beer tent.

He had no problem following her. The gentle scent on her skin reached out and wound around him, making him yearn for more of her. He craved to find out if her perfume was just around her neck or if the tempting smell went all the way to her feet.

When she stopped to allow a group of people to pass, he leaned forward and murmured, “Michael,” into her ear.

Her head turned, positioning her full tempting lips a hairsbreadth from his, and she whispered, “Ayanna.”

He kissed her. He had no choice. Her mouth had teased him as it formed her name and challenged him to sample her lips. She tasted divine.

The innocent kiss quickly evolved into something more. Michael hungered for all that this woman offered. He dominated the kiss, using his tongue to sweep throughout the recesses of her mouth.

His cock swelled and dug into her side as Michael plundered her mouth. He groaned his pleasure as the kiss lengthened.

The roar of jets in the sky rumbled around them and put a miniscule distance between their bodies as he struggled for restraint.

Ayanna’s lips were swollen from the force of their kiss.

“I want you,” he stated bluntly as he watched the rapid rise and fall of her chest. She ran her tongue over her lips.

“Yes,” she breathed huskily.

“After the show.” Taking her hand, he led her to a vacant spot on the ground. They watched the show like any other couple, holding hands, exchanging kisses, and occasionally staring into each other’s eyes. As the park had begun to empty after the show, Michael kept one muscled arm around her, anchoring them together. They’d stopped at the entrance. Pressing her against the cool wall of a ticket booth, Michael ran his hands through her short hair. Strong legs settled on either side of her thin body, eliminating any means of escape.

Excerpt From: A Measured Risk

Suffolk, England

August 1818

“In London it’s going to be different this time, Anne.”

Anne Bourchier, the Countess of Cranfield, continued to watch the rain pelting the widow as the carriage rolled on through the night. The interior was hot and humid and she used her fan to cool her face with long, deliberate motions.

“I mean it. You’re going to be active in society and make me proud for once.”

She flicked him a disdainful glance. “And who will see to the running of our estate now?” It wasn’t her fault William’s long-term mistress had found another interest.

“I do keep a bailiff on staff.” His voice was uncharacteristically terse.

“His incompetence costs us too much. Since you refuse to dismiss him, someone needs to be there to keep an eye on him.”

“He’s my half-brother, Anne. How can I dismiss him?”

“You let your sentiment and your passions rule you.”

“Oh, always so cold, so in control, aren’t you, my darling? I meant what I said about the other, too. You shall welcome me to your bed every night, except when nature inconveniences you. And you’ll at least pretend to be happy about it.”

Her chest went tight and she slapped her fan closed. “I have never locked my door against you.”

“I mean that you shall reside with me until the deed is done. Else I shall be forced to take more extreme measures. Five years of marriage is enough. I’ll have my heir or die trying.”

She opened her fan and resumed cooling her face. She knew her husband well. Once in town, he’d find new distractions and she’d be able to slip away, back to the country.

The carriage jolted; slid for a heart-stopping moment in the mud. Two days of rain had made the roads treacherous at best. She turned to him. “We should have waited for the other carriages.”

Indignant eyes met hers in the lantern light. They were the most beautiful eyes—as green as summer grass and framed with thick, russet lashes. His elegant jaw tightened. “I didn’t want to wait—”

A sudden jolt rocked the seat beneath her and shook through her bones. A loud crash sounded and the carriage rattled as if it would fall apart. It veered over slightly. Her heart knocked against her ribcage as she clutched the seat’s edge. Her mouth went dry.

She glanced at William. He was so pale that his freckles looked like black specks. Her stomach flipped over.

“Christ.” His word was a whisper; a prayer that hung in the air between them as the carriage rolled. She went flying from her seat. Something smashed into her side and forced the air to whoosh from her lungs. Her forehead met a hard object. White shards of pain exploded in her head…and then nothing.

She opened her eyes slowly. Her head throbbed so fiercely that it made it painful to think. It was dark. Hard planks jammed into the softness between her hips and ribcage. She was mostly on her back, twisted halfway between the carriage wall and roof. She tried to ease her position but something heavy pressed her down and held her immobile. Helpless. She reached out to touch it and pain sliced through her shoulder and up into her neck. The sudden intensity made her nauseated and lightheaded. She cried out.

“Anne?” His voice came from directly above her and it sounded weak.

“Yes?”

“Are you unharmed?”

“Mostly.” With an effort, she moved her hands over the wool of William’s jacket. “And you?”

“It hurts to breathe.”

Afraid of injuring him, she stopped searching his body. “Some of your ribs must be broken. That’s all. The doctor will patch you up easily.”

Dread went twisting through her stomach. How badly was he injured? Lightning flashed through the carriage window.

“Damnation, it hurts. Anne, I can’t move.” Beneath the sharpness, his voice quavered. He was afraid—very afraid. Her heart contracted. She had once felt such tenderness towards him. A fragile, barely-born tenderness that had been killed in its infancy—yet it had been the dearest feeling she’d known in her life. It all came back to her, washing over her in an intense rush. She cradled his head to her.

Thud, thud.

The sound was loud—and close. A horse’s iron shoe kicking the thin carriage wall. It sent her heart pounding up into her throat. Her hands tightened on his crisp, red, curling hair.

“I am sorry Anne. Should have waited. You’re always right…” His voice seemed to reverberate with pain.

She winced for him and caressed the side of his face. “Shh, it doesn’t matter now.”

His breathing changed, sounding deep and laboured. He had lost consciousness. Her chest constricted so hard that her breath began to hitch.

Please don’t let him die.

Lightning flashed again, brilliant and close through the window. Thunder rumbled through the carriage’s frame. One of the horses screamed.

Thud, thud, thud.

The horse’s hoof pounded the outside more frantically this time. Her heart beat furiously. That fragile wall was all that separated them from those hard, shod hooves. They were pinned here; trapped. She gripped his arms and tried to move and pull him along with her, away from the sound. But the pain weakened her shoulder and his lean frame proved to be far heavier than she’d have suspected. Sweat poured all over her body and her grip slipped.

The horse kept on pounding the wall. Her terrified heartbeat echoed each thud. God, she had to get them both away from those beating hooves. She clenched her jaw and redoubled her efforts, pulling with all her strength while groaning deep in her throat against the red-hot pain in her shoulder joint. She managed barely an inch, then her arms shook and gave out once more under the burden of his dead weight. They both slipped back to the carriage roof.

Her lungs burnt and she gulped for air. Her head throbbed so hard that it made her dizzy. Tears flowed down her cheeks. How utterly helpless she was. But William was depending on her. She couldn’t fail him.

She tried again to rouse herself but this time her arms were so weak and the pain in her shoulder so severe that she trembled and couldn’t move at all. Her headache increased to almost blinding intensity. She pressed her head to his satin-covered chest, inhaling the citrus scent he favoured. She gave in to her tears, sobbing silently.

Lightning struck again; thunder boomed violently.

The horse screamed.

Thud, thud, thud, thud.

Excerpt From: A Measured Risk

Suffolk, England

August 1818

“In London it’s going to be different this time, Anne.”

Anne Bourchier, the Countess of Cranfield, continued to watch the rain pelting the widow as the carriage rolled on through the night. The interior was hot and humid and she used her fan to cool her face with long, deliberate motions.

“I mean it. You’re going to be active in society and make me proud for once.”

She flicked him a disdainful glance. “And who will see to the running of our estate now?” It wasn’t her fault William’s long-term mistress had found another interest.

“I do keep a bailiff on staff.” His voice was uncharacteristically terse.

“His incompetence costs us too much. Since you refuse to dismiss him, someone needs to be there to keep an eye on him.”

“He’s my half-brother, Anne. How can I dismiss him?”

“You let your sentiment and your passions rule you.”

“Oh, always so cold, so in control, aren’t you, my darling? I meant what I said about the other, too. You shall welcome me to your bed every night, except when nature inconveniences you. And you’ll at least pretend to be happy about it.”

Her chest went tight and she slapped her fan closed. “I have never locked my door against you.”

“I mean that you shall reside with me until the deed is done. Else I shall be forced to take more extreme measures. Five years of marriage is enough. I’ll have my heir or die trying.”

She opened her fan and resumed cooling her face. She knew her husband well. Once in town, he’d find new distractions and she’d be able to slip away, back to the country.

The carriage jolted; slid for a heart-stopping moment in the mud. Two days of rain had made the roads treacherous at best. She turned to him. “We should have waited for the other carriages.”

Indignant eyes met hers in the lantern light. They were the most beautiful eyes—as green as summer grass and framed with thick, russet lashes. His elegant jaw tightened. “I didn’t want to wait—”

A sudden jolt rocked the seat beneath her and shook through her bones. A loud crash sounded and the carriage rattled as if it would fall apart. It veered over slightly. Her heart knocked against her ribcage as she clutched the seat’s edge. Her mouth went dry.

She glanced at William. He was so pale that his freckles looked like black specks. Her stomach flipped over.

“Christ.” His word was a whisper; a prayer that hung in the air between them as the carriage rolled. She went flying from her seat. Something smashed into her side and forced the air to whoosh from her lungs. Her forehead met a hard object. White shards of pain exploded in her head…and then nothing.

She opened her eyes slowly. Her head throbbed so fiercely that it made it painful to think. It was dark. Hard planks jammed into the softness between her hips and ribcage. She was mostly on her back, twisted halfway between the carriage wall and roof. She tried to ease her position but something heavy pressed her down and held her immobile. Helpless. She reached out to touch it and pain sliced through her shoulder and up into her neck. The sudden intensity made her nauseated and lightheaded. She cried out.

“Anne?” His voice came from directly above her and it sounded weak.

“Yes?”

“Are you unharmed?”

“Mostly.” With an effort, she moved her hands over the wool of William’s jacket. “And you?”

“It hurts to breathe.”

Afraid of injuring him, she stopped searching his body. “Some of your ribs must be broken. That’s all. The doctor will patch you up easily.”

Dread went twisting through her stomach. How badly was he injured? Lightning flashed through the carriage window.

“Damnation, it hurts. Anne, I can’t move.” Beneath the sharpness, his voice quavered. He was afraid—very afraid. Her heart contracted. She had once felt such tenderness towards him. A fragile, barely-born tenderness that had been killed in its infancy—yet it had been the dearest feeling she’d known in her life. It all came back to her, washing over her in an intense rush. She cradled his head to her.

Thud, thud.

The sound was loud—and close. A horse’s iron shoe kicking the thin carriage wall. It sent her heart pounding up into her throat. Her hands tightened on his crisp, red, curling hair.

“I am sorry Anne. Should have waited. You’re always right…” His voice seemed to reverberate with pain.

She winced for him and caressed the side of his face. “Shh, it doesn’t matter now.”

His breathing changed, sounding deep and laboured. He had lost consciousness. Her chest constricted so hard that her breath began to hitch.

Please don’t let him die.

Lightning flashed again, brilliant and close through the window. Thunder rumbled through the carriage’s frame. One of the horses screamed.

Thud, thud, thud.

The horse’s hoof pounded the outside more frantically this time. Her heart beat furiously. That fragile wall was all that separated them from those hard, shod hooves. They were pinned here; trapped. She gripped his arms and tried to move and pull him along with her, away from the sound. But the pain weakened her shoulder and his lean frame proved to be far heavier than she’d have suspected. Sweat poured all over her body and her grip slipped.

The horse kept on pounding the wall. Her terrified heartbeat echoed each thud. God, she had to get them both away from those beating hooves. She clenched her jaw and redoubled her efforts, pulling with all her strength while groaning deep in her throat against the red-hot pain in her shoulder joint. She managed barely an inch, then her arms shook and gave out once more under the burden of his dead weight. They both slipped back to the carriage roof.

Her lungs burnt and she gulped for air. Her head throbbed so hard that it made her dizzy. Tears flowed down her cheeks. How utterly helpless she was. But William was depending on her. She couldn’t fail him.

She tried again to rouse herself but this time her arms were so weak and the pain in her shoulder so severe that she trembled and couldn’t move at all. Her headache increased to almost blinding intensity. She pressed her head to his satin-covered chest, inhaling the citrus scent he favoured. She gave in to her tears, sobbing silently.

Lightning struck again; thunder boomed violently.

The horse screamed.

Thud, thud, thud, thud.

Excerpt From: A Midsummer's Sin

New Balcombe, Massachusetts Bay Colony

Summer, 1690

She was clad in only her shift.

Moonlight illuminated the thin cloth into a shimmering veil. The glowing ivory of her gentle, generous curves, hints of rose-pink nipples, a shadowy triangle between her long, lithesome legs—all teased Thomas' imagination.

Blood rushed from his head to fill his cock.

Heart thundering, he leaned against the tree. He barely dared to take a steadying breath lest the vision of that girl dancing in the clearing might disappear and prove itself a mere figment of his long-starved lust.

Dear sweet Christ.

Not since his days at Oxford had he seen a woman's body displayed so wantonly, then only in dimly lit, rented chambers. Never in brilliant moonlight.

The wind calmed. The rustling leaves of the tall trees grew silent. Her laughter carried to him. The sound—so free, so girlish—sent pleasurable shivers through him, sensual and immediate, as if a woman had raked her nails softly down his back. His erection throbbed, getting bigger, stiffer, straining his breeches. Sweating, he grasped himself and gave his aching shaft a firm squeeze.

God. It was more than a man, a widower of over a year, could bear.

More so for Thomas. Physical passion had repulsed his wife. For his beloved Patience's sake, after the conception of his son, he'd left her in peace. Now he'd been three years without the ease of a woman's soft, warm body...

That girl—Rosalind Abramson—was everything he craved.

She was within reach.

They were alone.

He wanted to go her. To seize her. To crush that beguiling body against his own.

No! He released his cock and took a deep steadying breath. He'd learned how to master his passions. He was a Puritan now, no longer a libertine.

He would not yield.

He closed his eyes, but all he saw was hair burning like flames in the noon sun. He was taken back to a little over a year previously when he had been riding in a carriage on a seedy London street.

He had been with his family, on his way to board the Abigail for Boston. His son had taken ill from the stench of the docks and had forced the stopping of the vehicle. Thomas stood outside the vehicle, talking with the driver as they'd allowed the interior to air.

He looked up and saw her. Rosalind. She had worn no head covering—her curls had bounced wildly as she'd run towards him. She'd held her skirts—the most garish hue of green he'd ever beheld—high enough to display trim ankles and well-turned calves clad in pale pink silk stockings that gave her legs the appearance of being completely bare. She had lifted her knees and run like a boy. A fine sheen of sweat had sparkled on her flushed face and on the exposed tops of her generous breasts.

Thomas inhaled deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the memory away. But the image only intensified.

She had increased her pace, though it didn't seem possible for anyone, much less a woman, to move that quickly.

She'd come upon him so fast and close, he'd thought she meant to crash into him. His man's body, so starved for the touch of feminine flesh, had longed to feel her body colliding with his. Such desire—it had held him immobile. At the last moment, as she'd turned, bypassing him, her eyes, dark brown and large, had caught his—full of terror—he could feel it reverberate in his own bones... His heart had contracted with sympathy. A whoosh of air, scented with roses and musk, had blown over him as she'd hauled herself into the open carriage.

The carriage where his wife had waited.

Excerpt From: A New Normal

Charlie Foster loosened his tie as the plane took off. He hated flying almost as much as he hated being shoved into a seat made for a small child. Why didn’t airlines understand that grown men were also forced to fly on occasion?

With a sigh of resignation, he closed his eyes in an effort to escape pleasant banter with the older woman seated next to him. It had been a mistake to take the piano gig. What the hell had he been thinking? Travelling across the country less than a year after Jen’s death just to play at some convention was stupid, even if he was doing it as a favour to his manager.

He often wondered how different his life would’ve turned out if he hadn’t met Jen in college. It had been a confusing time, and falling in love with Jen had brought a sense of peace to his life—so much so he hadn’t regretted a moment of their time together.

"Can I get you something to drink?"

Charlie opened his eyes and stared up at the attendant. "I’m fine, thanks." The conversation over, Charlie went back to feigning sleep, only to be nudged by the bony elbow of the woman next to him.

"I’ve been admiring your wedding ring. Is that a thistle?"

Charlie stared at the ring he couldn’t bring himself to take off. "Yeah. My wife was obsessed with that Outlander series. It was her idea."

The woman’s face lit up. "Oh, Jamie and Claire," the woman practically swooned, clutching her hands over her heart. "How sweet of you to indulge your wife like that."

"I would’ve done anything for her," he mumbled. Shame threatened to consume him as it did every time he thought of the woman he’d lost. He’d spent eight years with Jen, six of them married, but one drunken night with his best friend had destroyed the husband he’d thought himself to be.

"Excuse me." Charlie unbuckled his seatbelt and walked to the front restroom. He closed and locked the door before turning to lean against the sink. Jen’s mom had been in town to help during the second round of chemotherapy, and, for some reason, Charlie had let them convince him to get out of the house for a few hours. Jen had been the one to call Jake and had set up the outing, just one more thing for Charlie to feel guilty about.

It had started innocently enough, a Mets game followed by a trip to the bar where they’d done most of their drinking in college. It was easy to fall back into the camaraderie he’d once shared with his childhood friend. As the evening and the number of drinks progressed, Charlie had asked Jake the one question that had been on his mind since the day he’d announced his engagement to Jen. "Why didn’t you fight for me?"

Charlie bit his bottom lip as he recalled Jake’s honest answer. "Because I knew how much you wanted a normal life," Jake had whispered.

Normal. Charlie’s marriage had been anything but normal. Although the love he’d felt for Jen had been real, for the majority of their marriage they’d lived more like brother and sister than husband and wife. Sex every few weeks seemed to be enough for both of them. He’d enjoyed the partnership in their daily lives more than the fucking, and Charlie had always sensed Jen felt the same. It wasn’t that he was repulsed by the female body—before he’d met Jen, he’d simply preferred a man’s hard body, Jake’s hard body to be precise.

A knock sounded against the flimsy folding door. "Are you all right, sir?" a female voice asked.

No, Charlie said to himself. "I’ll be right out."

Excerpt From: A Pint Light

There must be an easier way. Valerian grimaced as he retracted his fangs, sealed the punctures with a flick of his tongue, and let his inebriated, middle-aged snack slide down the wall to rest in a heap at his feet. After a moment of wrestling with his irritatingly overactive conscience, he bent to prop the fellow up comfortably against the brick wall of the alleyway. Well, as comfortably as one could be, considering the lucky donor was not only drunk, but also a pint light. With one last glance around to confirm he was still unobserved, Val re-entered his club through the heavy metal door he had left propped open with a dairy crate. Low tech solution to the automatic lock mechanism, but anyone who knew Val also knew he wasn’t one to waste magic on trivialities. Not that he had power to waste anymore. Middle-aged for his kind, it was getting harder by the decade to take enough blood to keep his power level up. Middle-aged? Ugh. Val shook off the disturbing thought.

That need currently sated, he was free to concentrate on the current crisis. Or crises, he corrected himself resignedly. Damn problems never came one at a time. No, they hammered at him like the waves on the North Shore of Maui. He stopped in his tracks at the tempting thought of Hawaii, and whipped out his cell phone, sending a brief text to his travel agent. With a bit more spring in his step, Val resumed his path through the back of the club, winding smoothly without pause past customers and employees alike as he headed straight into the office.

“Get that lightweight tossed out, Val?” Killian, his oldest friend and business partner, quipped from the couch.

Val rolled his eyes at the lame joke, but restrained the comeback K was obviously looking for, instead using a tiny push of magic to shove Killian’s feet off the coffee table as he slammed the door behind him.

“Geez, relax Valerie. What’s got your knickers in a twist?” Killian took a moment to stretch his endless, jeans-clad legs out in a quiver in front of him before dropping his heels right back on the table with a thump.

“Don’t call me Valerie,” Val automatically replied, before his gaze narrowed on Killian. His copper-haired friend looked entirely too innocent, and Val knew there was nothing more dangerous than K with that sweet look on his face. He gave a mental nudge, found nothing, and gave up with a grunt.

The ennui was starting to really get to him, but he also didn’t need the upheaval that was about to land on his doorstep. “K, don’t you ever tire of making the same tired jokes over and over again?” He began pacing back and forth in the confined space. “And sitting here night after night scuffing up my table with your damn boots before finding some overly endowed bimbo to take home and swap bodily fluids with?”

Killian stared at him with a sincere frown creasing his pale forehead. “Are you okay, Val? You seem a little, uh, tense.”

Excerpt From: A Plain, Ordinary Cowboy

"What the fuck, what’s that little bitch doin’ here?"

Deputy Micah Danvers’ enhanced senses caught the menacing whisper through the friendly chatter in White Deer’s June town hall craft fair. He zeroed in on two young cowboys, Deke Masters and Jared Marks, obviously liquored up and ready to rumble. Oh yeah, he’d had a run-in with them shortly after he’d come to town. Definitely troublemakers. Despite knowing he could handle them, Micah’s gut tightened.

He purely hated dealing with mobs. They brought back bad memories.

Someone bumped into him. His hands fisted.

"Hey, sorry, Deputy Danvers," Juan, a young kid who lived with his mother above the town bakery, murmured before running over to his friends.

"Sorry," Micah answered softly, even knowing the kid wouldn’t hear him. His face reddened at the slip. He forced himself to relax.

His attention returned to the two cowboys, trying to see what they were up to. The crowd shifted, so Micah saw the men were glaring at a pretty young woman with long black hair and golden skin sitting at one of the craft tables. She smiled as she held up a handful of twigs, demonstrating something to the folks in front of her table.

Micah frowned. Whoever she was, she was a stranger and he didn’t like strangers.

Micah ate the same cereal for breakfast every morning. He always bought the same blue and brown shirts. He picked up plain white briefs. He liked everything the same and he liked knowing who was in town.

He closed his eyes, trying to catch her scent. Citrus. She was wearing something like grapefruit.

Micah tilted his head, not sure he liked it. It was...different. Kind of abrasive, but also strong, fresh.

His cock hardened.

And whoa, what the fuck was that?

Survival instinct kicked in, warning him to stay far, far away from the new woman in town. Something about her smelt...forbidden.

Micah was frowning when Mary Watson rejoined him, squeezing his arm as if to ask him what was up. He looked at her and felt vaguely embarrassed, as if he’d been caught.

Keep it low key, asshole, he told himself when his gut clenched again. Don’t stand out.

Mary worked as a secretary at the little town hall, so Micah saw her often. They’d become good friends. He liked her straightforward grey eyes and warm smile as well as the long brown hair that fell to her waist.

"Did you find that gelding you were interested in looking at again?" he asked her.

Mary nodded. "Be a good horse for your stable, cowboy," she said, arching an eyebrow at him.

"Huh, don’t think so. My barn is almost as much a ruin as the cabin," Micah said. "And my roof leaks. Gotta fix that first."

"He’s a beauty, Mike," Mary said, using the nickname she and some of the townspeople now occasionally used. In all the towns where he’d lived, Micah had never had a nickname before and somehow that made White Deer home even if it was dangerously close to the village where he’d grown up...and fled.

Excerpt from: A Present Christmas

Agnes sighed heavily as she made her way to her sister’s cottage. No doubt, she’d have to listen once again to the litany of criticism Esmeralda always had for her on these visits. Hopefully, Judith wouldn’t be there to regard her with the faint sneer that always seemed to hover around her thin lips whenever Agnes was in the room.

It was that time of year again, when the world was in rhyme—or so the song went—but all it meant for Agnes and her sisters was that they would be meddling in other people’s affairs in the hope that they could make them see the error of their ways. It was something Agnes had not excelled in for the last couple of years. Particularly last year—oh, that had been nasty. After Agnes had failed to move the miserable old bitch from her miserly ways, it had taken all of Judith’s threats of hellfire and damnation to scare the woman into including her young grandson in her will. And even then, it had been done with ill grace. Agnes hoped she didn’t have to deal with someone that belligerent again.

Esmeralda was standing in the doorway as Agnes walked slowly up the garden path that led to the little cottage in the woods. Like Agnes, Esmeralda was not tall, barely five feet in heels. Their sister, Judith, was the tall one. Esmeralda had once remarked that Judith had to be tall for the future was limitless, whereas the past and the present took up much less room.

“In fact, dear,” she’d said with a patronising air, “I wonder that you have to be almost as tall as me, when the present is so fleeting.”

Fleeting maybe, Agnes had groused to herself, but it could still be a giant pain in the neck! She forced a smile to her pixie-like face as she came within a few feet of her sister.

“You’re late, Agnes dear.” Esmeralda’s pursed lips said it all. It was going to be one of those afternoons.

“And good afternoon to you, too, sister dear,” Agnes said. “Is the kettle on for tea?”

“Of course. Come along in—there have been some changes made to this year’s business.”

“Oh, pocks weed!” Agnes plunked herself down on one of the cosy armchairs by the fire. “What kind of changes?”

“Language, dear. We’re not going to be working together this year. You’re on your own.”

Agnes’s eyes widened. “On my own—but why?”

“Because the young man you’re to help is only too painfully aware of the past, and if you do your job properly, the future will take care of itself.”

“Oh, dear,” Agnes murmured. “So it’s all up to me?”

“It really shouldn’t be too hard, even for you, Agnes.”

“Huh! Thank you for that vote of confidence. And what will you and Judith be up to, may I ask?”

“Someone in the White House needs a lot of help this year—end of an era, and all that.” Esmeralda handed Agnes a cup of tea. “She’s having to give up a lot, and gain very little in return, I’m afraid. It’ll be my job to help her forget most of the horrors of the past eight years, and dwell only on the good times. I’m sure there must been a few, at least.”

“And who have I got?” Agnes asked. “William Calder, twenty-seven years old.” Esmeralda picked up a file from the kitchen table and opened it. “Five ten, one hundred sixty-five pounds, eyes blue, hair dark blond…you can take this file with you, but from what I see here, he’s recently out of a relationship and a job. Very low self-esteem, is hating the prospect of Christmas on his own—and frankly, the Boss is a little concerned that he may be contemplating suicide.”

“Oh, my. Doesn’t he have family?”

“An only child to elderly parents—both deceased, it says here.”

“Poor boy.” Agnes held out her hand. “Let me see…” She took the file from her sister and flipped it open. “Oh, but he’s so cute. Stunning eyes. Boy, those are baby-blues all right—and what a lovely smile—nice teeth.”

“And he’s gay, Agnes.”

“Oh…well, at least, he’ll smell nice.”

Her sister rolled her eyes. “Agnes, be serious. This is an important mission for you—so don’t mess up…”

Excerpt From: A Prideful Mate

Kevin looked out the window at the pride of lions sunning on the porch, and released the sigh building in his chest. Leaning against the window frame he thought over his life. As much as he loved the ladies, the addition of Adrian, the alpha’s mate, brought back feelings he’d long suppressed. The craving for the touch of another man burned through him each time he saw Talon stroke Adrian’s skin.

Kevin didn’t want Adrian for himself—he wasn’t suicidal—but the looks exchanged between the mated pair reminded Kevin how good it could be with another man.

Equal.

As much as he loved the lush feel of a woman’s body, he’d always known it was the hard form of a man he preferred. Now that he had two cubs of his own, it was time to find his mate.

“Thinking about leaving us?” Tia, the mother of his little boys, wrapped her arms around his waist, settling her chin on his shoulder.

Kevin knew she was asking, more for curiosity, than that she cared if he left the pride. Tia was more than capable of raising their boys, but she was his friend and cared for him in her own offhand lion way.

Kevin sighed again. “Not really.” He nodded towards the couch where Adrian was curled up beside Talon. For a lone wolf, the smaller man was a cuddler. “Just wishing for a mate of my own, I want what they have.”

Tia tilted her head. “Extremely loud sex?”

Kevin threw back his head, laughing. “No. Well, I wouldn’t object to that either, but I meant a relationship with a guy.”

“Pickings are a little lean on the mountain, big guy,” Tia said, releasing him and giving him an affectionate pat on his back. “Maybe you should ask Adrian if he knows anyone.”

Shaking his head, Kevin looked at the pair. “I don’t think I could go for a wolf. Don’t get me wrong,” he held up his hands to ward off a blow, “there’s nothing wrong with Adrian. I just have a feeling my mate will be feline.” He took a careful step away from Tia in case she decided to attack anyway. The females were psychotically attached to Adrian, mostly because he made them chocolate treats. They all purred whenever he stepped foot into the kitchen. Kevin suspected Adrian laced his brownies with catnip, but he’d yet been able to catch the wolf at it.

Tia frowned. “There aren’t any other prides nearby. Oh!” Her face lit up. “What about that new dating service.”

Kevin let his expression show his opinion of that idea. “I’m not signing up with Werekin Wanted. I don’t care if they guarantee a match or your money back.”

“Hah!” Tia pointed an accusatory finger at him. “You looked into them.”

Kevin blushed. He hated to admit it. He had considered the site. Shit, he was getting desperate, but as Tia said there weren’t a lot of choices up on the mountain.

“I might have looked at the site, but I don’t think I can go through with it. I mean how pathetic is a guy who finds someone through an online dating service?”

“About as pathetic as a guy who’s afraid to try because he might fail,” Tia said. She nudged him with her shoulder. “The boys are old enough that you don’t need to be here all the time. They aren’t babies.”

“I know.” How could he explain that he had an unnatural affection for his children? Most lions would’ve moved on after his babies were born, but Kevin adored his five and seven-year-old and couldn’t bear to leave them.

“I’m not saying you have to go,” Tia said, as if reading his mind. “We all love having you here, we just want you to be happy.”

Excerpt From: A Prideless Man

James Everett woke up and made the mistake of moving. Pain ripped through his body like burning brands. Gasping, he blinked back tears while trying to keep still. By now he should know better than to try any motion first thing in the morning. His Rheumatoid Arthritis made waking every morning a new definition of agony. Only the medicine his father cooked up in his lab relieved the pain. He grabbed his bottle of medication, wincing as the pills made a light rattling noise inside the container. Shit, he was almost out. He didn’t want to have to call his father. He hadn’t talked to him since their last fight over Shifter rights.

A man that fanatical had to be wrong.

That’s why he’d moved to this town. To learn more about the creatures his father branded as evil and James had always found so fascinating, especially the lions. The lion pride kept him here. He didn’t know why, but when they came into town he always felt an uncontrollable urge to join them. Not only because of the gorgeous alpha—it was very clear Talan was devoted to his little wolf—but because something about the lions called to him.

Watching the alpha and his mate made James long for a relationship of his own, but who would want a skinny guy on heavy pain medication? Or when touching caused screams of agony, instead of moans of pleasure. Yeah, he was a real catch.

Slowly he rotated his wrists, easing the joints into their assigned roles of moving through the day. Next his fingers got attention as he stretched his hands, listening to the sickening popping noises they made as he flexed each digit. Curling his toes he listened for the crackles before rotating his ankles. Hell, with all the crackling, snapping and popping he was his own breakfast cereal. Eventually, his familiar routine paid off and his aching joints loosened enough to sit up. A cry of pain tore from his chest as he shifted positions. He quickly stifled further sounds. He didn’t want anyone running to his rescue. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this. If she found him suffering, his holistically-inclined landlady wouldn’t hesitate to recommend at least a dozen homemade remedies. She’d already hinted as much. James wasn’t fooled into thinking they would work. He’d tried every possible solution before he turned ten. By twenty-three there weren’t any new treatments to try anymore.

Unlike most people with arthritis, weather didn’t affect his RA, and neither did his amount of activity. In a moment of whimsy he once told his father it was probably the phases of the moon causing the flare ups. His father’s screaming response proved the man had absolutely no sense of humour.

Looking around his small apartment James felt depression descend again—not for the size of the apartment, but for its solitude. He could afford a bigger place. His trust fund was large enough. However, he liked the small MIL unit he rented at Ms Tyler’s house. She was a sweet Labrador shifter and though she said he smelt off, once he assured her the scent was medication, not inherent evil, she happily rented him the place.

James tried to save as much money as possible since his constant pain made it impossible to hold down a steady job and he had no idea how long his trust fund would need to stretch. Currently he taught classes online which finally let him find a use for his expensive college education.

Sliding into his ergonomic leather desk chair, James popped his pills and booted up his laptop while waiting for the drugs to take effect. He sometimes took extra medication on really bad days, but he hated how loopy the drugs made him feel. He’d rather suffer through pain than walk around in a drug-fuelled haze, especially if he ran into the sheriff again.

His cheeks burned whenever he thought of the sexy bear shifter. Sheriff Louis Arktos, a big barrel-chested bear shifter with black hair and dark eyes, starred in all of James’ hottest daydreams. He’d seen the other man watching him from time to time, but he didn’t dare get his hopes up. After all, what did he have to offer such a strong, fit manly man? Some days he could barely make it across the room without screaming.

Sighing over the hopelessness of his infatuation, James logged into the college website and answered several emails from his students. His slow two-fingered typing took forever, but eventually he got through them all. After he finished working he checked his personal email account. His father’s name sat in bold text squatting at the top of his inbox like a waiting spider beckoning him to its web. With strong resolve he closed his email and shut down the computer. He would deal with his father tomorrow. He had no idea how to explain to his shifter-phobic parent about moving to a town almost completely populated by shape shifters.

* * * *

“I haven’t seen him yet, Sheriff.”

Lou looked away from the window and into the amused eyes of his waitress, Kelly. “Who’s that?”

“Now, Sheriff, we both know you’re waiting for that odd-smelling boy.” The deer shifter waitress gave him a sweet smile.

“He doesn’t smell odd. He smells wonderful.” Beneath all the medication, James’ scent drove Lou wild even as he wondered about the human’s health problems. The pain the other man suffered carved deep lines on either side of his mouth and the slow methodical way he moved made Lou wince with sympathy and wish he could comfort the stoic human.

“We all know you’ve got it bad for him. The only thing I wonder about is why he fights it. He wants you so bad even Blaire commented on how he looks at you.”

Excerpt From: A Princess of Mars

She was as destitute of clothes as the green Martians who accompanied her. Indeed, save for her highly wrought ornaments she was entirely naked, nor could any apparel have enhanced the beauty of her perfect and symmetrical figure. I was filled with both delight and surprise to see that her bodily form was identical to that of a human woman—she had a pair of softly rounded breasts, a delicate hourglass figure, and lithe, slender legs. I use the term ‘identical’, and yet that is far from accurate. Only in the sense that a Waterford crystal goblet is identical to a mean pewter mug was the woman I viewed the equal of any other. As a fine goblet and a dented cup can both contain a beverage, yet one is far superior in every conceivable way, this woman’s form made Sandro Botticelli’s Venus appear to be a grub-faced, toothless tavern wench. Certainly, another female might contain the same parts as the goddess before me, yet could never hope to attain that level of lush perfection.

I confess that in those precious, fleeting moments, when first my eyes descended on her, the pages of my memory fell open first to one lustful encounter, then another, then another, that I had had prior to that fateful sighting. I was no stranger to the charms of the female form. Indeed, I considered myself an accomplished lover—albeit one whose amorous engagements were short-lived flares of transient passion as opposed to long-burning torches of true love—and yet I realised instantly that every intimate touch I had enjoyed before that moment had but served as preparation for the rapturous encounter that I felt destined to share with this woman. Perhaps it seems rash, and yet I am hopeful that every man, whether his lineage is of Earth or Barsoom, may one day experience the depth of ardour that swept over me when first I viewed my princess of Mars.

As surely as if I had already held her body in mine, I knew exactly how her tender curves would shape themselves to my hands and how scintillating her breath would feel in my ear. I knew that her uplifted face would reach just to my chin, and that her raven-black hair would slide like the currents of a cool, pure river between my fingers. I almost envied the green Martians at her side for their apparent immunity to her charms. They seemed as unaware of her sensuality as I was transfixed by it. In response to my lust-filled imaginings, my exposed organ swelled and pointed to her with the brazen intent of a ship’s prow hell-bent on ramming its target. I’d have her, I decided then, and every part of my being, from the tenderest yearnings of my heart to the lascivious aim of my cock, was in accordance.

As her gaze rested on me her eyes opened wide in astonishment, and I saw the red-brown peaks of her breasts tighten into points. I took one step toward her, encouraged that she appeared to be as drawn to me as I was drawn to her, and my heart lurched against the cage of my chest. She made a little sign with her free hand, a sign which I did not, of course, understand. Just a moment we gazed upon each other, then the look of hope and renewed courage which had glorified her face as she discovered me faded into one of utter dejection, mingled with loathing and contempt. I realised I had not answered her signal, and ignorant as I was of Martian customs, I intuitively felt that she had made an appeal for succour and protection which my unfortunate ignorance had prevented me from answering. Then she was dragged out of my sight into the depths of the deserted edifice.

Excerpt From: A Princess of Mars

She was as destitute of clothes as the green Martians who accompanied her; indeed, save for her highly wrought ornaments she was entirely naked, nor could any apparel have enhanced the beauty of her perfect and symmetrical figure. I was filled with both delight and surprise to see that her bodily form was identical to that of a human woman—she had a pair of softly rounded breasts, a delicate hourglass figure, and lithe, slender legs. I use the term 'identical', and yet that is far from accurate. Only in the sense that a Waterford crystal goblet is identical to a mean pewter mug was the woman I viewed the equal of any other. As a fine goblet and a dented cup can both contain a beverage, yet one is far superior in every conceivable way, this woman’s form made Sandro Boticelli’s Venus appear to be a grub-faced, toothless tavern wench. Certainly, another female might contain the same parts as the goddess before me, yet could never hope to attain that level of lush perfection.

I confess that in those precious, fleeting moments, when first my eyes fell on her, the pages of my memory fell open first to one lustful encounter, then another, then another, that I had had prior to that fateful sighting. I was no stranger to the charms of the female form and, indeed, considered myself an accomplished lover, and yet I realized instantly that every intimate touch I’d enjoyed before that moment had but served as preparation for the rapturous encounter that I felt destined to share with this woman. Perhaps it seems rash, and yet I am hopeful that every man, whether his lineage is of Earth or Barsoom, may one day experience the depth of ardour that swept over me when first I viewed my princess of Mars. As surely as if I’d already held her flesh in mine, I knew exactly how her tender curves would shape themselves to my hands and how scintillating her breath would feel in my ear. I knew that her uplifted face would reach just to my chin, and that her raven-black hair would slide like the currents of a cool, pure river between my fingers. I almost envied the green Martians at her side for their apparent immunity to her charms; they seemed as unaware of her sensuality as I was transfixed by it. In response to my lust-filled imaginings, my exposed organ swelled and pointed to her with the brazen intent of a ship’s prow intent on ramming its target. I’d have her, I decided then, and every part of my being, from the tenderest yearnings of my heart to the lascivious intent of my cock, was in accordance.

As her gaze rested on me her eyes opened wide in astonishment, and I saw the red-brown peaks of her breasts tighten into points. I took one step toward her, encouraged that she appeared to be drawn to me as I was drawn to her, and my heart lurched against the cage of my chest. She made a little sign with her free hand; a sign which I did not, of course, understand. Just a moment we gazed upon each other, and then the look of hope and renewed courage which had glorified her face as she discovered me, faded into one of utter dejection, mingled with loathing and contempt. I realized I had not answered her signal, and ignorant as I was of Martian customs, I intuitively felt that she had made an appeal for succor and protection which my unfortunate ignorance had prevented me from answering. And then she was dragged out of my sight into the depths of the deserted edifice.

Excerpt From: A Rebound Affair

“I think I’m in love with your wife.”

Jackson Downing stood ramrod straight, and steeled himself for the blow he knew would come. He deserved to be pummelled by Jacob and they both knew it. His brother had warned him that his attraction to Camille was more than just attraction. But he’d sworn to Jacob he was over her, that he’d accepted their marriage and was moving on, but he had lied. He was certain Jacob had known he’d lied, but his brother had said nothing at the time.

A tense silence permeated the room as they regarded each other warily. He had to admit he was a little surprised Jacob hadn’t launched over the desk and beat the shit out of him as soon as the words left his mouth. Jacob had inherited the infamous Irish temper of their maternal grandfather, more so than any of the Downing brothers. So, he took it as a good sign that since Jacob hadn’t resorted to violence, he still might be open to talking this out.

“I know,” was all Jacob said, his already harsh face giving away nothing as he sat behind his desk, his entire body rigid.

“I figured you knew, which is why I’m leaving.”

Jacob sighed. “And I had a feeling you were going to say that.” He stood up from his chair and Jackson met the identical dark sapphire gaze of his brother.

“I don’t want you to go, but I know this has been hard for you.”

Jacob had no idea. Watching the woman he’d spent the past seven months falling in love with walk down the aisle with the brother he was closest to, was more than hard?it was excruciating.

“I know you’ve been itching to get back down south to oversee the drilling project on Natalie’s old land in Hockley but with the wedding it had to be pushed aside…”

“And now you want to go in my place.”

Jackson shrugged. “It could take a while to get the pipe in place, months even. You’re a newly wed and it just doesn’t make sense for you to be gone for months away from Camille when I can go instead.” He wanted to add that he needed this trip more than anyone else, but he didn’t. They both knew how desperate he was to get away from Macon, Texas.

“It’s going to be a tough job and you’re going to have your hands full with a foreman who is pissed that we’re the new owners. I haven’t met him, but he hasn’t returned any of my calls and our email exchanges have been less than polite?”

“I don’t care. I’ll deal with it.” He knew Jacob wouldn’t deny him this. Besides they were well aware that with his laidback attitude and easygoing demeanour, Jackson had always been better suited than any of his brothers in dealing with business conflicts and handling negotiations.

“Alright.” Jacob nodded. “If you want to go then the job is yours.”

Jackson released a drawn out breath. Separated by just two years, Jackson knew his brother well, and could tell from the strained expression on Jacob’s face that he really didn’t want him to go, at least not like this. But, they both knew he had to.

There was no way he could remain in Macon any longer. Being away and dealing with the distraction of getting the pipeline running would hopefully give him the time he needed to get over Camille.

It had all seemed so simple. For six months Camille would serve his sexual needs and those of his three brothers, and when her time was up they would all walk away. Then, Camille would get her ranch back when it was over. But at some point along the way, Jacob and Camille had raised the stakes by falling in love. It was just unfortunate that he’d fallen in love with her too. He didn’t begrudge his brother or Camille for finding happiness with each other. But he would be lying if he didn’t admit that he hadn’t taken it so well when Camille chose his brother over him. That she’d fallen in love with his brother and not him.

One of the hardest things he’d ever had to do was to stand beside Jacob and watch as he said “I do” to Camille. Ever since that day he’d been distant and withdrawn from Jacob, and it pained him to think their relationship would never be the same ever again. That had been the deciding factor for him. He had to leave and at least try to move on for all their sakes. He’d lost Camille and if he didn’t learn to get over her, he would lose his brother too.

Excerpt From: A Ring and A Promise

Cary felt a trickle of sweat rolling down the centre of his back as he and his uniformed classmates baked on the unseasonably warm day. At least five hours they’d been out in the sun, but the end was finally in sight as the Second Lieutenant was welcomed back to the stage.

The surge of excitement in the group was palpable as the class was told to rise. Everyone knew what was coming next. Various scattered cheers broke out as they all stood, hats in hand. Under the pretence of stretching, Cary craned his neck and was barely able to see the service dress blues of his best friend two rows behind him and a considerable distance to the left. But try as he might, he couldn’t manage to see Owen’s face. Cary’s own summer whites at least had a shot at reflecting the sun. Owen must be sweltering in his dark Marines uniform.

Cary had seen him standing tall above the other graduates earlier as all the Marines had risen for their commissioning, pride and intensity radiating from the face he knew as well as his own. The moment before he’d retaken his seat, Owen’s gaze had zeroed in on his for a brief moment, a reconnection Cary had welcomed at the end of a busy, hectic week.

Cary sighed. Pretty pathetic to be missing him already with so much separation ahead of them. It was only a handful of hours and a hundred feet of distance right now. The enforced intimacy of sharing quarters for four years was going to abruptly end-way sooner than Cary was prepared for.

"I propose three cheers for those we leave behind! Hip, hip-"

"Hooray!" Cary shouted with the rest of the graduates.

"Hip, hip-"

"Hooray!" He tensed in preparation.

"Hip, hip-"

"Hooray!" Cary released all of the excitement of the day and uncertainty about the future in a huge upwards heave of his arm. Over one thousand hats flew into the air then smiling people were embracing and congratulating each other all around him.

Without the structure of the orderly rows of seats, when Cary looked back again, he could no longer pick Owen out of the crowd. Usually his friend and classmate’s height made him instantly recognisable, but then again, there were a lot of tall soon-to-be-Marines out here today...

"We did it, Care Bear." The familiar low whisper in his ear was accompanied by a firm clasp to his shoulder.

A breath gushed from him in relief. He graciously finished shaking hands with a female middie near him before he spun around and thumped up against Owen in a fierce hug. He couldn’t think of another occasion where he’d be able to hold his lover in public—the repeal of ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ notwithstanding—and unashamedly took advantage of the rare opportunity.

Owen tensed for a second then curled his body to pull Cary in as close as possible, the muscles he took pride in maintaining flexing and rippling under his dark uniform. Cary closed his eyes and gave himself up to that strength. Just another minute...

Hands closed upon his shoulders and firmly set him away to a more respectable distance. Owen’s warm brown eyes met his from under dark brows, arched in warning. Cary took the hint and dropped his probably all-too-revealing gaze.

"Guys! Ring knock?"

The voice of Jared—another of their company—at his side reminded him he hadn’t turned his ring crest-outwards yet. Before he could make a move to do so, warm fingers raised his hand slightly. He watched between their bodies as Owen gently rotated Cary’s ring upon his finger. It felt like an intimate moment, even though they were surrounded by the chaos of thousands of people, even with Jared standing there watching.

Owen started to withdraw his hands and Cary instinctively seized them, not wanting to lose the chance to do the same for him. The ring resisted his efforts at first, then glided around Owen’s long ring finger. He made himself let go long before he wanted to.

Cary made sure the first fist bump of their proudly displayed Naval Academy crests was between him and Owen, before turning and doing the same with Jared and Mike, who had also joined them.

"You guys got family in town?" Mike asked as they stood in a tight cluster.

Excerpt From: A Rogue's Power

A pair of amazing baby-blue eyes glinted in the neon lights at the opposite end of the club. He seemed like a shadow among the twirling spotlights that pierced the darkness. Drunken women surrounded him, their hands all over his broad chest. They leant down to whisper in his ear, but his focus went right through the crowd to me. He would be mine tonight.

"Here you go." The bartender’s voice caught me off guard.

I slapped my payment down on the bar, grabbed my beer, then turned back to stare more at that face. He was smooth and stocky, his splendid pink skin lit up in the yellow lights. I wanted nothing more than to be the one with my hands all over him, to shoo those ladies away, take him in my arms and feed off his youth, his vitality, in more ways than one.

The loud music made little ripples in my beer. Techno beats and sweaty dancers made the club come alive. The hordes of people only added to my excitement. This was my kind of place.

For years, I’d taken mortals out of here. I’d introduced them to the pleasure of their choosing, usually sex. I hadn’t needed friends or a vampire clan to keep me sane. No, I was on my own. I was a rolling stone in this world.

It has been eight years since I’d last seen the full light of day. Hell if I knew who’d done it, but I’d have to thank my attacker when I found him. Being a vampire in the modern world had its advantages. People were gorgeous and remained active and youthful despite old age.

Just as the stunning man narrowed his eyes, someone stepped in the way, blocking him from my view. I leaned to the side and caught his eyes, as if it were just us there. Silver piercings lined both of his ears, from the top to the lobes. Gel spiked his short, ebony hair and made it glimmer. He wouldn’t be out of place in a mob.

This was it. He furrowed his brow and puckered his lips, calling me forth, sending a mad heat straight to my cock. It was definitely time to make my move. I stepped away from the bar, but a mysterious figure stopped me. Fingers wrapped around my arm.

"Hey, there."

A voice made me pause.

The culprit stood a foot taller than I. The heady scent of cologne masked the familiar taint of death around him. He leaned against the bar and I melted in that intoxicating scent. I could have fallen into his arms if it wasn’t for one thing—a pair of crimson red eyes, looking me over from head to toe. He was a vampire.

"Leave me," I groaned, disregarding the chilling need to breathe him in again.

He tightened his grasp. "That one over there? He’s too good for you."

"And how would you know?"

The vampire pounded his fist on the bar and caught the bartender’s attention right away. "Vodka on the rocks."

"Let me go." I writhed under his strong grasp and his fingertips seared into my skin. His hard stare caused my knees to shake.

"Tell me, who do you follow?" he asked.

"Excuse me?"

"Your family. Are you an associate? Or a hunter?" His powerful red eyes burned straight through me and a lump caught in my throat.

Why in the hell does he care? "I follow no one."

He held his glass up to partly opened lips. The ice clinked against the sides. "Oh, an outcast are you?"

I squirmed again, shaking my head wildly. There was no way I would answer his stupid ass questions, not when I’d never had to answer to anyone before. His nails dug deeper into my skin. I clenched my jaw, feeling flushed.

Stupid son of a bitch. "What’s it to ya, huh?"

He wrinkled his brow. His sharp fangs clanked on the rim of the glass. I definitely had his attention. As he lowered his head, a long string of pitch black hair flipped over his right shoulder and stretched down to his stomach.

"Tell me who you are and I’ll leave you be," he rumbled.

This intruder didn’t need to know a damn thing. I struggled again, almost dropping my beer in the process, and I was suddenly free. He stepped in front of me, the movement quicker than I could track, and trapped me against the side of the bar.

I clenched my fists at my sides. "Malachi," I stammered. "Now would you let me be?"

The vampire’s eyes widened with interest. "Malachi? That’s an interesting name. I wasn’t expecting that."

"Yeah, what were you expecting to hear?"

He drifted closer and I could feel the warmth of his breath. My skin began to tingle at the strong scent of blood on him. Damn, he’d fed lately. I wondered if that thrilling taste was still on his tongue.

"Merrick."

I stilled. "Where did you hear that?"

"I’ll tell you if you take me with you."

Wait. What about my hazel eyed cutie?

I tried to look past the vampire’s shoulder at the man I’d spied just moments ago, only to see nothing but the crowd on the dance floor. Where the hell had he gone?

The vampire caught my chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing my attention back to him. A strange urgency rattled my nerves. This vampire’s touch was unimaginably soft now, and damn, I needed to know how he knew that name. However, I’d never shown another vampire my home and really didn’t desire to. If only he’d open that damn mouth of his.

"Who are you?" I whispered.

He stepped back and gave a courtly bow of his head. "Dante von Stein. At your service."

Excerpt from: A Sexual Spark

“Oh…shit,” I muttered under my breath. Something wicked had just walked through the door, and I knew like any woman—even a mutt like me—knew deep down in her soul when a predator neared. A hush fell over the dimly lit bar, the hairs on my neck rose and my body tightened as if a heat wave suddenly blasted down it.

My every nerve awakened screaming, big, bad, and dangerous had entered the bar, yet I couldn’t stop myself from swinging around on my heels, letting my eyes sweep through the haze of smoke and shadows until they landed on his large form.

He had to be over seven feet tall, owning the space as he walked. The crowded bar separated for him like Moses parting the Red Sea. I wasn’t the only one who sensed the predator in him. The man was nasty on two well-sculpted legs that flexed and bunched with ground-eating strides, he took to the only empty booth near my station, then easily slid that big frame of his into it. He dominated the space around him. A man who knew no equal, he reminded me of a deadly panther—powerful and sleek.

He wore dark, exotic wraparound sunglasses and dressed all in black. His pants were indecent as hell, leaving nowhere for me to look but at the bundle prominently covered by luscious, black, shiny leather. I wasn’t sure what size shitkickers he wore, but damn that man had the biggest feet I’d ever seen. Ripping my eyes off his crotch, I made my way up over the boundaries most would call a chest, yet on this dangerous creature, it seemed more like stacked mounds of muscle forming very wide and impressive shoulders, twisting and rippling beneath his leather jacket as he moved. The kind of shoulders a girl could wrap her legs around and ride his face for days.

I could only describe his hair as a thick messy shag of pitch-black that teased around his face, brushing just past his broad shoulders. It had that ‘I just got fucked’ look that only someone like him could wear and still look wickedly handsome. Now, if I rolled out of bed with that kind of hair and did nothing with it, I bet the first person who saw me would start barking. Not really smart, but I always say some people have shit for brains, too. Hey, I might have been half human, but the other half was wolf, which made me a bitch to begin with, so I wouldn’t push it.

His face, what I could make of it with those damn shades on, looked like carved granite for as much as the man ever changed expressions. His face must’ve had one expression—harsh and deadly looking. High-cut cheekbones and a cruel mouth made me think of whips, blindfolds and handcuffs. Now that might be my own fetishes coming into play, but I seriously doubted it. His aura cloaked him in a dark malevolence and, for some sadistic reason—one that I couldn’t explain—it totally turned me on.

My hands felt clammy, and I resisted the urge to rub them down my slick leather skirt, which would’ve been hard to do with the bottles of beer hanging off my fingertips of one hand and a full serving tray balanced on the other. To say the man made me a tad bit nervous would have been an understatement. Then, a deep smug male chuckle flitted through my mind. I squinted, trying to get a clearer image of Mr. Dangerous over there, and wouldn’t you know it, his face broke into a big-ass grin. Why that telepathic, broadcast-snatching bastard. I closed off my mind like locking up the vault to Fort Knox. One thing I really didn’t care for was a man that knew he was all that and a candy bar. It really rubbed my fur the wrong way.

No man, no matter how good-looking, was going to throw this girl off her game. Then he cocked a finger at me, motioning me over. Like I’d run panting to his side. Not happening in this lifetime. I just gave him a cool nod of my head to show I’d seen him, and turned away, making sure to put an extra swing in my ass, as I made my way to the bar to rid myself of the empty beer bottles. What I really wanted to do was wipe that cocky male grin right off his face. But no…I took a deep breath instead, gathered myself together, pulled my shoulders back; I let my twins lead the way towards his booth. I stopped right in front of him, giving him my best bored face and cocked a hip for added effect.

Excerpt From: A Spartan's Kiss

The silence of the night settled over Tabithia as she waited.

The witching hour could hide almost anything. Things a person couldn’t obscure in the harsh light of day.

She was good at hiding. Had to be. None of her close friends knew what she concealed beneath the surface of her adrenaline-junkie escapades. Not even her aunts knew that, beneath her skin, she hid the revulsion clawing at her. Why should they? People had burdens. Burdens they managed alone. Hers were no different. And they were easier to hide in the dimness of the midnight hours. Night allowed the edges of darkness within her to melt into forgetfulness. Black was, in fact, her favourite colour.

She should have been born a vampire, not a witch.

Sadly, no. She was one of the Wiccan, a Daughter of the Three. She wasn’t one of those goodie-two-shoes, can’t-hurt-anyone witches. Oh, no. Her ancient coven believed in survival. Survival meant being so badass no one messed with you. She had the badass down to a T.

For all the good it did her.

Tabithia hunkered further down in her crouch as a runner, glittering with reflectors, ran by with her music blaring. She winced. Clearly, the runner had no regard for her ears. Or herself. Aged buildings, paint peeling and splashed with colourful graffiti, lined a street full of potholes and trash, yet a woman ran by with her ear buds blocking out any sound other than her music? Humans. Tab never would understand them.

She really wanted to curse her aunt, Circerran, nicknamed Trouble, for getting her out here. By now, Tabithia could be drinking at One Eye’s immortal tavern or racing her way-too-expensive but fantastic Ecosse road bike with other immortals. Instead, she waited until the jogger disappeared before craning her neck around the building’s brick corner to peer down the murky street. Cursing wasn’t her thing, anyway. Too many people just didn’t get that a curse could come back and bite you in the ass. She did. Oh, yeah, she got that, so no cursing for her.

Several minutes passed, and no one else appeared. Not surprising since even a stray cat wouldn’t wander through this neighbourhood so late at night. The runner lacked common sense. Still, Tabithia didn’t trust her eyesight alone. Magic could flow beneath the surface of almost anything from a poisoned apple to a slum neighbourhood street. With one more glance behind and to both sides of her, she leaned a hand on the rough brick wall and focused her inner eye, revealing nothing more than the shadows of the cars she’d already spotted parked along both sides of the street.

Tabithia watched a second more before letting the witch sight fade, leaving her alone in the shadows once again. Hunger, not for food, but for the feel of others around her, beat at her. Restlessness burned along her body. Her muscles ached from holding them tightly bunched and ready for action—action not happening on a street corner.

I could be out partying. Drinking it up. But no. Trouble calls and I have to answer.

True. She always would, too, no doubt.

So, party time would have to wait. Instead she waited, while the darkness inside her built higher and higher. The need to ease the pain blistered along her senses grew, and she knew, just knew that only more pain could ease the beast clawing at her.

She drew her butterfly knife and balanced the double-sided blade by its tip between her two fingers, flicked the scissor-like sheath along her knuckles and spun the silver blade over and between her fingers. The cool weight of steel comforted her. The sharp edge provided the pain that would ease the memories. She watched the silver blur as she twisted her wrist and let the razor-sharp blade glide over her knuckles before snapping the two sections of the hilt in her hand. The urge to screw up the rhythm of her knife play surged through her. With more effort than she felt comfortable with, she steadied her hand and began another round of flip and catch, until she could control her breathing.

Trouble would be there soon

"Well? What’s up? Any news?"

Shit! Tabithia clenched her fist around the smooth hilt of her knife, just barely stopping herself from yelping at aunt's soft whisper near her ear.

She hated when Trouble caught her by surprise. No doubt her observant aunt had done it on purpose, too. Not many could get the drop on her, but when Trouble did, her aunt always enjoyed it to the max. Aggravating didn’t even begin to describe her aunt.

Not bothering to turn, since she could sense her aunt’s grin without the humiliation of actually seeing it, she took her time to pocket her knife, trying to summon the patience to deal with her aunt’s cheerfulness. "Nada. Should there be? Is this going to take all night? I do have a party—"

"Please. You always have a party. This pays the bills. Right?"

Tabithia had enough money set aside to pay for her partying from here to eternity—if she ever had to pay for her partying. Trouble? Gobs more. Her aunt stockpiled money like a squirrel packing a tree full of nuts for the next ice age.

When she grumbled again, Trouble laughed. Tabithia reluctantly turned around to confront her, barely resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

Her aunt’s eyes sparkled with happiness. She always sparkled—tonight proved to be no exception. Dressed in a white T-shirt with the words ‘More Cowbell’ scrolled across her breasts, black hip-hugger jeans tucked into knee-high black boots, she looked more like a hip rocker chick than a deadly spell-caster. She winked when Tabithia met her eye.

"Caught ya, didn’t I?"

"Nah, I knew you were on your way."

Trouble’s grin widened, but she dropped the issue. "Yeah, anyways, chica, this one will be worth the wait."

Like Tabithia hadn’t heard that before.

She ignored Trouble’s huffed laugh. A woman who looked like her aunt shouldn’t be able to get them into such trouble. Her ivory skin, high cheekbones, wide, green eyes, cute, little, pink bow mouth, and heart-shaped face simply looked like they belonged on some supermodel, not an adrenaline junkie hooked on mad escapades. Gorgeous, waist-length, burgundy hair Tabithia would die for—or kill to have—framed all that beauty into something breathtaking.

Yeah, her aunt made her feel like a watered-down carbon copy. She hated that.

"So? What’s the take?"

Trouble placed a long, red-nailed finger over her pink lips and whispered, "Shh, you’ll see."

Tabithia turned back to the street, holding in a growl of frustration.

Excerpt From: A Spartan's Kiss

The silence of the night settled over Tabithia as she waited.

The witching hour could hide almost anything. Things a person couldn’t obscure in the harsh light of day.

She was good at hiding. Had to be. None of her close friends knew what she concealed beneath the surface of her adrenaline-junkie escapades. Not even her aunts knew that, beneath her skin, she hid the revulsion clawing at her. Why should they? People had burdens. Burdens they managed alone. Hers were no different. And they were easier to hide in the dimness of the midnight hours. Night allowed the edges of darkness within her to melt into forgetfulness. Black was, in fact, her favourite colour.

She should have been born a vampire, not a witch.

Sadly, no. She was one of the Wiccan, a Daughter of the Three. She wasn’t one of those goodie-two-shoes, can’t-hurt-anyone witches. Oh, no. Her ancient coven believed in survival. Survival meant being so badass no one messed with you. She had the badass down to a T.

For all the good it did her.

Tabithia hunkered further down in her crouch as a runner, glittering with reflectors, ran by with her music blaring. She winced. Clearly, the runner had no regard for her ears. Or herself. Aged buildings, paint peeling and splashed with colourful graffiti, lined a street full of potholes and trash, yet a woman ran by with her ear buds blocking out any sound other than her music? Humans. Tab never would understand them.

She really wanted to curse her aunt, Circerran, nicknamed Trouble, for getting her out here. By now, Tabithia could be drinking at One Eye’s immortal tavern or racing her way-too-expensive but fantastic Ecosse road bike with other immortals. Instead, she waited until the jogger disappeared before craning her neck around the building’s brick corner to peer down the murky street. Cursing wasn’t her thing, anyway. Too many people just didn’t get that a curse could come back and bite you in the ass. She did. Oh, yeah, she got that, so no cursing for her.

Several minutes passed, and no one else appeared. Not surprising since even a stray cat wouldn’t wander through this neighbourhood so late at night. The runner lacked common sense. Still, Tabithia didn’t trust her eyesight alone. Magic could flow beneath the surface of almost anything from a poisoned apple to a slum neighbourhood street. With one more glance behind and to both sides of her, she leaned a hand on the rough brick wall and focused her inner eye, revealing nothing more than the shadows of the cars she’d already spotted parked along both sides of the street.

Tabithia watched a second more before letting the witch sight fade, leaving her alone in the shadows once again. Hunger, not for food, but for the feel of others around her, beat at her. Restlessness burned along her body. Her muscles ached from holding them tightly bunched and ready for action—action not happening on a street corner.

I could be out partying. Drinking it up. But no. Trouble calls and I have to answer.

True. She always would, too, no doubt.

So, party time would have to wait. Instead she waited, while the darkness inside her built higher and higher. The need to ease the pain blistered along her senses grew, and she knew, just knew that only more pain could ease the beast clawing at her.

She drew her butterfly knife and balanced the double-sided blade by its tip between her two fingers, flicked the scissor-like sheath along her knuckles and spun the silver blade over and between her fingers. The cool weight of steel comforted her. The sharp edge provided the pain that would ease the memories. She watched the silver blur as she twisted her wrist and let the razor-sharp blade glide over her knuckles before snapping the two sections of the hilt in her hand. The urge to screw up the rhythm of her knife play surged through her. With more effort than she felt comfortable with, she steadied her hand and began another round of flip and catch, until she could control her breathing.

Trouble would be there soon

"Well? What’s up? Any news?"

Shit! Tabithia clenched her fist around the smooth hilt of her knife, just barely stopping herself from yelping at aunt's soft whisper near her ear.

She hated when Trouble caught her by surprise. No doubt her observant aunt had done it on purpose, too. Not many could get the drop on her, but when Trouble did, her aunt always enjoyed it to the max. Aggravating didn’t even begin to describe her aunt.

Not bothering to turn, since she could sense her aunt’s grin without the humiliation of actually seeing it, she took her time to pocket her knife, trying to summon the patience to deal with her aunt’s cheerfulness. "Nada. Should there be? Is this going to take all night? I do have a party—"

"Please. You always have a party. This pays the bills. Right?"

Tabithia had enough money set aside to pay for her partying from here to eternity—if she ever had to pay for her partying. Trouble? Gobs more. Her aunt stockpiled money like a squirrel packing a tree full of nuts for the next ice age.

When she grumbled again, Trouble laughed. Tabithia reluctantly turned around to confront her, barely resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

Her aunt’s eyes sparkled with happiness. She always sparkled—tonight proved to be no exception. Dressed in a white T-shirt with the words ‘More Cowbell’ scrolled across her breasts, black hip-hugger jeans tucked into knee-high black boots, she looked more like a hip rocker chick than a deadly spell-caster. She winked when Tabithia met her eye.

"Caught ya, didn’t I?"

"Nah, I knew you were on your way."

Trouble’s grin widened, but she dropped the issue. "Yeah, anyways, chica, this one will be worth the wait."

Like Tabithia hadn’t heard that before.

She ignored Trouble’s huffed laugh. A woman who looked like her aunt shouldn’t be able to get them into such trouble. Her ivory skin, high cheekbones, wide, green eyes, cute, little, pink bow mouth, and heart-shaped face simply looked like they belonged on some supermodel, not an adrenaline junkie hooked on mad escapades. Gorgeous, waist-length, burgundy hair Tabithia would die for—or kill to have—framed all that beauty into something breathtaking.

Yeah, her aunt made her feel like a watered-down carbon copy. She hated that.

"So? What’s the take?"

Trouble placed a long, red-nailed finger over her pink lips and whispered, "Shh, you’ll see."

Tabithia turned back to the street, holding in a growl of frustration.

Excerpt From: A Special Christmas

“Just hear those sleigh bells jingling, ring-ting-tingling too. Come on, it’s lovely weather for a sleigh-ride together with you…”

As he slowed his BMW almost to a halt on the crowded freeway, Brett Masters groaned and snapped off his car radio. No way was he going to start being bombarded with Christmas songs this early in the year! Especially in his present frame of mind. Grudgingly, he had to admit it wasn’t all that early. He’d actually been preparing for this particular Christmas for some time, ever since he’d got Jamie to agree on a Christmas Eve and Christmas Day for just the two of them—alone in a log cabin hideaway up in Big Bear Mountain…

It had taken a long time, and all of Brett’s considerable salesman technique, together with lots of kisses and caresses to convince Jamie that it would be fabulous, and that their respective parents wouldn’t mind if they showed up the day after Christmas to join in the family celebrations.

That last part had been the most difficult to navigate, and Brett had spent a lot of time on the phone with his mom then Jamie’s mom, explaining that as it was his and Jamie’s fifth Christmas together and he wanted to make it a really special one. His mother had positively whined at the prospect of a Brett-less Christmas, but he’d remained adamant. After all, for the past five years he and Jamie had accommodated their families by celebrating their Christmas together early then flying off Christmas Eve—Brett to Kansas City, Jamie to Jacksonville, Florida—to pass the next three days surrounded by their many siblings and their siblings many, many kids.

“Imagine what it’ll be like, Jamie,” he’d whispered in his lover’s ear after what he remembered now as an extremely hot bout of sex. “Just the two of us waking up on Christmas morning together—no kids jumping up and down on the bed, demanding that you get up right now and help them open those scads of gifts they get every year.”

They had compared notes after every Christmas and had laughed repeatedly at how similar their Christmas mornings were, all those miles apart.

Excerpt From: A Spirit of Love

"I still can’t understand what the hell this thing is saying!"

Martin threw his headphones down on the floor of the living room where he was sitting in the two-storey condo he and his lover Emilio shared.

"It’s not a thing, love, it’s a disembodied voice," replied Emilio, ever patient with his headstrong partner. "And you know trying to understand those EVPs is not always possible. Never mind the ghost voices, quit torturing yourself and call her."

Martin considered Emilio, a sweet, smouldering young man of mixed European heritage. Just hitting his mid-twenties, Emilio was all olive skin, thick dark hair and a tight wiry body, one that could get into the most outrageous positions when so inclined. And inclined he was. Emilio had been raised in Italy, Portugal, and had attended university in Britain. He’d eventually followed his parents to Northern California, and Martin was grateful that he had. He may never have met him otherwise. And Sophie would never have been crushed.

That thought made him sigh, and Emilio looked quizzically at him.

"Sorry. I was just wondering how Sophie was doing," he said sheepishly. He knew that it wasn’t generally thought of as cool to mention a past lover to a new one, but their situation was a little unusual. He had never intended to actually leave Sophie. It had always been meant that the three of them would be together. But sometimes things didn’t work out the way you wanted.

Emilio came over and sat down on the floor next to Martin. "It’s been almost a year. She’s an intelligent woman who cares about her work and her clients. She’ll listen to the problems these people are having, and she’ll come around. She can’t hate you forever."

Martin snickered. "Oh, I’m willing to bet forever isn’t nearly long enough."

Two years ago, he’d met the lovely Sophie through his collectables shop, ‘Oddly Enough-Uniques and Collectables’. He specialised in obscure and bizarre antiques and collectables. For instance, he carried things such as a two-headed mummified goat, Victorian medical equipment and medicine bottles, paper ephemera from freak shows, elixir bottles of wild sideshow cures, a chair made of human skulls-,essentially anything out of the ordinary. Sophie, a delicate blonde woman who only stood five foot two and was twenty-two when they met, had wandered into his shop one day looking for antique tarot decks. It turned out that she was a spiritual medium and empath, abilities that had been in her family for years.

He didn’t take her too seriously at first. As much as he enjoyed the wild stuff he carried in his shop, he wasn’t one to believe in ghosts, spirits, or anything of that sort. It was all trickery or sleight of hand in his elevated opinion. Sophie’s translucent skin, pale blue eyes and soft voice had drawn him in at first. But it was her kindness and open heart that had kept him. Eventually, she took him with her on investigations where her help was needed. Many of the paranormal investigators in Petaluma, and all of the other surrounding San Francisco suburbs, knew of her and requested her services.

Initially, he’d gone along as a lark, a way to spend more time with his lovely Sophie. However, he’d soon become convinced. Being with her and witnessing so many weird and wonderful paranormal happenings had changed his outlook forever. She had changed him as well. He’d fallen deeply in love, and had wanted to spend forever with this amazing woman. He’d then become wrapped up in paranormal investigating, and it had all seemed to be a perfect combination between her, the ghost hunting and his shop. They’d come to be known locally as a team.

Then Emilio showed up. He’d been recommended to them through another investigative team, because of all of the specialised equipment he had designed and built. Emilio had an incredibly creative mind, and all three of them had immediately clicked.

Excerpt From: A Sticky Wicket in Bollywood

The noise hit Rajan like a wave crashing over him as soon as the doors to the chauffeured car were opened. His agent, Beni Sharma, was the first to exit and the flashes from the waiting cameras lit up the interior momentarily before the photographers evidently realised that Sharma wasn’t the main attraction.

Rajan took a breath, glad for even a moment’s respite from the badgering. He needed a break. He’d been filming non-stop for close to a year, and the exhaustion had finally caught up with him. He’d lost nearly ten kilos for his last role, since they’d needed a lot of beach shots and required even more muscle definition than his natural weight allowed for. Starvation and intense workouts had cut his physique, but had left his already low reserves seriously depleted.

Sharma, however, refused to hear him when he spoke about needing some time off, and had been trying for days to get him to commit to yet another 'must-do' project. And he wasn’t taking no for an answer.

Rajan received a not-so-gentle nudge to the shoulder.

"Are you ever going to get out? Wait…how do I look?"

He turned back to look at his girlfriend Karishma Saxena, one of the rising stars of Bollywood, according to the infatuated media. It was her premiere—he was merely her escort this evening, as he hadn’t been in this production.

He obediently ran his gaze over her, from head to…well…cleavage.

"How does that dress even stay up?" he asked. It was gold and sparkly and looked as though, with any sudden move, gravity would make sure she had front page coverage in all the wrong kinds of magazines.

She raised an eyebrow. "Double-sided tape and wishful thinking. Now, seriously…"

"You look beautiful, as always," he answered honestly. It wasn’t her fault he wanted to be anywhere but here. Anywhere far away from the madness waiting outside the door.

He turned back to the open door and began to step out. As he did, he could tell the moment they recognised him.

"Rajan! Rajan Malik! Are you with Karishma?"

"Rajan! Look this way!"

He pasted a smile on and straightened. This time the flashes were almost blinding. He immediately turned to reach out to Karishma, assisting her to step out onto the red carpet, then offering his arm as they faced the wall of cameras and shouting reporters.

The usual questions were called out—asking about their next projects, who they were wearing, and the latest favourite…

"When is the wedding?"

Beni Sharma represented both Raj and Karishma and, after allowing a minute or so of photographs, he moved into the tableau and posed next to them.

"Now, now," he pandered. "These two won’t have time for a wedding until after they wrap up filming on the new movie they’re co-starring in."

It took all the professionalism Rajan had to maintain his smile in the face of that deliberate bombshell. Fed up and about ready to create a scene, he put himself and Karishma in motion, walking slowly away from the car—and Sharma—along the red carpet leading towards the suburban Mumbai studio where the premiere was being held. He paused, as was expected, just under the awning, in front of the logoed background for more photographs. This is where Karishma and he would wait for her co-star for this film to arrive for even more pictures. As pissed off as he was at that moment, Rajan just didn’t have it in him to buck tradition, though he wished he had the balls to just keep walking into the studio and find a quiet corner somewhere.

Maybe even watch the movie.

Rajan let Karishma subtly arrange them so he was standing slightly behind her. He knew his black suit with silver stripes and black shirt and tie would set off her gold and bright pink gown. They’d practised the pose they’d been coached on in front of the mirror after being dressed earlier. Seemed like almost every detail of his life was planned by someone else.

How the hell am I going to get out of this now?

Did he really even have a choice but to make the movie? Sharma had basically announced his participation, which would be faithfully reported to millions of people, including the principles of the studio. And they were determined to get him on board. He and Karishma had somehow become the couple to watch in Bollywood. So much so that the studio had booted the originally cast male lead last week under some contrived circumstances then had demanded, through Beni, to sign Rajan as his replacement.

It meant huge publicity…and a huge payoff. The contract he’d been offered was enough to stun him. He’d finally made it to the A-list with this one.

He blinked, and it took some effort to reopen his eyelids all the way.

Yeah, a fat lot of good that’ll do you if you’re dead from exhaustion.

Excerpt From: A Sticky Wicket in Bollywood

The noise hit Rajan like a wave crashing over him as soon as the doors to the chauffeured car were opened. His agent, Beni Sharma, was the first to exit and the flashes from the waiting cameras lit up the interior momentarily before the photographers evidently realised that Sharma wasn’t the main attraction.

Rajan took a breath, glad for even a moment’s respite from the badgering. He needed a break. He’d been filming non-stop for close to a year, and the exhaustion had finally caught up with him. He’d lost nearly ten kilos for his last role, since they’d needed a lot of beach shots and required even more muscle definition than his natural weight allowed for. Starvation and intense workouts had cut his physique, but had left his already low reserves seriously depleted.

Sharma, however, refused to hear him when he spoke about needing some time off, and had been trying for days to get him to commit to yet another 'must-do' project. And he wasn’t taking no for an answer.

Rajan received a not-so-gentle nudge to the shoulder.

"Are you ever going to get out? Wait…how do I look?"

He turned back to look at his girlfriend Karishma Saxena, one of the rising stars of Bollywood, according to the infatuated media. It was her premiere—he was merely her escort this evening, as he hadn’t been in this production.

He obediently ran his gaze over her, from head to…well…cleavage.

"How does that dress even stay up?" he asked. It was gold and sparkly and looked as though, with any sudden move, gravity would make sure she had front page coverage in all the wrong kinds of magazines.

She raised an eyebrow. "Double-sided tape and wishful thinking. Now, seriously…"

"You look beautiful, as always," he answered honestly. It wasn’t her fault he wanted to be anywhere but here. Anywhere far away from the madness waiting outside the door.

He turned back to the open door and began to step out. As he did, he could tell the moment they recognised him.

"Rajan! Rajan Malik! Are you with Karishma?"

"Rajan! Look this way!"

He pasted a smile on and straightened. This time the flashes were almost blinding. He immediately turned to reach out to Karishma, assisting her to step out onto the red carpet, then offering his arm as they faced the wall of cameras and shouting reporters.

The usual questions were called out—asking about their next projects, who they were wearing, and the latest favourite…

"When is the wedding?"

Beni Sharma represented both Raj and Karishma and, after allowing a minute or so of photographs, he moved into the tableau and posed next to them.

"Now, now," he pandered. "These two won’t have time for a wedding until after they wrap up filming on the new movie they’re co-starring in."

It took all the professionalism Rajan had to maintain his smile in the face of that deliberate bombshell. Fed up and about ready to create a scene, he put himself and Karishma in motion, walking slowly away from the car—and Sharma—along the red carpet leading towards the suburban Mumbai studio where the premiere was being held. He paused, as was expected, just under the awning, in front of the logoed background for more photographs. This is where Karishma and he would wait for her co-star for this film to arrive for even more pictures. As pissed off as he was at that moment, Rajan just didn’t have it in him to buck tradition, though he wished he had the balls to just keep walking into the studio and find a quiet corner somewhere.

Maybe even watch the movie.

Rajan let Karishma subtly arrange them so he was standing slightly behind her. He knew his black suit with silver stripes and black shirt and tie would set off her gold and bright pink gown. They’d practised the pose they’d been coached on in front of the mirror after being dressed earlier. Seemed like almost every detail of his life was planned by someone else.

How the hell am I going to get out of this now?

Did he really even have a choice but to make the movie? Sharma had basically announced his participation, which would be faithfully reported to millions of people, including the principles of the studio. And they were determined to get him on board. He and Karishma had somehow become the couple to watch in Bollywood. So much so that the studio had booted the originally cast male lead last week under some contrived circumstances then had demanded, through Beni, to sign Rajan as his replacement.

It meant huge publicity…and a huge payoff. The contract he’d been offered was enough to stun him. He’d finally made it to the A-list with this one.

He blinked, and it took some effort to reopen his eyelids all the way.

Yeah, a fat lot of good that’ll do you if you’re dead from exhaustion.

Excerpt From: A Subtle Breeze

Ezekiel Matthers stood looking down at his mother’s grave. She’d been gone for almost four years now, and he still couldn’t get used to the fact that he wasn’t going to see her again, at least not in this lifetime. There were mornings when he stumbled into the kitchen bleary-eyed from sleep and swore he could smell her perfume, a soft, sweet scent he had never encountered on anyone else. It always left him with the feeling that he had just missed her, like she had slipped out the door to head to work right before he could hug her.

“Enough,” he muttered, kneeling down to place the bouquet of yellow roses he’d brought with him up against the tombstone. “I sure do miss you, Mama. I bet you’re having the best birthday yet, dancing with angels on those golden streets.” Zeke closed his eyes as a soft breeze caressed his skin, bringing with it a faint fragrance that somehow soothed his soul. The loneliness that was his ever-present companion still gnawed at him, but he pushed it down, as always.

Zeke had all but given up on finding someone to share his life with. When his mama was still alive, he hadn’t wanted to risk bringing trouble down on them, on his mother and sisters, by having a relationship out in the open. There had already been too much such trouble once people found out he was gay, and his mama and sisters had been confronted in town on more than one occasion. Ezekiel had, too, but it had never concerned him like it did when it happened to any of his loved ones. On top of that, somewhere in the darkest corner of his heart, Zeke had held out hope that his oldest sister, Eva, would eventually ‘come around’, as Mama had said she would. That hadn’t happened, and when Mama died, the chasm between him and Eva had grown into what he feared was an unbridgeable size. Zeke didn’t know if he even had the strength, much less the desire any more, to bother with trying to fix that sad relationship.

That gentle breeze seemed to nudge him, almost chastising him for his melancholy and defeatist thoughts. Zeke shook his head at his fanciful musing, saying a silent prayer for his mama before opening his eyes and standing. He grunted a bit when his right knee popped, something that gave him problems courtesy of a fight—an assault really, though calling it a fight made it somehow seem less personal, less planned. The damage to his knee, caused by a pipe and a few homophobes, was not extensive but it did act up on occasion. All things considered, he figured he was lucky that was the severest injury he had sustained from the encounter. If Elizabeth and Enessa hadn’t overheard the men plotting minutes before and rushed to follow them… Well, he had no illusions. Those men had intended to get him out of McKinton, one way or another.

Giving one last glance to his mama’s grave, Ezekiel turned and headed for his truck, noting another vehicle pulling in to the cemetery. He squinted, recognising Enessa’s little hybrid—that looked way too tiny for the number of people in it. Deciding he didn’t feel up to making conversation with whomever she had with her, Zeke waved in her direction and picked up his pace so he could leave before she even stopped her car. He groaned when he realised he wasn’t going to make it. Enessa parked and jumped out of her car, running straight for him.

“Zeke! Wait!” Enessa ran full tilt, almost careening into Ezekiel before stopping. He couldn’t quite hold back a grin. Nessa was just too sweet to stay irritated with for more than a few seconds. He caught her forearms, preventing her from teetering over courtesy of her sudden stop.

“Thanks, Zeke!” Enessa smiled up at him, eyes lit up like the Fourth of July. “Why were you trying to run off?”

He sighed, wanting only to get back to the ranch where he could keep himself busy with work. “Nessa, I’m really not up to having to play nice with your friends right now, and I have a lot of work waiting for me at the ranch.” Zeke tried to ignore the look she gave him, refusing to be guilted into hanging around.

“But, Zeke…I just wanted to visit Mama and my friends were here, and you know Gloria. The other…” Enessa trailed off.

Ezekiel put his arm around her shoulder, using it to steer her in the direction of her car, not paying any particular notice to the two people lingering by the hybrid.

“Nessa, go visit Mama. Take your friends with you, do what you have to, honey, but I am just plain not in any mood to be chatty with your buddies, okay? Not right now.” He watched her digest what he said, saw she wasn’t going to be hurt by it. “Go on, now. Your friends are waiting for ya.” Zeke tipped his head in their general direction, assuming that’s what they were doing.

Enessa surprised him with a big hug before she stood on her tiptoes and planted a smacking kiss on his cheek.

“I’m not sure they’re waiting on me, but okay. Since you aren’t feeling very friendly right now and have so much work to get back to, would it be okay if I invite my friends over for supper? I’m making fried chicken and mashed potatoes, gravy and biscuits and—”

Zeke laughed, shaking his head. One way or another, Nessa was going to make him meet her friends, and there was no reason he could think of not to do so this evening. Not without hurting her feelings, anyway.

“Nessa, if you’re going to fix one of your homemade meals for supper, you can bring over the entire college campus for all I care.” He hugged his little sister, maybe not so little now at twenty three, but she’d always be little to him, especially as she was a good eight inches shorter than his own six-foot, three-inches.

“I’ll see you—and your buddies—at the supper table, okay?” Zeke let her go and headed back over to his truck, pushing aside thoughts of supper and company, already focusing on the tasks waiting for him when he got home. Soon his mind was making lists and shifting around priorities, leaving no room for him to dwell on things like his mama’s death or how lonely he was.

Excerpt From: A Taste for Blood

A scrawny man not worth a vampire’s bite, let alone a sip, sat at the desk in front of me, his head of brown curls shielding whatever it was he’d just written down. I focused on the back of his neck. His beating heart was easily drowned out by the thump of electronic music waiting beyond a set of double doors.

The music called to me almost as much as the sweet, salty and tangy tastes I was bound to find once I got inside. Vampire-friendly clubs such as this housed the best kind of porn available to man and vampire alike, but I wasn’t in it for the slender legs, curved breasts or delicious bloodbath that was vampire-on-human sex. Not all of it, anyway.

Just one.

Smells. Tastes. Even hearing the flow of blood from every sub in the room was enough to put me on edge, but there was only one human I wanted to see…taste.

I clenched my fists and studied the black duffel bag I’d brought along with me. Aside from the cuffs and collar I’d thrown in earlier this evening, its contents never changed. A few pints of blood, ointment, bandages, condoms and lube—everything a vampire could possibly need.

I closed my eyes and tried not to think of her bare neck. Of the deep bite I’d left her with the last time I’d been here. My stomach turned with guilt. I’d taken it too far too soon. I only hoped tonight she’d say yes and invite me in for seconds. Thirds.

"Welcome to Horizons. How may I help you?" the desk clerk asked, raising his eyebrows at me. The colour drained from his face, and he stood from his chair. "You again."

I smiled at his surprise and waved a hand. "Please, sit down, uh…"

"Tyler," he offered, signing me in on his slip of paper.

I bit my bottom lip. "Is she here?"

Tyler sat back down and gestured to the door to my left. "Try not to drain her this time, will you, Alex? She has a shift in the morning, and I’d rather she not be among the walking dead."

I couldn’t be bothered with his tone just then. Not tonight. Anything that kept me from reaching Kassidy, especially when I was this close, would have to wait until morning.

For now, I focused on what was on the other side of the door. Warm blood. And with it, Kassidy’s submission. I wouldn’t be draining her tonight, but I couldn’t promise she wouldn’t look half alive tomorrow.

Steeling myself for what was ahead, promising I wouldn’t bite the first human with a heartbeat, I pushed through. It didn’t matter. I would’ve reacted the same way even if I’d been holding my breath.

A tremor ran over my spine as every nerve ending in my body tingled with the tell-tale signs of needing to feed. On someone. Anyone. I shook my head, walking past a mix of warm and cold bodies. They danced in the middle of the room and stank of blood. Of having had too much to drink. The humans out there were willing participants, but they weren’t protected by the clan or our laws.

Those outside private rooms were there for one reason only. To get high. To get so close to death they’d be left floating for days at a time. I wouldn’t be used as some kind of drug. Sadly, the same couldn’t be said for my brothers and sisters.

Vampires working off their high looked in my direction.

Thank God Kassidy has a private room.

Very few vampires fed on her, and those who did first needed her permission to enter the room. I’d been granted access months ago, but I always asked anyway. The first request was one of our unwritten laws. Those following were at my discretion.

Hanging a left, I walked down a long hallway. Away from the deafening music. Away from the vampire high. Away from temptation.

After passing the second door down the hall, I picked up my pace. Most of the rooms were empty, either by design or because the subs were away—I didn’t know which, nor did I care. The less chance I had of hearing a heartbeat on the other side of the wall, the better. I hadn’t fed on Kassidy in over a week, and the donors at the blood den were junk food compared to her.

Most of them, anyway.

Excerpt From: A Tender Roughness

Kincaid Vaughn turned his chopper onto the road leading to the AJ Ranch. He flicked a switch to slow the throttle, and noted it was a smooth transition. So far, he was pleased with how his new custom Yamaha was operating. He had built it for himself in his own free time. His shop, Vaughn Choppers, was so busy he didn’t have much time to work on his own bike. It had taken him a year to get the bike done. This was his inaugural ride.

He frowned at the rolling hills of green, dotted with cattle and horses. Kincaid sighed. He couldn’t figure out how he had let his close friend Jolie James convince him to come to her family ranch for a weekend of horse riding. Her assurance that horse riding was like riding a motorcycle did nothing to ease his concerns. He knew it was a load of shit, anyway. A bike, he could control. A horse, on the other hand, was a being that could think on its own. And he was sure that if it decided it didn’t like him on its back, it would pitch him off. He tightened his hands on the bars of the bike, imagining how much that would hurt.

Jolie had been working on getting him out for a visit for over six years. They had met when she was still a newbie marketing director who had taken on his shop’s marketing plan. Kincaid hadn’t wanted a new person, since he had a good working relationship with the man who had previously handled his account. The company’s explanation that the previous person was no longer available for his account, although he still worked in the firm, had pissed him off. He’d fired them. Jolie had shown up at the shop anyway, and her brash attitude and refusal to take no for an answer had convinced him to give her a chance.

She had taken it and got his business more worldwide exposure. They had started out as business associates, but quickly became friends. When she had left the marketing company to work for her brother’s businesses, Kincaid had asked her to keep working on his business. She had agreed, saying that after all her hard work she wasn’t about to let someone else muck it up. Kincaid and his family were part of her family now, and she wasn’t about to let that change.

Family was the reason why he’d finally let her convince him to come to the ranch. He hoped he could talk Jolie into just hanging out at the cabin and shooting the breeze. Knowing her, she would not be hard to convince. They had a good friendship, and she liked to mess with him. He returned the favour, but they both understood how far they could go with each other. That was why their friendship worked so well. That, and she wouldn’t put up with his shit. Jolie would call him on it, then proceed to tell him off. She never stayed mad with him for long, nor he with her. She was like the little sister he and his brothers never had. All his family loved her. The male cousins, uncles, and Kincaid’s dad all enjoyed her sassy wit and devil-may-care attitude. She stood up to them and called all of them on their crap as needed. The female cousins, aunts, and his mom loved that she stood up to the men and could put up with the craziness of their family.

Kincaid frowned as he thought of Jolie’s absentee brother, Alistair James. In all the years he had known Jolie, Kincaid hadn’t met him. But he had heard about the numerous times he had cancelled plans with Jolie. Alistair didn’t seem to have time for Jolie, his only family member. He was too busy jet-setting around the world, making money. Kincaid hoped to meet Alistair one day, so he could tell him what he thought of the way he treated Jolie—like another business obligation instead of family.

From Jolie he knew that, although Alistair used Hollisville as a base of operations for his business, he didn’t actually have offices here. Over the years, the few times Jolie had mentioned Alistair was in town, he had been conducting business from the ranch or the office space he rented for his employees who were in Hollisville. Recently, Jolie had moved into the new permanent offices of James Corporation, which was adjacent to Alistair’s latest business venture—Enigma, the research and development firm that his brother’s partner, Enrique, had founded with friends. When Kincaid had asked Jolie if Alistair would be more present in Hollisville and for her, she had said that since he was rarely in Hollisville, he’d decided it would be a waste of space to have an office of his own. It had taken everything in Kincaid not to tell her what he thought of that. Jolie was fiercely protective of her brother. He had learnt not to say anything about his true thoughts about Alistair James.

Excerpt From: A Touch of Destiny

Late spring, Tombstone, Arizona Territory, 1880

"Where is she?" Beatrice demanded in a resolute voice as her gaze slid from the dirty, pink carpet bag on the floor next to the bed to the face of her husband of eight years. She recognised the anger in his eyes and nearly recoiled. He never appreciated it when she pointed out his faults—in fact, it was times such as these when he chose to teach his disrespectful wife a harsh lesson with the back of his hand, as his self-justified Christian duty dictated—but never in view of another living soul. Regardless of the consequences, Beatrice would stand her ground this time. The ugly little carpet bag may as well come to life and announce to the world that her spouse had brought a whore into their home.

She watched as his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. Almost imperceptibly, his eyes darted to the armoire then back to her face.

"You are supposed to be at church." Failing to sound casual he added in a panic, "I've done nothing wrong!"

"Truly?" she turned to the pine wardrobe and shouted at the closed doors, "If everyone in this room is so innocent, then why the need to hide?" A flash of hope that she was indeed mistaken shot through her mind. If a scandal such as this escaped the walls of their humble cottage, it would topple the very foundation of the church where her husband, Pastor Lindley Gaitland, preached.

"Cease, Beatrice," he warned, his tone hinting at the violence that lined his skin like an expensive, well-tailored suit. "Go and wait in the parlour."

Lindley's dismissal of her only proved his guilt. Beatrice's belly trembled with her indignation. She turned back to her husband. "How dare you defile our bed with some strumpet." she whispered unevenly, unable to draw enough air into her lungs to speak with the fury she felt.

"I said, into the parlour," he growled and drew back his hand.

She blinked, fully expecting to feel his fist across her face. Of course, were she to confront him with his actions at a later time, he would most likely make up some feeble excuse such as he'd only meant to assist her to the next room. Hindsight had told her years ago that she'd made her bed when she'd married a self-righteous, judgemental, delusional snake in the grass. And to the list she could now add 'cheating'.

At that very moment, their attention transferred to the doors to the armoire as they flew open and a naked, hefty, blonde woman spilled onto the floor.

Beatrice's modest sensibilities, which were not only ingrained into her by her East Coast society upbringing, but also demanded by her position as a minister's wife, caused her to turn away. She glanced up at Lindley who looked as if he were in pain. She imagined he must be, having his sin exposed in such a way.

Like a blow to her stomach, a realisation hit her. His humiliation infected her as if it were a germ they exchanged between one another. Angry, hurt and defeated, she escaped the oppressive room, retiring to the parlour as her husband had commanded.

Not long after Beatrice had shakily lowered herself to their shabby settee, the blonde woman, holding the sparse, dingy trappings of a typical mining camp whore against her body, ran from the bedroom to flee the cottage via the front door.

Anticipating her husband's wrath, she waited a full hour before venturing into the bedroom to receive her punishment. When she did, she found Lindley sprawled, belly up, on the floor at the foot of the bed, his face displaying a deathly pallor.

She ran to fetch Doctor Matthews.

Beatrice gasped as she sat up in bed, having been plucked from a recurring dream. The flash of lightning through the window lent the room a blue glow, but then faded to black just as quickly. The wrath—filled thunder rolled over her roof. Her late husband had been dead six months to the day, but her nightmares of that fateful evening had not let her be since the funeral. She'd often thought it might have been Lindley coming back to haunt her.

Hanging her feet over the side of the bed, she placed her toes on the cool, wooden floor and tiptoed over to the window. Another flash illuminated her face's reflection in the glass. "So much lightning, never the perfect amount of rain," she murmured to an empty room.

She pressed her forehead against the windowsill and thought of the poor miners having to endure the electrical storm from inside their flimsy tents. She shivered.

Turning from the window, she climbed back into bed. She could have used a warm body to curl up with on nights like this. A dog would have done just fine, but she couldn't afford a pet. And, besides, the breeds she'd grown up with at home in Rhode Island were not available out here, in the untamed West.

A growling stomach reminded her she'd eaten only one meal earlier that day. It had been given to her by one of Lindley's church members. Regular congregational offerings had stopped several weeks ago. She couldn't expect them to take care of her forever. In the interim, she'd been awaiting a second letter from the bank, informing her of when the small amount of money she'd originally been allowed would become unfrozen. If her late husband hadn't left every last thing they'd owned to his younger brother, she wouldn't be in this predicament.

Perhaps tomorrow she would go into town and ask for credit at the general store. Although she had refrained from doing so before, this last resort had now become essential. She knew without a doubt that Mr McElroy, the owner, would appreciate her plight and lend his assistance.

Her plans to fall back asleep until dawn were fraught with folly. It was likely she'd toss and turn fitfully for the remainder of the night.

Excerpt From: A Touch of Destiny

Late spring, Tombstone, Arizona Territory, 1880

"Where is she?" Beatrice demanded in a resolute voice as her gaze slid from the dirty, pink carpet bag on the floor next to the bed to the face of her husband of eight years. She recognised the anger in his eyes and nearly recoiled. He never appreciated it when she pointed out his faults—in fact, it was times such as these when he chose to teach his disrespectful wife a harsh lesson with the back of his hand, as his self-justified Christian duty dictated—but never in view of another living soul. Regardless of the consequences, Beatrice would stand her ground this time. The ugly little carpet bag may as well come to life and announce to the world that her spouse had brought a whore into their home.

She watched as his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. Almost imperceptibly, his eyes darted to the armoire then back to her face.

"You are supposed to be at church." Failing to sound casual he added in a panic, "I've done nothing wrong!"

"Truly?" she turned to the pine wardrobe and shouted at the closed doors, "If everyone in this room is so innocent, then why the need to hide?" A flash of hope that she was indeed mistaken shot through her mind. If a scandal such as this escaped the walls of their humble cottage, it would topple the very foundation of the church where her husband, Pastor Lindley Gaitland, preached.

"Cease, Beatrice," he warned, his tone hinting at the violence that lined his skin like an expensive, well-tailored suit. "Go and wait in the parlour."

Lindley's dismissal of her only proved his guilt. Beatrice's belly trembled with her indignation. She turned back to her husband. "How dare you defile our bed with some strumpet." she whispered unevenly, unable to draw enough air into her lungs to speak with the fury she felt.

"I said, into the parlour," he growled and drew back his hand.

She blinked, fully expecting to feel his fist across her face. Of course, were she to confront him with his actions at a later time, he would most likely make up some feeble excuse such as he'd only meant to assist her to the next room. Hindsight had told her years ago that she'd made her bed when she'd married a self-righteous, judgemental, delusional snake in the grass. And to the list she could now add 'cheating'.

At that very moment, their attention transferred to the doors to the armoire as they flew open and a naked, hefty, blonde woman spilled onto the floor.

Beatrice's modest sensibilities, which were not only ingrained into her by her East Coast society upbringing, but also demanded by her position as a minister's wife, caused her to turn away. She glanced up at Lindley who looked as if he were in pain. She imagined he must be, having his sin exposed in such a way.

Like a blow to her stomach, a realisation hit her. His humiliation infected her as if it were a germ they exchanged between one another. Angry, hurt and defeated, she escaped the oppressive room, retiring to the parlour as her husband had commanded.

Not long after Beatrice had shakily lowered herself to their shabby settee, the blonde woman, holding the sparse, dingy trappings of a typical mining camp whore against her body, ran from the bedroom to flee the cottage via the front door.

Anticipating her husband's wrath, she waited a full hour before venturing into the bedroom to receive her punishment. When she did, she found Lindley sprawled, belly up, on the floor at the foot of the bed, his face displaying a deathly pallor.

She ran to fetch Doctor Matthews.

Beatrice gasped as she sat up in bed, having been plucked from a recurring dream. The flash of lightning through the window lent the room a blue glow, but then faded to black just as quickly. The wrath—filled thunder rolled over her roof. Her late husband had been dead six months to the day, but her nightmares of that fateful evening had not let her be since the funeral. She'd often thought it might have been Lindley coming back to haunt her.

Hanging her feet over the side of the bed, she placed her toes on the cool, wooden floor and tiptoed over to the window. Another flash illuminated her face's reflection in the glass. "So much lightning, never the perfect amount of rain," she murmured to an empty room.

She pressed her forehead against the windowsill and thought of the poor miners having to endure the electrical storm from inside their flimsy tents. She shivered.

Turning from the window, she climbed back into bed. She could have used a warm body to curl up with on nights like this. A dog would have done just fine, but she couldn't afford a pet. And, besides, the breeds she'd grown up with at home in Rhode Island were not available out here, in the untamed West.

A growling stomach reminded her she'd eaten only one meal earlier that day. It had been given to her by one of Lindley's church members. Regular congregational offerings had stopped several weeks ago. She couldn't expect them to take care of her forever. In the interim, she'd been awaiting a second letter from the bank, informing her of when the small amount of money she'd originally been allowed would become unfrozen. If her late husband hadn't left every last thing they'd owned to his younger brother, she wouldn't be in this predicament.

Perhaps tomorrow she would go into town and ask for credit at the general store. Although she had refrained from doing so before, this last resort had now become essential. She knew without a doubt that Mr McElroy, the owner, would appreciate her plight and lend his assistance.

Her plans to fall back asleep until dawn were fraught with folly. It was likely she'd toss and turn fitfully for the remainder of the night.

Excerpt From: A Touch Too Much

She never saw him coming.

Liv was opening the trunk of her car when a rough hand grabbed her throat and squeezed. Her heart stuttered wildly, and her lungs cried for air. The hand tightened its grip, just enough to control her, to let her know she couldn’t escape. The parking lot looked deserted. At this time of night, even late shoppers had already gone home. There was no one to help her.

She tried to breathe, tried not to panic. Little dots danced before her eyes. A sudden wave of blackness threatened to engulf her. She fought it. But the hand felt strong, very strong. Suddenly weak, unable to think, Liv dropped her bag. It clattered noisily on the concrete, the only sound in the vast silence of the parking lot.

Then…he smelt her. Definitely smelt her.

As suddenly as she had been attacked, she was free. She inhaled deeply, sweet air, blissful air invading her empty lungs. She made ragged sounds, her throat burning, her knees so wobbly that she had to lean on the car to ease off the tension. Silly as it sounded, she felt as weak as a freshly-out-of-the-womb kitten. What had just happened? Had he really smelt her?

"Go!"

His voice startled her—only one word, barely whispered, but an order nonetheless. He had assaulted her, out of nowhere. Now he wanted her to leave. The whole scene felt totally surreal.

"Go before he sees you!"

"Who?"

"Some questions are better not answered."

He spoke in a low tone as though he didn’t want to be heard. Liv turned around as fast as her still-spinning head would allow her. He stood well away from her, dark, tall, dangerous, his gaze fixed on her. The most attractive man she had ever seen. He had just attempted to strangle her but, looking at him, all she wanted to do was run her fingers through his thick black hair, and touch the hard lines of his face.

Her granddad’s favourite curse sprang to mind, as was the case every time she felt troubled or threatened. Holy mackerel, what was wrong with her today? She should already be driving away yet shock seemed to slow her down to the speed of a sleepy hedgehog. Shock or curiosity? Latching onto the mental image of Gramps, she stared at her handsome, disturbing attacker.

"You can’t jump on people like that. What do you want?"

She carefully touched her neck, the tender spot right below the chin. Despite her fear and bafflement, Liv couldn’t help gaping at him. Who was this man? What did he want to do with her? Rape her? Kill her? If so, he wasn’t being very efficient. Why had he changed his mind? Because he had smelt her skin? That made no sense. No sense at all.

"Look, I don’t know…"

"Be quiet!"

He had issued an order again, and, in spite of his scary tone, she didn’t like it one bit. They faced each other, her still wobbly on her legs, him as hard as iron. She decided not to be impressed by his unnatural gaze and stance, and took a step towards him.

"Stay away from me!" He didn’t move a muscle, didn’t raise his voice. A gust of wind crossed the parking lot, and his long, black leather coat billowed. A dog’s distant howl broke the silence, the sinister sound suggesting loneliness. Liv felt hit by an unexpected lick of desire as she watched the mysterious stranger—a gentle hardening in her stomach, a soft tickle between her thighs.

Although night had settled in, she easily made out his rough features, the strong line of his jaws, the curve of his sensual lips. What could those lips do to her? Slide along her bare skin? Caress her mouth with longing? Kiss the gentle throbbing between her thighs?

Holy mackerel, what was she thinking? She had to quit daydreaming right this instant. For all she knew the man might be the next Jack the Ripper so she’d better stop drooling over him. Yes, good decision.

Maybe she spent too much time in front of the television, but he looked so like a dark knight from past ages, a guardian from a world beyond. Intent on clarifying the situation, Liv took another step.

"I told you to stay away from me!"

There it was again. Did she detect a hint of wariness in his tone this time?

Palms up, she met his gaze. "Why?"

"Because you are the death of me."

Excerpt From: A Touch Too Much

She never saw him coming.

Liv was opening the trunk of her car when a rough hand grabbed her throat and squeezed. Her heart stuttered wildly, and her lungs cried for air. The hand tightened its grip, just enough to control her, to let her know she couldn’t escape. The parking lot looked deserted. At this time of night, even late shoppers had already gone home. There was no one to help her.

She tried to breathe, tried not to panic. Little dots danced before her eyes. A sudden wave of blackness threatened to engulf her. She fought it. But the hand felt strong, very strong. Suddenly weak, unable to think, Liv dropped her bag. It clattered noisily on the concrete, the only sound in the vast silence of the parking lot.

Then…he smelt her. Definitely smelt her.

As suddenly as she had been attacked, she was free. She inhaled deeply, sweet air, blissful air invading her empty lungs. She made ragged sounds, her throat burning, her knees so wobbly that she had to lean on the car to ease off the tension. Silly as it sounded, she felt as weak as a freshly-out-of-the-womb kitten. What had just happened? Had he really smelt her?

"Go!"

His voice startled her—only one word, barely whispered, but an order nonetheless. He had assaulted her, out of nowhere. Now he wanted her to leave. The whole scene felt totally surreal.

"Go before he sees you!"

"Who?"

"Some questions are better not answered."

He spoke in a low tone as though he didn’t want to be heard. Liv turned around as fast as her still-spinning head would allow her. He stood well away from her, dark, tall, dangerous, his gaze fixed on her. The most attractive man she had ever seen. He had just attempted to strangle her but, looking at him, all she wanted to do was run her fingers through his thick black hair, and touch the hard lines of his face.

Her granddad’s favourite curse sprang to mind, as was the case every time she felt troubled or threatened. Holy mackerel, what was wrong with her today? She should already be driving away yet shock seemed to slow her down to the speed of a sleepy hedgehog. Shock or curiosity? Latching onto the mental image of Gramps, she stared at her handsome, disturbing attacker.

"You can’t jump on people like that. What do you want?"

She carefully touched her neck, the tender spot right below the chin. Despite her fear and bafflement, Liv couldn’t help gaping at him. Who was this man? What did he want to do with her? Rape her? Kill her? If so, he wasn’t being very efficient. Why had he changed his mind? Because he had smelt her skin? That made no sense. No sense at all.

"Look, I don’t know…"

"Be quiet!"

He had issued an order again, and, in spite of his scary tone, she didn’t like it one bit. They faced each other, her still wobbly on her legs, him as hard as iron. She decided not to be impressed by his unnatural gaze and stance, and took a step towards him.

"Stay away from me!" He didn’t move a muscle, didn’t raise his voice. A gust of wind crossed the parking lot, and his long, black leather coat billowed. A dog’s distant howl broke the silence, the sinister sound suggesting loneliness. Liv felt hit by an unexpected lick of desire as she watched the mysterious stranger—a gentle hardening in her stomach, a soft tickle between her thighs.

Although night had settled in, she easily made out his rough features, the strong line of his jaws, the curve of his sensual lips. What could those lips do to her? Slide along her bare skin? Caress her mouth with longing? Kiss the gentle throbbing between her thighs?

Holy mackerel, what was she thinking? She had to quit daydreaming right this instant. For all she knew the man might be the next Jack the Ripper so she’d better stop drooling over him. Yes, good decision.

Maybe she spent too much time in front of the television, but he looked so like a dark knight from past ages, a guardian from a world beyond. Intent on clarifying the situation, Liv took another step.

"I told you to stay away from me!"

There it was again. Did she detect a hint of wariness in his tone this time?

Palms up, she met his gaze. "Why?"

"Because you are the death of me."

Excerpt From: A Triple Scoop of I Scream

"Of all ghosts, the ghosts of our old loves are the worst."

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes.

Toni Bianchi stood at the corner of State and Main squinting against the late morning sun. She parked her hands on her full hips and shook her head as she looked at the run-down building on the opposite corner—her run-down building on the opposite corner.

"What a fucking dump," she muttered.

She scanned the grimy two-storey façade. The brick was crumbling, half of the upstairs windows had been boarded over and the wood trim was nearly devoid of paint. A sandstone plaque above the door read 'A.D. 1888'. Well, if nothing else, this real estate venture was newer than her last—if only by a few decades.

She’d been optimistic when they’d rolled into town in the moving van. The historic downtown district was a four-block stretch of quaint shops in lovely, well-kept adjoining buildings. While Toni had taken in the brick-paved streets and the overflowing flower baskets that hung from the ornate street lights, Mike had sung the praises of the ’gem’ he’d found for her. Not only was it a corner building, it was the last one on the block and one side faced the river. He’d left out the part about it being a loose brick shy of condemnation.

Toni turned and scowled at the man standing next to her. Mike Briggs seemed oblivious to the death rays Toni shot from her pupils. He just stared lovingly at the red-brick behemoth across the street as if it were the most glorious thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

"Didn’t I tell ya?" he said, grinning dumbly and shaking his head in giddy disbelief. "Isn’t it awesome?"

No. Toni could say with complete and utter conviction that it was not awesome. She’d not even toured the inside of her new piece of real estate and yet she could—without hesitation—appraise its depressingly dismal level of awesomeness.

She had to hand it to Mike Briggs, he was one hell of a salesman. He had convinced her—really without much effort—that dumping her bed-and-breakfast inn and purchasing a failed ice-cream parlour in a sleepy Wisconsin river town really was in her best interest.

Mike finally tore his gaze from the building and turned to face Toni. He laid his hand on her forearm and his expression went from awestruck to downright goofy.

"And the best part," he said, "it’s totally haunted!"

Toni’s eyes widened. "That’s the best part?" she asked, not holding back on the sarcasm.

Mike Briggs playfully punched her on the shoulder. "Aw, c’mon, Toni. You’ve been in the hospitality business long enough to know that paranormal tourism is the hottest ticket out there."

Toni lifted her hands from her hips and crossed them under her ample breasts. "And how did that turn out for me last time, Briggs?"

Excerpt From: A Very Personal Trainer

My life back then was full of someones and somethings—non-specific people and objects who needed my attention in various ways. The trouble was that the someones and somethings appeared to outnumber the units of my attention by a factor of about ten to one. To be frank, things were getting out of hand.

I had let my gym membership slide, my wardrobe was like a rummage sale and any poor dogs needing bones would have been better off canvassing Old Mother Hubbard. My kitchen table was piled high with parking tickets, overdue bill reminders and dog-eared takeaway menus with the phone numbers circled in black marker.

Life was getting away from me, and I didn’t like it.

A typical dinner of the period—pasta à la microwave. In other words, some hardened curly things in a blisteringly hot, tasteless sauce. It hardly embodied temptation. Neither did the pile of unironed clothes, the half-finished tax return or the dishes in the kitchen sink. That bottle of Merlot and family-sized tub of Phish Food on the other hand…

No, Lara, no. I would sometimes catch myself off guard in the mirror—pale, pasty, carrying several more pounds than my clothes could handle. My skin was dull and my eyes looked tired. I needed a haircut, but the last time I’d managed to get one I liked was in 2005. The messages on my phone told me that I’d missed a dental check-up and my brother’s birthday. The shit was in close proximity to the fan. I was out of control. I had to do something about it. Quickly.

I opened my handbag and almost shut it again on being confronted with a hundred balled tissues, some capless lipsticks and three metric tonnes of loose change. But I had to brave the shoulder-borne rubbish dump if I was to make any progress, so I let my fingers pluck at the detritus until I unearthed the treasure I sought. The newspaper clipping Shona had given me when we’d met in Starbucks a few days earlier, still intact, not ripped or shredded yet. I’d been ten minutes late for our meeting and she’d been angry—actually really angry, not the kind of eye rolling ‘it wouldn’t be Lara if she wasn’t a bit late’ indulgent exasperation. I was hot at the memory of it, and so ashamed of myself.

“Hasn’t it ever occurred to you, Lara, that constant lateness is incredibly disrespectful? It says, ‘My time is worth more than yours.’ Well, guess what? Your time is not worth more than mine. You need to sort yourself out.”

“I’ve tried, Shona, I really have…” I wailed, teary-eyed.

“I know you have.” But her face was still grim. Forgiveness was a long way off yet. “You’ve tried. But your willpower alone isn’t enough, is it? Look.”

She handed me the clipping.

Excerpt From: A Week in the Snow

“You sound happy. Are you?”

Rebecca smiled and shifted the phone on her shoulder. She stared at the single candle on the mantel. The clock had just chimed midnight. “Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“This isn’t just a want. It’s a need. It’s like breathing, or my heart beating. I can feel it right now, between my legs.” She slid a hand down her naked belly. “I want to lie underneath you and open my legs for your hand, at the same time as you slide your cock into my mouth.”

Her own words turned her on just as much as his did, and she let her fingers walk farther down, until she was brushing the neatly trimmed hair at the apex of her thighs. Her nipples were sensitive and tingling, and the cool breeze from the air conditioner kept them hard. She curled her toes against the end of the couch as she listened to his voice, coming low over the phone line.

“You like that, don’t you? My cock in your mouth? You like it when I pull your hair and hold you there and make you take it, don’t you?”

She touched her clit with her fingertip, then dropped her head back and moaned.

“And at the same time, I’m pushing two fingers into you—no, how about three?—just slamming them in, because you’re so wet already, and I’m driving them in and out, and every now and then I press on your clit, right there. You like that? I can hear you panting for it. You wouldn’t be panting if my cock was in your mouth, would you? You would be fighting to breathe while you came and came and came.”

Rebecca ran one finger on either side of her clit, scissoring it gently, rubbing up and down. The tingles got bigger and her mind started to venture off into the fantasy, the thought of his hands doing those things to her. She imagined her own hands would be on her nipples, playing with them while she bent her head back just so, taking his cock in deep enough to please him, but not deep enough to gag. His fingers would be working magic between her thighs, sliding into her when she needed to be filled, pulling back and teasing her before she could come, making her beg with moans before he slid his fingers in again. That delicious stretching would overcome her and she might forget the motion of her mouth, forget the way she was supposed to move, and he would have to pull on her hair to get her attention again.

That was what did it for her this time—the thought of him pulling on her hair, maybe a little bit frustrated with her, demanding she pay attention to his cock. She imagined the velvet skin sliding between her lips, the tense muscles in his thighs, the way he would look at her as he came. She imagined all of it, except the one part she didn’t have to imagine.

“Oh, fuck, Becca—I’m going to come!”

He hollered when he came, his voice loud enough to make her pull the phone away from her ear. He held his breath for a moment, then let it out on a moaning exhale. Rebecca smiled as her own orgasm hit, right in time with his. She arched under her hand, everything but the voice in her ear forgotten, as the orgasm swept from her middle and out to her fingers and toes. Her whole body tingled, her nipples hard enough to hurt, her clit humming under her fingers.

When she relaxed and opened her eyes, she saw the candle. It had burned halfway down, the flame dancing on a small breeze.

“Was it good for you?” he asked, his voice low and dramatic. As if on cue, Rebecca giggled. She always giggled after a really good one, and that was right up there in the top ten. He laughed with her, and that made her feel warm inside. So what if he was thousands of miles away? At moments like this, he felt close enough to touch.

After long minutes of talking about what had just happened, he yawned. She knew he would be going to bed soon, and, even though her time zone put her an hour ahead of him, she would be awake for hours yet, thinking about the coming week and what it might have in store.

He was thinking of it, too. “Have you decided what to pack?” he asked.

“I’ve already packed one bag with the essentials.” She stretched, delighting in the feel of her legs, a little too tense, reminders of what she had just done. The orgasm still thrummed through her now and again. “It’s going to take two bags, though—I’m doubling up on everything to survive those chilly temperatures.”

“Iowa is chilly in the fall,” he agreed.

“You can keep me warm.”

“Don’t forget the vibrator,” he teased.

“Gene,” she teased right back. “I thought we were just going to have coffee.”

“Of course we are. The morning after.”

She giggled again and nestled deeper into the couch. The thought of going to see him was like an adventure. She was always the good girl, the one who was reliable and safe and careful, and this felt like doing something she had always wanted to do, but had never had the nerve. She was going to meet her online boyfriend and she was going to fuck him silly, and then she was going to fuck him some more, and to hell with the good girl act.

“The morning after sounds good,” she said. “Are you going to make it for me?”

“You’re the woman,” he replied. “It’s your job.”

That was the only thing about Gene that drove her crazy. She always hoped he was joking about the macho way he viewed things; that he really did believe in equality, that he wasn’t as chauvinistic as he seemed. But the more time went on, the more she thought maybe he really believed a woman’s place was in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant. Each time the thought came up, it made her wonder: what in the world was he doing with a woman like her, who ran her own business and was determined to make a name for herself?

“Speaking of jobs, mine is waiting on me, and I need to get a few things done before I go to sleep,” she said, dangling more bait. “I have to wrap up this latest project before I come to see you.”

Gene yawned, as though the project she had going wasn’t interesting in the least.

“Okay, babe. I’m going to go to sleep. You might want to get some sleep, too, so you can make that drive.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“Are you sure you won’t fly?”

She didn’t want to fly, and she had told him that over and over. She wanted to drive her way up from Florida to Iowa, her camera on the seat beside her, ready for good light. She could already imagine all the farms along the way, the old barns begging for a picture, the town squares that deserved to be caught by her lens. The point of the trip was to see Gene, but what was wrong with taking some time of it for herself?

“I really want to take some photographs on the way up.” She had said it a hundred times if she had said it once, and she was getting tired of the same old saw. She carefully filtered the note of wariness out of her voice.

“Okay.”

Excerpt From: A Week in the Snow

“You sound happy. Are you?”

Rebecca smiled and shifted the phone on her shoulder. She stared at the single candle on the mantel. The clock had just chimed midnight. “Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“This isn’t just a want. It’s a need. It’s like breathing, or my heart beating. I can feel it right now, between my legs.” She slid a hand down her naked belly. “I want to lie underneath you and open my legs for your hand, at the same time as you slide your cock into my mouth.”

Her own words turned her on just as much as his did, and she let her fingers walk farther down, until she was brushing the neatly trimmed hair at the apex of her thighs. Her nipples were sensitive and tingling, and the cool breeze from the air conditioner kept them hard. She curled her toes against the end of the couch as she listened to his voice, coming low over the phone line.

“You like that, don’t you? My cock in your mouth? You like it when I pull your hair and hold you there and make you take it, don’t you?”

She touched her clit with her fingertip, then dropped her head back and moaned.

“And at the same time, I’m pushing two fingers into you—no, how about three?—just slamming them in, because you’re so wet already, and I’m driving them in and out, and every now and then I press on your clit, right there. You like that? I can hear you panting for it. You wouldn’t be panting if my cock was in your mouth, would you? You would be fighting to breathe while you came and came and came.”

Rebecca ran one finger on either side of her clit, scissoring it gently, rubbing up and down. The tingles got bigger and her mind started to venture off into the fantasy, the thought of his hands doing those things to her. She imagined her own hands would be on her nipples, playing with them while she bent her head back just so, taking his cock in deep enough to please him, but not deep enough to gag. His fingers would be working magic between her thighs, sliding into her when she needed to be filled, pulling back and teasing her before she could come, making her beg with moans before he slid his fingers in again. That delicious stretching would overcome her and she might forget the motion of her mouth, forget the way she was supposed to move, and he would have to pull on her hair to get her attention again.

That was what did it for her this time—the thought of him pulling on her hair, maybe a little bit frustrated with her, demanding she pay attention to his cock. She imagined the velvet skin sliding between her lips, the tense muscles in his thighs, the way he would look at her as he came. She imagined all of it, except the one part she didn’t have to imagine.

“Oh, fuck, Becca—I’m going to come!”

He hollered when he came, his voice loud enough to make her pull the phone away from her ear. He held his breath for a moment, then let it out on a moaning exhale. Rebecca smiled as her own orgasm hit, right in time with his. She arched under her hand, everything but the voice in her ear forgotten, as the orgasm swept from her middle and out to her fingers and toes. Her whole body tingled, her nipples hard enough to hurt, her clit humming under her fingers.

When she relaxed and opened her eyes, she saw the candle. It had burned halfway down, the flame dancing on a small breeze.

“Was it good for you?” he asked, his voice low and dramatic. As if on cue, Rebecca giggled. She always giggled after a really good one, and that was right up there in the top ten. He laughed with her, and that made her feel warm inside. So what if he was thousands of miles away? At moments like this, he felt close enough to touch.

After long minutes of talking about what had just happened, he yawned. She knew he would be going to bed soon, and, even though her time zone put her an hour ahead of him, she would be awake for hours yet, thinking about the coming week and what it might have in store.

He was thinking of it, too. “Have you decided what to pack?” he asked.

“I’ve already packed one bag with the essentials.” She stretched, delighting in the feel of her legs, a little too tense, reminders of what she had just done. The orgasm still thrummed through her now and again. “It’s going to take two bags, though—I’m doubling up on everything to survive those chilly temperatures.”

“Iowa is chilly in the fall,” he agreed.

“You can keep me warm.”

“Don’t forget the vibrator,” he teased.

“Gene,” she teased right back. “I thought we were just going to have coffee.”

“Of course we are. The morning after.”

She giggled again and nestled deeper into the couch. The thought of going to see him was like an adventure. She was always the good girl, the one who was reliable and safe and careful, and this felt like doing something she had always wanted to do, but had never had the nerve. She was going to meet her online boyfriend and she was going to fuck him silly, and then she was going to fuck him some more, and to hell with the good girl act.

“The morning after sounds good,” she said. “Are you going to make it for me?”

“You’re the woman,” he replied. “It’s your job.”

That was the only thing about Gene that drove her crazy. She always hoped he was joking about the macho way he viewed things; that he really did believe in equality, that he wasn’t as chauvinistic as he seemed. But the more time went on, the more she thought maybe he really believed a woman’s place was in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant. Each time the thought came up, it made her wonder: what in the world was he doing with a woman like her, who ran her own business and was determined to make a name for herself?

“Speaking of jobs, mine is waiting on me, and I need to get a few things done before I go to sleep,” she said, dangling more bait. “I have to wrap up this latest project before I come to see you.”

Gene yawned, as though the project she had going wasn’t interesting in the least.

“Okay, babe. I’m going to go to sleep. You might want to get some sleep, too, so you can make that drive.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“Are you sure you won’t fly?”

She didn’t want to fly, and she had told him that over and over. She wanted to drive her way up from Florida to Iowa, her camera on the seat beside her, ready for good light. She could already imagine all the farms along the way, the old barns begging for a picture, the town squares that deserved to be caught by her lens. The point of the trip was to see Gene, but what was wrong with taking some time of it for herself?

“I really want to take some photographs on the way up.” She had said it a hundred times if she had said it once, and she was getting tired of the same old saw. She carefully filtered the note of wariness out of her voice.

“Okay.”

Excerpt From: A Wicked, Wild Three Day Affair

“There he is!”

Monica Peterson peered over the shoulder of her best friend, straining to catch her first glimpse of Soledad’s soon-to-be husband, Drake. “Where? I don’t see anyone.”

“Right there,” Soledad exclaimed, and Monica followed her lithe frame with curious eyes as she raced through the crowded airport to fling herself into the arms of an extremely handsome man.

Her eyebrows knitted together as she raked her gaze over Drake Bradshaw, who was the much talked about and well-lauded love of her friend’s life.

“Well, she told me he was white,” she muttered under her breath, navigating her way through the bustling, baggage-claim area towards them. But she hadn’t quite been expecting the Stetson wearing, blond-blue eyed hunk who looked more like he’d stumbled off the last rodeo circuit and less like he was the CEO of a midsized computer software firm.

“They’re definitely making computer geeks in prettier packages these days.”

As she drew closer to the couple, she realised Drake hadn’t come alone. Her gaze slid over the tall, distinguished man, his large frame encased in a custom-tailored, charcoal grey suit that fit him perfectly. He stood off to the side, his handsome face twisted into a dark frown as he stared straight at her with piercing green eyes that bore into her so deeply she almost swore he could see straight to her soul.

Her steps faltered, and she cursed her four-inch, spiked-heeled sandals, but she knew her shoes had nothing to do with her stumble. It was the way he looked at her, that probing, searching stare of his that caused a curious stirring in her belly.

Whoa. What the hell? He was certainly good looking. Okay, very good looking but she tamped down her body’s instant and completely unexpected attraction to him. He didn’t like her. She could tell by the way he openly glared at her, and when his arrogant gaze roamed over her before abruptly glancing away, she knew she wasn’t going to like him, either.

She shook with barely controlled anger. He’d just dismissed her. The jerk. He didn’t even know her, yet he’d already written her off, which left her to ponder the identity of this mysterious and bad-mannered man.

“Monica, this is Drake,” Soledad gushed with a bright smile, dragging Monica’s attention to the beaming couple.

Shaking her head, she bit back a tiny grin. She’d never seen Soledad like this, but she was happy for her best friend. She certainly deserved a good man, and it seemed as if she’d found one in Drake.

“Hello, Drake. It is certainly a pleasure to finally meet you.” She stuck out her hand, but he ignored it as he tugged her into his arms for a burly hug.

She was so taken aback by his friendliness that for a moment she just stood there frozen with shock.

“Soledad talks about you all the time,” Drake said. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, too.”

“Honey, you’re suffocating her.”

“Oh, sorry,” Drake said, his arms relaxing around her.

“It’s fine.” She smiled as she patted his back, grateful she could breathe again when he released her.

Excerpt From: Aaron's Awakening

Aaron pressed an ear to the door of his father’s bedroom and listened intently. Stefan would tan his hide if he knew Aaron was eavesdropping, but how else was he supposed to learn anything? In a few months’ time he’d be twenty, but his father still treated him like a child.

Stefan and his mate, Cody, had been secretive around him lately-their conversations halting whenever he walked into the room. His father was keeping something from him-Aaron was certain of it. Tonight he intended to find out exactly what was going on.

Aaron only hoped his father’s evasiveness had nothing to do with the pack. The last time his position as alpha had been challenged, Cody had nearly got killed. Aaron had been made to watch the challenge and there hadn’t been a damn thing he could do to stop it. He was a little older now and stronger. He wouldn’t let his father or Cody go through something like that again. Not if he could help it.

The hushed voices in the room fell silent. Aaron pressed closer trying to hear more clearly. He yelped when the door was yanked open, and he fell forwards into the room, landing on his knees.

"I knew he was listening!" Cody exclaimed, pointing his finger at Aaron.

Stefan grabbed Aaron by the ear and dragged him along the floor further into the room. Aaron had gone through a growth spurt in the last six months. At six-foot-two, he now stood shoulder to shoulder with his father but Stefan pulled him along as though he was no heavier than a feather.

"Do you want to explain yourself?" Stefan put his hands on his hips and frowned at his son. Stefan’s nostrils flared and Aaron was sure he saw the vein in his father’s temple pulse.

"Well, if you won’t tell me what’s going on with the pack, I have to find out for myself, don’t I?"

Stefan rolled his eyes. "How many times do we have to tell you there is nothing going on with the pack?"

"I’m not a kid anymore, Dad. When you are gonna start treating me like an adult?"

"When you start acting like one," Stefan boomed. "And stop listening at doors."

Aaron narrowed his eyes. "Is someone challenging you again?"

"Oh, for pity’s sake!" Stefan threw his arms up in exasperation. "Cody, can you help me out here?"

"Aaron, come sit over here." Cody patted the bed next to him and smiled reassuringly.

Aaron sighed, got up off the floor and walked across the room. He sat down next to Cody and waited to hear what he had to say. His father’s mate would be sure to tell him the truth.

"No one has challenged your father’s position as alpha, I promise you."

"Then what’s with all the secrets?" Aaron asked. "You’re keeping something from me. I know you are."

Cody looked to his mate, as if for consent. Stefan’s shoulders slumped in resignation but he said nothing. Cody turned back to Aaron and nodded.

"Yes. We have been."

Excerpt From: Abiding Heart

Honolulu, Hawaii Wednesday, January 21, 1942

I lay in bed, listening for my lover’s footfall. It was a little before seven o’clock in the morning and he’d been gone almost an hour. I wrestled with my desire to give him a little more time before I charged off looking for him. I let out a breath. I hadn’t been aware that I’d been holding it, not really, but I worried each time he was away from me. I never said anything, but I felt my fears were reasonable considering that he had been captured by Japanese forces at sea just a few short weeks ago.

Miraculously, he’d managed to escape.

I kept giving myself reasons to stay in bed, keeping it warm for him, just like he’d asked me to. I held the pillow that contained his scent—ylang ylang and sandalwood. I gave myself up to the sweet, soothing sounds of The Andrews Sisters singing I’ll Be With You In Apple Blossom Time. I wanted to be with Jason all the time. I entertained myself by imagining what I would do to him when he came home.

The lush, yet breezy harmonies relaxed me. I had almost drifted off when my lover, who’d had a rough night’s sleep, walked back into our little Chinatown studio.

He gazed at me the way he always did lately, as though he couldn’t believe he was with me, that I was real. I saw the emotions crossing his face as I smiled, holding my arms out to him. He dropped his gas mask on the bedside table. The music stopped and the radio announcer read off the latest news bulletin.

“All citizens be alert. There will be fines issued to anyone seen without their gas masks—”

“Turn it off, baby, please,” Jason begged.

Music was fine. Constant, negative news was hard to take, especially when war bulletins came in each and every minute. I understood how he felt. He was weary. Bone weary. I was his respite.

I leaned over my side of the bed.

“Let me find some music,” I said. I fiddled with the dials. We’d picked up the astounding 1937 Deforest Crosley tube radio and twenty-three-inch tall cabinet for the princely sum of three dollars at one of the many yard sales that had sprung up around the islands over the last few weeks. With families leaving Hawaii in droves, they were desperate to offload the things they thought they couldn’t ship back to the mainland. It was in immaculate condition and the sound quality was superb. We liked to turn the radio’s ‘magic eye’ and find our favourite music as we lay in bed. We adored making love to Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw and The Andrews Sisters. For the minutes we listened to their lovely songs, the world was a beautiful, peaceful place again…

We had a fully furnished home in Waikiki, but I had turned it over to the military government as a gesture of goodwill whilst my lover had been on a clandestine mission for our country. Jason still hadn’t quite forgiven me, but I had taken out some of his favourite antiques, his clothes, books—and a box of booze—so we had everything we needed.

I so loved the little studio he owned in a back alley off Maunakea Avenue. We’d managed to pick up some wonderful pieces of furniture and kitchen utensils for it. Jason liked to joke that we could hardly move because we had so much stuff, but I found it hard to walk past these frantic families without purchasing something. I loved that our new little home was big enough just for the two of us. And I loved living in Chinatown. In the months before he met me, the studio had been Jason’s little crash pad. When he worked late at his bank, he would spend a few hours here then return to work. Now it was our love nest. Chinatown was our world. People accepted us…no, they embraced us.

No music. Just news. And none of it good.

“Turn it off, baby, I want to concentrate on you.”

This time I did as he asked. I turned back to him. He had a lustful gleam in his eye as he kicked off his shoes, then dropped his trousers and shirt on the floor. As usual I got a thrill seeing him naked.

“Get in here, you.” I held out my arms again and he slipped back under the covers with me. He smelt faintly of dry cleaner fluid.

A whole week we’d been back in Waikiki, and we’d thrown ourselves into our new projects. Jason had resumed running his family’s bank here in Chinatown. He’d given loans to several local businessmen to take over stores that had been abandoned by people anxious to leave the islands, thanks to the attack on Pearl Harbor.

Jason himself had purchased two laundries and a dry cleaner. Together, we had given several friends money in order to plant and harvest fruit and vegetables at their homes—Victory Gardens that had started cropping up on the expansive windward side of the island to combat chronic food shortages.

Hopeful families in Waikiki had started planting in allotted spaces in public parks, and we had given them money, too. We hoped this positive war effort would be the antidote to the drunken, debauched honky-tonk bars that sold lethal imitation gin and watered-down drinks to the armed forces streaming into the islands.

He had left our bed at the crack of dawn to open all three of his businesses. He would return in a couple of hours to keep an eye on things. Restaurants, laundries and dry cleaners were the unexpected boom industries, thanks to the war effort. But right now, my job was Jason.

He snuggled in my arms, pressing kisses on my throat and neck. His cock fell against my warm thigh. Hmmm…it needed some attention. He moved his face up to kiss me.

“I love you,” he said. I loved hearing it. I never got tired of hearing it, but I worried that he still hadn’t told me what had happened to him out in the ocean when the Japanese forces seized his ship. Jason was understandably traumatised, but if he couldn’t tell me, then how in the world was he going to tell the military tribunal next week?

My hands moved down his body. He shivered as the back of my hand grazed his leaking cock head. He was the most responsive lover I’d ever had. He lay back on his pillow and grabbed my head, threading his long fingers through my blond hair.

“Oh, Tinder.” Our lips met, our tongues dancing against one another. My arm brushed against his cock. I wanted to suck it. As far as I was concerned only two things should ever touch his cock. My mouth and my ass.

He wouldn’t let go of me. Sometimes—and this was only since we’d returned to Waikiki from rural Maui, when he had bad dreams and then plunged into the world of strangers—he seemed afraid. He never expressed this to me. It was just my feeling. As I kissed him, allowing my mouth to linger over his chin and down his throat, I decided that from now on, no matter what he said, I would accompany him wherever he had to go. My name came to his lips again as I licked a trail down his skinny chest. I loved every inch of his body. And he knew it.

“Please,” he whimpered. “Please.”

Excerpt From: Aboard Pleasure

“This is a bad idea. I don’t have time to take a vacation right now,” Violet complained as her two best friends practically pushed her up the gangplank of the luxury cruise ship. She squinted in the bright Miami sunlight as if she’d just emerged from a cave, and in a way she had.

“There is more to life than legal briefs,” Mirabelle said.

Carrie jumped in. “Yeah, there are silky briefs and boxer briefs and?”

“Men without briefs!” the three of them finished the old joke together—one of many they’d made up as they’d helped each other survive law school nearly ten years ago.

At the top of the walkway, a blond, hunky guy—wearing khaki shorts and a polo shirt that spanned impressive chest muscles—held a clipboard.

“Hel-lo, Sailor,” Carrie whispered under her breath. “Sign me up for whatever you’ve got on your clipboard, baby.”

“Hi, Stan.” Violet chose to read his nametag rather than give him a pet name. “Can you point the way to our cabin?” She held up her boarding pass.

His smile was wide and showed brilliantly white, straight teeth. He must have made his dentist proud. And she must be dead not to feel any kind of attraction to him. Maybe too much time in her work cave had killed her senses.

“No problem, ladies,” he said after glancing at their passes. “Your cabin is on the Silk Promenade. Head through those double doors and take your first staircase to the right. Past the shops, take a left turn, then a right, and head towards the bow of the ship. Your cabin will be on the left side about halfway down.”

Violet stared at him blankly, having got lost after the shops. Behind her, she heard Mirabelle muttering the directions over and over again as if to memorise them.

“Oooh, thanks so much,” Carrie chimed. “We’ll catch you later when you’re not so busy.”

Violet tugged her and Mirabelle away from the throng of people gathering around Stan for directions.

“Wasn’t he hot?” Carrie gushed.

Violet looked at Mirabelle. “Did you get the directions?”

She nodded. “I think so.”

“Thank God one of us is spatially gifted,” Violet said. “Lead the way, O Talented One.”

Violet followed her friends up the stairs and past the shops as Stan had directed. When they reached a T in the hallway, Mirabelle stopped and repeated the directions.

“To the right,” she directed.

“You’re sure?” Violet asked.

“Yep.” She nodded and took off down the hall. At the next T, she took a left, and they found themselves in a long hallway with numbered doors on each side.

“He said it was about halfway down. What’s the number again?” Mirabelle walked ahead of them.

Excerpt From: Abracadabra

Savannah ‘Savi’ Davis warmed up for her Tae Kwan Do session by doing forty jumping jacks, followed by forty push-ups, then forty squats and finally forty leg lifts. Then came the leg stretches. How she used to hate the way they seemed to tear her muscles, how they made her cringe in pain, but now that she was getting limber, she loved to stretch her legs far and wide, almost straight out like a karate master. Dreams of achieving her black belt aside, this exercise not only helped her to kick higher and harder, it helped her to stretch in incredibly hot sexual positions.

The stretching like this reminded Savi of the steamy sex she’d indulged in with her lover Mark right here in this studio. Mark who made her panties wet. Mark who made her tremble with wanton desire. Mark who made her erupt with the most dynamite orgasms of her twenty-nine years. Mark who was now incarcerated.

Although Mark wasn’t here, memories of him still made her wet. At least her panties would be wet…if she wore any. At times like this when she missed her lover with every molecule of her being, she didn’t choose to wear panties, just her white cotton slacks. If some hottie saw the shadow of her bush, the slit of her pussy, it only made her sizzle hotter. Sometimes just their hot, lustful looks made her come without Mark’s huge cock rocking in and out of her or even the aid of her own fingers.

The slightly scratchy material, in particular the inseam, rubbed against her clit and she threw back her head and moaned in delight. Her long hair caught back in a high ponytail tickled her back, especially the bare midriff where her T-shirt hiked up.

Mr. Lee, her Tae Kwon Do instructor, tossed her a warning frown and she caught several classmates sneaking furtive glances at her in the floor-to-ceiling mirror that displayed the entire studio. She didn’t care if the women’s glances held censure for the men’s held anything but. They reminded her of Mark’s sweltering stares, his burning eyes and his hot and ready response. God, she missed her Mark.

She loved the Tae Kwon Do studio, in particular because she’d met Mark here when she started her karate training. He’d been her first partner and as a second-degree black-belt, he’d given her private tutelage, sometimes even after hours at the studio as he assisted the master. This place was a storehouse of awesome memories.

A soft, dreamy smile curved her lips. Lost in her own world, she continued her stretching exercises as if on auto pilot.

“The other right, Miss Davis,” Mr. Lee called out just like Mark used to, when she rolled into her neighbour’s space.

Mark… Everything reminded her of her Mark.

She shot an apologetic smile to the green-belt scowling at her, then moved back into her own space. Still, she had trouble getting her mind off Mark.

Closing her eyes, she pretended Mark was beside her. The scent of musky sweat permeating the studio and infusing her uniform, and the steady, sexy beat of the workout music, all worked together to enhance her mesmerising fantasy.

She forgot where she was as she slipped into another world, to one where she and Mark, who had been her first Tae Kwon Do master, had the studio all to themselves, where they gyrated in time to the beat of the sensual music belting through the studio. She recalled how they performed their own quasi-Tae Kwon Do routine, part karate, part animalistic dance.

Excerpt From: Absolution

"Dance?"

A hand appeared in Kitty Kelley’s line of sight. She flinched.

Damn it, I’m stronger than this.

She hated the fact that she was reduced to jerking away at the slightest movement. She was safe now.

Kitty had been too busy keeping an eye on her twin sisters, Bunny and Poppy. Her parents had been high on drugs when they named them all. Who in their right mind would name werewolves after animals that wolves would sooner eat than play with, and a flower?

Her sisters had gone to get some punch. This was the first time the three of them had joined the Masters pack for an event since they’d been rescued from the Tyler pack. One of the few lucky breaks they’d been given in their lives.

It had been the pack alpha, Russell Masters, who’d insisted they join the festivities. He’d been so good to them over the last few months that they couldn’t refuse. It was thanks to him they had a roof over their heads and they weren’t starving.

Kitty smoothed down the front of her skirt to calm herself and looked up to see who’d asked her to dance. He’d pulled his hand back when she’d had her kneejerk reaction.

"Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you." Everett Cord grinned down at her and shrugged. He put his hand in his pockets and rocked back on his heels.

Everett was very handsome with his spiked strawberry blond hair and dark green eyes. He had a very appealing dimple on his chin. For some reason she wanted to lick it. The thought came out of nowhere. She shook her head.

He’d been there the day she and the girls had been rescued. It was Everett who pulled her and her sisters out of the awful pack house they’d ended up in when their parents had died. Murder-suicide and she really didn’t want to think about that. Not now and maybe never.

Everett was losing his smile and backing away—it was her fault for not speaking up and getting lost in her own thoughts. Shoot. She couldn’t have that. She needed to thank him.

"Wait. Sorry." She glanced at Bunny and Poppy, who were talking to a few of the other pack members and they seemed good—safe. They didn’t need her hovering over them. They were sixteen going on eighty and would be embarrassed if they knew she’d been keeping tabs.

Kitty took a deep breath. It’s okay to let go and have a little fun. She didn’t have to worry about her sisters as much now that they were here. The Masters pack accepted them as their own. They’d proved it time and time again over the past five months.

"I would love to dance."

One of her favourite songs just happened to be playing, Cowboys and Angels. Everett bowed low and held out his hand, wiggling his fingers this time.

Kitty smiled. It felt good. She didn’t think she’d ever be happy again. She placed her hand in his and he tugged her off her seat and guided her towards the dance floor.

They were in the forest, in a big clearing behind the pack house. Someone had strung up white lights in the trees and they twinkled over the pond. It looked like the lights were dancing over the water. The pack had set up the refreshments in between some trees leaving a nice space for dancing. Other couples were out there, but Kitty didn’t really know them. Well, except for Peter, Everett’s cousin, and Peter’s partner Grey.

The couple had stopped by the cottage that she shared with her sisters. She thought it might have been because Peter felt guilty. It was his dad’s pack who’d taken advantage of her and the girls.

Enough. Fun, that’s why I’m here.

They reached the clearing and Everett twirled her around and shuffled her across the makeshift dance floor. He wasn’t really following the beat of the song, but two-stepping her around at a fast pace. Kitty hadn’t had this much fun in—she couldn’t remember when. She threw back her head and laughed when Everett dipped her at the end of the song, she lifted her leg high and her hair brushed the ground.

The next song began to play and it was more romantic than the first one. She recognised it from the movie 'Armageddon', Aerosmith’s I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing. Kitty thought they’d go and sit back down, but Everett pulled her close and they swayed back and forth—so different from the playfulness of the first dance. He nuzzled into her neck and she laid her head on his chest. His scent was overwhelming, it made her feel safe and he smelled like cinnamon.

Mate.

No. Kitty stiffened in his arms. That couldn’t be right. They’d met before this. How would she not know? No, no, no, no, no, no. She couldn’t have a mate. It was destructive. People died. Kitty jerked away and scrambled backwards. Everett looked confused, but she couldn’t speak even if she wanted to, because the panic was building too fast. She couldn’t breathe. She had to get out of there. She turned and ran smack dab into a person from her past that she never wanted to see again. She backpedalled away and almost fell flat on her ass. She started to shake—this could be very bad. How the hell had he found them?

Excerpt From: Abyssinian Heat

I never thought I would find anyone who meant as much to me as Charlie did. He was always there for me, knowing when to comfort me when I was down, when to entertain me with some silly trick and when to rush to investigate those strange noises that sometimes startle you awake in the middle of the night. He loved me unconditionally, and I would have done anything for him in return.

But no cat lives forever, and when the vet diagnosed an inoperable tumour on his spine, I had no choice but to say goodbye to my companion of the last eleven years. Though his end was quick and painless, I was in floods of tears as I walked home from the vet’s surgery, Charlie’s body wrapped in one of my favourite T-shirts so I could bury him in my back garden, beneath the cherry tree.

Finn did his best to console me. He had been my on-off lover for long enough to know just how much Charlie meant to me, and when I arrived at the flat, clutching the handle of the cat carrier so tightly my knuckles were white, he was there to fold me in a big hug and let me know everything was going to be all right.

His muscular arms held me close and I let my head rest against his chest, reassured by his solid masculinity. “Let’s lay Charlie to rest, then I’ll run you a bath,” he suggested. “I’ll use plenty of that ginger bubble bath you like.”

Excerpt From: Accounting for Luke

Bryce Mann scribbled notes down on a pad of paper while occasionally flashing glances at his partner, Luke Garcia. To break up the pattern, every once in a while he took a slow, deep breath to keep his emotions under control. He'd hidden his longing for Luke for two years now. He could do it longer...maybe forever. After their one disastrous encounter had left his heart shattered, Bryce had vowed to never get romantically involved with the gorgeous Latino again. Unfortunately, his body didn't agree with that plan at all. His wayward heart still skipped a beat and his cock hardened at the mere sound of Luke's voice. He knew, if he didn't have Tim, he'd have given in to his weakness and accepted whatever terms Luke might have offered.

Thank God for Tim.

"I think Mr Whithers is cheating on his wife," Luke said, spying out of the window. "What kind of man would do that to someone who loves him just to get a younger piece of ass?"

Bryce gave a cynical laugh. "The fact you can still ask that after over a dozen investigations of cheating spouses is more surprising than the fact Mr Whithers is clichéd enough to screw his secretary. Besides, if there weren't cheating men and women, I doubt we'd have jobs. There are only so many bodyguard positions available and Tucker wants to make sure the agency offers a variety of services."

Luke sighed. "I guess. It's just depressing, you know? Is there anyone loyal out there anymore?" He continued talking, not waiting for Bryce's answer. "I like it better when we get to be bodyguards instead of spies. I mean, security is way superior to spying. I always feel slimy after these stakeouts."

"Yeah," Bryce agreed as he popped a toothpick in his mouth, clamping down on the wood to suck out the minty flavour.

"How's your stopping smoking coming along?" Luke asked.

Bryce shrugged as he slid the toothpick out of his mouth to speak. "Okay, I guess."

"Why're you quitting anyway? Not that I don't think it's a good idea, but what made you decide to finally do it?"

"Tim won't kiss me if I smoke." Bryce hadn't known how forceful Tim could be until after Tim had seen Bryce smoking. The man had flat out refused to make love to him until Bryce had given the things up. Normally, he'd tell off any guy who told him what to do. No man controlled Bryce by his dick. But Tim's blue eyes had silently begged, even as he'd refused to bring his mouth anywhere near Bryce's. Tim had even listed all the health reasons why Bryce should quit, his accountant brain running a mile a minute as he'd tallied up statistics faster than Bryce could understand what he'd been saying. After that lecture, which had ended with Tim close to tears, Bryce had sworn to never touch another one.

"Tim who?" Luke's eyes widened. "Not Tim Warren. Please tell me you aren't fucking the company's accountant."

Bryce scowled at his friend. "I'm not fucking him. We're dating. I like him." He said the last part defensively even though he knew he didn't have anything to defend himself against.

"He's too sweet for you," Luke argued. "You'll break his heart."

Those words from Luke were almost too much to take. "I wouldn't do that intentionally, and, unlike you, I'm looking for something permanent."

"What if you get injured on the job?" Luke persisted, brushing off Bryce's implication.

"Then I'll be injured. I might also get in a fatal car accident. Anything could happen, Luke—I'm not a fortune—teller. That doesn't mean I shouldn't try to find some happiness," Bryce snapped.

"Yeah, you're right," Luke conceded.

Bryce wondered about Luke's attitude. After one night together, Luke had been quite clear that he didn't want anything long term... Painfully clear.

"Anyway, I thought you'd be happy I'm quitting smoking. You've been complaining about it for years," Bryce pointed out.

Luke opened his mouth and then closed it again as if reconsidering his words. "I guess I never thought you'd quit over some guy."

Excerpt From: Adam

"Poppy, wake up." Someone was touching her arm. No one ever touched her skin. Most beings were repulsed by what she was. Each wound was a testament to the battles she’d fought and won over the centuries.

"Poppy. It’s a bad dream."

She batted away the irritation that refused to let her sleep. She cried out in shock as firm lips pressed against hers. No one had kissed her before. The contact shocked her more than the touch of the hand on her naked flesh.

Screaming, Poppy lashed out, sending Adam Valentine flying through the air and landing on top of the wardrobe in the room she slept in at the Valentines’ mansion. The wardrobe broke apart where Adam landed.

The man who’d been trying to wake her up groaned and pulled out of his side a chunk of wood that had managed to embed itself just below the ribs.

Poppy winced.

She cursed her own stupidity. Usually when she slept, she kept the door locked and surrounded by charms to keep the dead out. A true necromancer struggled to sleep at the best of times. Ghosts and damaged souls were everywhere the naked eye couldn’t see, but she saw them.

"I’m sorry," she whispered. She wrapped her cloak, which must have opened during her sleep, back around her. Poppy hated more than anything for Adam to see her scars. He was the first male she had ever desired.

Her scars were gruesome and she did everything in her power to keep them covered when she was around him.

"Shit, Poppy. You were screaming in your fucking sleep." Blood seeped out of the wound. She saw it was already healing. The magical power of the vampire was a wonderful thing to witness.

"Well, you shouldn’t interrupt a person when they’re asleep." Her lips were still wet from his small kiss. She wanted to lick her lips to see if she’d taste him on her tongue.

Her heart mourned the loss of connection. The first kiss she’d experienced from a man she liked, and she’d gone and thrown him across the room. At this rate she would never know the true intimate touch of a man. When Adam was around, she found herself longing to know what it would feel like to have him touch her. Intimately touch her. Would his touch be gentle or rough?

"I banged on the door. It wouldn’t open at first and then it was like it opened by itself."

She watched as he rubbed his head, clearly trying to focus. "I’m sorry."

"Yeah? Why are you wearing the cloak?"

Poppy held the fabric between her fingers. The cloak provided her with protection from the stares of others and made her feel secure. "It’s my cloak."

"Is this about the scars again? It’s a fucking ugly cloak. Couldn’t you get one in a lighter colour?"

She tensed. Her scars may not repulse Adam, but he hadn’t seen all of them yet. The cloak was the last thing she held from the time with her family. With how old she was, it would probably be deemed either vintage or scrap material.

"What did you want me for?"

He shook his head and turned towards the mirror. All he would be able to see was a black blur of a reflection. Whenever she entered a room, she made sure the mirrors couldn’t show her true image. She found it freaky when the girl from the other side could be seen staring back at her.

"Did you have a bad dream?" he asked.

She liked the sound of his concern too much. "What did you want me for?"

Adam sighed, moving closer to her. "Poppy, you’re an enigma. You show up all big and powerful, and you don’t share your secrets well."

His hands rested on her shoulders and it took Poppy a lot of willpower not to react. She struggled between the desire to push him away and the desire to move his hands to cup her breasts. The conflicting emotions inside her were starting to wear her down.

"Just tell me what you want?"

He sighed, let her go and walked towards the door.

"They’re meeting in the study again. I swear I’m starting to live in that fucking room. Join us when you’re ready."

Poppy nodded and watched him go. They should have left the day after the attack on Katie—over a week ago—but Robert hadn’t allowed it. Robert had decided it was too close after losing Katie and learning the true curse of the wolves. He’d ended up calling off the initial search for the original alpha of the Beyer West pack. In doing so, Poppy had taken up residence—much to the younger brother’s disgust—in the Valentines’ home.

Excerpt From: Aflame in Camelot

"I suggest we spend one more night in the comfort of these woods. We’ll melt before we arrive at our final destination in this heat." Thomas removed his shirt, his rotund belly popping over the rope holding up his coarse woollen pants.

Eying his friend’s portly silhouette, Edward followed suit, attempting to mop the moisture from his brow with his sweat-soaked tunic, patting his own trim waist. Edward picked up a thin, long branch fallen from the canopy of trees that offered some respite from the relentless heat of the Midsummer sun. Laughing, he assumed a defensive position, wielding the dry branch as a sword, poking at Thomas’ rolls, tossing an empty gourd towards his long-suffering companion.

"Ah, then, Thomas, if you do melt in this infernal heat, perhaps we could use some of that surplus lard to cook Bryce’s catch. This drought makes the local game even stringier and tougher than usual."

Bryce smiled, watching Thomas use his corpulence to his advantage as he knocked Edward’s slim body to the ground, the two wrestling good—naturedly, forgetting the god—awful heat for a few moments. "We have no leave to hunt in the King’s forest. Tonight we eat fish, if the sun has not addled my skills with my spear."

"Once again he is on about his skills with his ‘spear’, Edward." Thomas stood up, yanking Edward to his feet, the knowing glance between the two men signalling to Bryce that his friends intended to join forces and tackle him instead.

"Listen! I hear a waterfall nearby." Bryce removed his own shirt, chuckling as Thomas looked him up and down, then away again, wincing, palming his rolls in a self-conscious gesture while Edward frowned and grimaced at his own flat but ill-defined musculature. Enjoying his friends’ baleful looks, Bryce further invoked their wrath with a deliberate flex of his biceps. Fashioning swords for kings and knights left little room for soft tissues to flourish. Adolescent roundness had burned away as he had laboured for long years amidst the fires of his grandfather’s forge—and now his own.

Dodging the gourd Thomas threw at his head, Bryce grabbed his crotch. "Aye, lads, the spear grows in true proportion to the rest of the man." He let his thoughts dwell on the near close of their five—day trek, a journey he trusted to end with a full belly, much drink, a roof, and a bed—and a willing maid to share the latter—when they finally entered the gates of the castle looming ahead.

"If that’s true, then Thomas’s spear spreads enormous in width while mine grows immeasurably long," Edward quipped. "Enough, surely, to please any maiden—and frighten more than a few."

Bryce guffawed. "Yes, your two cocks together probably measure the same as mine does."

Deflecting another hollowed gourd with the shirt he held in one hand, Bryce turned with a wave of his other. He headed down a path he recollected from a journey made many years past. If memory served, then this path led to one of many small lakes dotting the land surrounding Arthur’s stronghold. "Expect me at the waterfall with dinner."

Edward managed, as usual, to get the last word in. "Ah, yes. We shall dine on the fruits of your hard labours and, after you fill our bellies, we will expect you to entertain us one more time with tales of your prowess with your spear to while away this hot summer night."

Excerpt From: After All These Years

"You are a gift," the stranger murmured.

I didn’t feel like a gift. I was a forty-something mother of three children who hadn’t flown the nest so much as they had fallen from it. I had too much grey in my hair, an aching back and a minimum-wage job at a fast food restaurant that always left me with a rabid distaste for anything fried. It was the dead of winter in Chicago, the snow was piled up in high drifts everywhere and my train was more than fashionably late.

I looked up from my book and wiped the hair from my eyes. My knitted cap was too small—it was something left over from the kids and it must have been from the middle school years considering how old the thing was. I touched it and was suddenly aware of my well-bitten fingernails.

"What did you say?" I was certain I had heard him wrong.

The man was tall. His dark hair was long, curls and waves that fell to his shoulders, greying at the temples. The cold wind picked it up and blew it back from his face. He was dressed in a trench coat, one of those plaid ones that always reminded me of private dicks in old-fashioned movies. He looked like he needed a good shave and a long nap.

"You are a gift," he said again, and this time I was certain I had heard him correctly. I was also certain he was a little bit nuts. They were everywhere, especially at this time of year.

"I don’t have any change to spare," I said, and looked back down at my novel.

A laugh rumbled up out of him. It was low and soft and kept going, like a train coming down the tracks. I glanced back up at him, but he wasn’t looking at me. His head was thrown back and he was gazing up at the grey sky, at the clouds that hovered too close. The laughter broke loose. It was loud and full-bodied, the kind of laugh that came from a man who had no worries in the world.

The belt of his trench coat opened a bit and I caught a glimpse of what had to be silk underneath it. That’s when I noticed his shoes, polished to a high shine. On his wrist was a watch that looked expensive.

"Oh, shit," I said. "I’m sorry. I thought—well, you know what I thought."

He stopped laughing. It seemed to take a massive effort. "It has obviously been a long time since you thought of yourself as a gift."

"A gift?" I looked at him closely. He could still be one of those nutcases. He might just have a lot of money to take with him while he went down to the funny farm.

"A gift, a present, a Christmas delight," he said merrily, as if it was the easiest thing in the world to understand.

"You lost me."

He looked around at the other people nearby. Most of them were sitting on benches and not paying the least bit of attention. This was the part of town where someone could be mugged and nobody would lift a finger to stop it.

"These people sit here among angels, and they haven’t a clue."

Excerpt From: After the Fall

Juggling the boxes he held, Leigh Masters unlocked his bookstore, Masters’ Pages. He grimaced at the sight of the boarded—up front windows, which would usually be showcasing his store logo and an eye-catching display he had created to entice customers in. Leigh pulled open the door and stepped inside. He took in the construction equipment and other paraphernalia that the guts of his business had become. Then he gazed at what used to be the wall of the store next door.

Over a year ago, Leigh had purchased it to expand his business. He’d cashed in some investments to pay for the space and the renovations—thankfully he hadn’t had to get any loans. After so many years of hard work he owned the building his store was housed in and he wasn’t about to put it in hock again. Once he had the expansion space, he’d worked tirelessly with the company he’d hired to create his new, expanded store, as well as the living quarters he used above. Finally, when he had a design and when it was feasible, he’d closed the store down to get everything done.

Leigh walked to his front counter, which usually held a register. Now it was devoid of anything. Leigh slid the boxes onto the surface. With the combination of the two spaces the store would be much larger, so in the new design he would be having a few more counter—style checkouts put in. Leigh turned, scowling at the silent room. His contractor and his crew were absent again—as they had been for the last two weeks. Frustration filled him. He’d called the man and got nothing but excuses. He’d gone by his offices and again been assured that they would be there in morning and not to worry, the construction would be finished on time. Yet the next morning, it hadn’t happened. The last few times Leigh had called, the man hadn’t even answered his phone and neither had the secretary. Leigh pulled out his cell phone and dialled the number again. He readied himself to leave another message.

He almost dropped the phone when a voice answered.

"Snipes C—"

Recognising that deep baritone, Leigh launched into what he had to say. "Mr Snipes, this is Leigh Masters. Your promises of getting my store ready to schedule have been false. No work has been done for over two weeks. Either get your crew here—today—or I will be contacting my lawyer about the violation of our contract. As well as finding someone else who is competent for the job. Today, Mr Snipes." Leigh hung up.

He immediately dialled again to his lawyer’s office.

"Windsor Broadhurst’s office. How may I help you?"

Leigh made an appointment to see Windsor and hung up.

Excerpt From: Aftermath

Darren Brown eyed Red, the Rhode Island Red rooster, cautiously, watching for any signs of agitation from the bird. Generally he didn’t have any problems when it was time to feed the critters and gather eggs, but every now and then that red rooster got his feathers ruffled and decided Darren looked like a walking whipping post. The rooster tipped its head to the side and clucked. It was the sign Darren had been waiting for. He wouldn’t have to toss the food from the bucket and run for cover this morning.

A ripple of unease clambered down Darren’s spine as he stepped off the front porch of old widow Hawkins’ place. Virginia, the café owner, and Deputy Nixon, along with Nixon’s life partner, Carlin, had bought the place with the intention of turning it into a hang-out for the elderly. There’d been talk of Darren staying on once the conversion was done, kind of like a groundskeeper or something, Darren wasn’t sure. The talk never went far since Darren didn’t do much to encourage it. He didn’t know how long he was going to be in town and hated the idea of letting anyone down if he left. As it was, Virginia and the others had agreed to let Darren stay here as long as he kept the place up—and took care of the chickens, a job that had, up until Darren moved in a couple of months ago, belonged to Deputy Nixon.

Darren glanced around as the uncomfortable feeling increased. He knew that sensation, the one that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It was the one that told him someone was watching him, and his heartbeat accelerated until he thought he might burst an artery. But as hard as he looked, he couldn’t find anything suspicious. Nothing was out of place, and there was no one here but him and the chickens. He’d heard rumours of ghosts—spirits, Severo insisted they be called, and didn’t that little guy creep Darren out? Those pale eyes seemed to drill right into Darren so he did his best to avoid meeting them. It was a challenge since Severo liked to have lunch almost every day with his boyfriend, Sheriff Stenley.

Still, despite the talk, Darren didn’t worry about such things as lingering spirits. People just stopped when they died. He knew that, believed it if he didn’t believe anything else. One second they were there, laughing, loving you, then they weren’t, and everything about them vanished except what you carried in your memory. Even if you wished you didn’t carry anything of them at all.

Darren shook off the paranoia that threatened to swamp him. No one was here besides him. He hefted the bucket of chicken feed and waved it at Red. “You looking for this?” Darren flinched. The sound of his own voice only seemed to emphasise how alone he was, yet he couldn’t shake the idea that he was being watched.

The rooster clucked and flapped its wings. Darren shoved aside his discomfort and reached into the bucket for a handful of feed. He tossed the mixture on the ground and waited. Sure enough, Red gave him a haughty look, or as haughty a look as a chicken could give, then strutted to the feed and began pecking at it. Soon the hens joined the rooster, fussing and clucking as Darren spread the food around.

“Be nice,” he scolded when a few of them got agitated. “There’s plenty to go around.” Darren edged around the chickens and went into the coop, gathering eggs and placing them in the bucket. When he thought he had them all, he left the coop and headed back to the house. He’d put the eggs in used egg cartons and take them to Virginia, the owner of Virginia’s Café and his boss, who liked to use them while they were nice and fresh.

Since it was Sunday and the café wasn’t opening until eight a.m. instead of the usual five a.m., Darren had plenty of time to get to work and deliver the eggs. Used to waking at four or earlier, he’d found himself wide awake and bored out of his mind by four-thirty. He’d tossed and turned and even beat off, but finally gave up on sleeping in and got up around five-thirty. Now it was a little after six and he figured there was no reason to hang around any longer. Virginia would already be at the café, and he could go in early, she wouldn’t mind.

Darren loped up the porch steps and that creepy feeling ramped up in intensity until he couldn’t draw a breath. Hand tightening on the handle of the bucket, he pivoted slowly and scoured the area. Nothing. No one. It looked as it had every day so far. Darren inhaled and forced air into his lungs then shuffled to the front door. He hadn’t got more than three steps inside before he heard the pop of the screen door at the back of the house slapping shut.

The bucket of eggs slipped from his suddenly lax fingers. Fear flashed through him, settling in his joints, turning them to gel so that Darren’s knees buckled and hit the floor. Fragile shells cracked under his weight, warm wet yolk and albumin seeping through his denim jeans.

Dizzy with the intensity of his fear, Darren caught himself as he fell forward. His hands slipped in the mess he made, undermining his efforts to keep himself from going down. Darren’s chin cracked sickeningly against the floor but he didn’t notice it or feel the pain. All he could hear was the voice in his head telling him he’d been found and begging him not to run again.

Excerpt from: Afternoon Delight

Savannah Claymore turned her head to look at her friend and condo mate, Lori Avondale, and said, “This really sucks big time.”

She saw Lori lift her sunglasses and glance sideways at her. “What could possibly suck? We’re out here on our private patio, the sun is shining gloriously on our nude and freshly waxed bodies, your favourite jazz is in the CD player, and we’re sharing a pitcher of orange mimosas. Even better, we don’t even have to think about work for two whole days.”

“No men.”

“Excuse me?” Lori sat up and swung her legs over the side of the chaise. “Did you say no men?”

“You heard right. Oh, we’re not exactly without them.” Savannah picked up her mimosa and sipped at it. “We’re just sort of between them. Right?” she sighed, and sipped at her drink. “But I do miss them.”

“Wait. I’ll run to the wall over there, wave my tits down at the sidewalk and see if I can rustle up one or two.”

Savannah burst out laughing. “You would, too.”

Lori studied her friend for a moment. “Having adventures is fun, but do you ever wish you could find that one special man? Someone who could fulfil all your fantasies and you’d be satisfied to settle down with?”

Savannah stared. “Settle down? Why would I want to settle down? I’ve got a great career, a great condo mate and a fantastic sex life. Give that all up?”

Lori shrugged. “You wouldn’t have to give up anything except the other men.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Oh, and one of us would have to find another place to live.”

Savannah finished the drink she held. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve never really thought about it. Have you?”

Lori nibbled her lower lip. “Not a lot. But every so often I get a feeling inside as if, oh, I don’t know, a piece of me is missing.”

“What we need is a new man. Actually, I was thinking of a specific man.”

Lori inclined her head towards the adjoining patio. “Our new neighbour? The hunk next door?”

“You bet. Have you taken a good look at him?”

“Oh, yeah.” Lori wiggled her eyebrows. “Yum yum.” Savannah licked her lips. “Yum is right. I’d like to get my mouth around him. But I swear, I think he’s either gay or blind. If you had two women lying outside in the nude practically in your face, wouldn’t you at least show a little curiosity?”

“I can show curiosity without the hunk next door.” She moved to sit sideways on her lounger next to Savannah and fished two orange slices out of the pitcher. “I’m curious how you’d look with a little decoration. Shall we see?”

Savannah giggled. “Exactly what do you have in mind?”

“You’ll see.”

Excerpt From: Aftershocks

Foreia, One week ago

The muted glow of everdark hovered over the deep blue grasses of Foreia’s rich fields. The black bark and flaming red leaves of giant firn trees framed the surrounding area, the scent of sweet scythia flowing through the warm air like a blessing of welcome. Jonas Chase, leader of the rebel Djinn army, grinned with pleasure. Lavender clouds covered the pink-red sky, a sight that never failed to impress him, and made him want to bask in his homecoming.

A muffled curse and angry words, unfortunately, drew his attention. Jonas stared at his responsibility, Prince Cadmus Storm, the Earth Lord, and uttered a loud, drawn-out sigh. Surrounded by a dozen Djinn warriors and the Dark Lord who’d promised them freedom, Cadmus nevertheless made an impressive sight as he commanded Foreia’s terrain to aid him against his imagined enemy.

Why couldn’t the damned Light Bringer do anything the easy way?

Golden soil erupted, crushing navy grass into muddied chaos. Quakes of rock shifted, and the air reverberated with the threat of Storm Lord vengeance.

“Fine, be a dick.” Cadmus snarled over his shoulder, catching Jonas in a glare he found impressive for its sheer ferocity. “Kill me if you want. But I’m taking as many of you to the Next with me as I possibly can.”

Of the remaining Storm Lords, the Royal Four—more commonly referred to as The Tetrarch—promised a life Jonas’ people had been dreaming about for centuries. The princes didn’t know it yet, but once one of the Royal Four became overking of Tanselm, life in their rich, magical world would change, and for the better.

Tanselm, a realm of infinite power and splendour. In addition to the fruitful fields, pastures of green and forests of rich trees and earth, Tanselm housed a sentient majesty, an overwhelming centre of magic that called to Light and Dark beings with equal intensity. The few times Jonas had been privileged enough to ‘visit’, i.e. spy, he’d felt vastly more powerful standing in that magical plane of existence, even more so than in his homeworld of Foreia.

Surprised at Tanselm’s acceptance of him, a Darkling, he’d begun to recognise his Dark Mistress’ words as truth—that Tanselm existed to accommodate more than just Light Bringers. Which wasn’t to say the future Tetrarch wasn’t needed to destroy the evil ‘Sin Garu and his hated minions, the Netharat. Those vile wraiths, ice demons and monsters would happily feast on creatures of Dark and Light, if only to perpetuate the chaos that salved their undying hunger. The Dark only knew how many overlapping worlds in existence would fall should ‘Sin Garu take Tanselm. Such pure magic in evil hands would destroy Foreia, Aelle, Earth, and so many other worlds not able to withstand such power.

No, despite the differences between the Djinn and the Storm Lords, Jonas knew they shared a common purpose—to live and prosper without Dark Lord oppression.

Studying Cadmus, Jonas shook his head. Four identical princes with the power to command the elements. Light Bringers and Storm Lords all, yet each brother was decidedly different. Darius, the Prince of Fire, had a temper and little patience. Marcus, the River Prince, possessed an annoying tendency towards arrogance, but thankfully his affai, his new bride, was wearing him down. Aerolus, the Wind Mage, controlled the winds as easily as he ruled magic, a young sorcerer with the potential of his legendary uncle, Arim, Tanselm’s notorious Killer of Shadow.

And Cadmus. Jonas still wondered at the one called the Earth Lord, a brown-eyed royal who could charm the scales off a dragon. Keeping an eye on Marcus had been tedious but easy in comparison. Cadmus, on the other hand, protested the measures to keep him safe at every turn. While Jonas could feel for the independent royal, he found Cadmus’ quirky sense of humour and annoyingly clever escape attempts vexing, not to mention exhausting.

He watched Cadmus take on more than he knew he could handle and had to hand it to the Storm Lords. They had been born to royalty, but their parents had not raised whiny and weak monarchs. These men, especially Cadmus, possessed strength and stubbornness in spades. From what Jonas’ cousin had affirmed, Cadmus’ reputation as a charmer and ladies’ man had been well-earned. Light-hearted but kind, he had seemed to be the easiest of the four brothers to turn.

Staring at him now as he tried to bury half a dozen Djinn under Foreia’s life-giving earth, Jonas found it hard to reconcile the easy-going Cadmus with the Light Bringer warrior before him.

“Enough,” Jonas’ Dark Mistress said in a soft voice. The Dark Lord took several steps closer to Cadmus but shook her head when Jonas attempted to intervene. “Earth Lord, the vision you saw was a message from me.”

“Bullshit. I saw you die, you and your bastard brother, B’alen.”

Her ice-blue eyes narrowed. Her smile, when it came, was as effective a weapon as her dark flame. “B’alen is indeed dead. And you Storm Lords owe me a debt of gratitude for it.”

“Gratitude?” Cadmus snorted and threw several approaching Djinn from him with bursts of energy that visibly swelled from the ground. “If not for you Dark Lords, Tanselm would be in one piece.” Cadmus blasted another group of Djinn, his power growing with his rage. “My father, my uncles and aunts and cousins would all still be alive.”

A large tree groaned as it shuddered under a massive force, its roots reaching through the ground for the Dark Mistress’ legs.

She glided as if on air, stopping a few feet from Cadmus. Jonas could feel the tension filling the space between them with chaotic power. Tendrils of negative energy snarled at him, and he flashed into the natural form of the Djinn, in truth, unable to help himself. He didn’t even try to fight it, knowing he was much more powerful in his energetic state. His physical form blurred, keeping a man’s outline while consisting not of flesh, but of white, blazing energy surrounded by a black aura that danced like flame.

He was Djinn. He was powerful. And he had been born to return his people to their homeworld--to Tanselm, where they rightfully belonged.

“Hear me, Earth Lord,” the Dark Mistress uttered in a low voice filled with bleak promise. “You know nothing of true pain, of torture and worse at the hands of those you love. So carry the regret of your loved ones’ passing close to your heart, and be content that you will once again join them in the Next.”

Excerpt From: Aged to Perfection

“You want me to do what?” Rachel Michaels gaped at her best friend in horror before turning her attention to the other woman in the room. The cute blonde aesthetician, Tammy, stood off to her right, wearing a smirk and a pink smock.

Rachel eyed the vat of hot wax and gulped. I’m too old for this shit!

“Seriously, Jan.” She laughed, nervously looking at her best friend. “Tell me again exactly why it is you think I need to be completely bald. I’ve lived my entire adult life without having a Brazilian done, and I’ve been just fine.”

“Have you really?”

She scowled at her friend. Alright, so her life had been pretty dull lately, but a Brazilian? That seemed a bit extreme. It wasn’t like anyone was going to see it anyway. Jan walked closer and looped her arm around Rachel’s shoulders in a familiar gesture that had been getting them both into trouble for fifteen years.

“Come on, Rach, live a little. You used to be so much fun. What happened to that wild spontaneous girl I used to know?”

“She got lost, along with everything else in the marriage, before I got tossed aside for the younger model.”

Jan pulled Rachel tighter against her body and squeezed. “Your ex was an idiot. Come on. It’s your fortieth birthday and you’re newly divorced. I thought we decided it was time to shed your inhibitions. You know ‘off with old, in with the new’.”

“Yeah, but when we had that discussion, I didn’t think my bikini line was in question. I thought you were talking just a little spring cleaning.” Rachel blew out a deep breath. “Fine, but you are so buying me a drink when this is done.”

She slowly walked forward like she was heading towards the guillotine rather than a waxing table. Tammy’s bubbly grin made Rachel want to smack her. With her eyes narrowed, she stared down the aesthetician. “You’re getting far too much enjoyment out of my discomfort.”

“I promise you’re going to love the results,” Tammy replied. “I’ll leave the room and allow you to get comfortable. You’ll want to undress completely from the waist down.”

“Jesus,” Rachel muttered. “But if I hear so much as a giggle out of either of you, I’m out of here,” she told them, ensuring her tone left no question that Rachel meant business.

“You won’t hear a peep out of me because I’m waiting for you outside,” Jan told her.

“What? You dragged me in here, and you aren’t even going to hold my hand?” Rachel whined.

“Trust me, honey. This will be much easier on you without an audience.” Jan shuddered. “I know I certainly wouldn’t want you to see me having this done.”

Rachel eyed the door, wondering if she could escape. “Why would it be that bad exactly?”

Jan giggled. “It is going to be completely worth it when it’s done. You will feel like a new woman. Honest.” She reached out and squeezed Rachel’s hand. Instead of reassuring Rachel, it only increased her wariness. Just what the hell had she signed on for?

With Jan out of the room, Rachel removed her jeans and underwear. Eyeing her white blouse, she decided it was probably wise to remove it as well. Clad in only her bra, she lay down and grabbed the towel that was draped on the edge of the table, trying desperately to cover her body.

Excerpt From: Ain't Too Proud to Beg

Angel Moreno stared at her naked self in the mirror. She turned to the left, then to the right, then faced her reflection again and sighed. The diet programmes hadn’t worked. Neither had working out till it hurt while eating less than a snail ate. After two years of trying, she’d simply given up, and had developed a new respect for her curves and the voluptuousness of her breasts and hips. The doorbell peeled and she quickly grabbed her towel and wrapped it around her body. She was halfway down the steps when the bell sounded once more.

"I’m comin’!" she hollered. "Keep your panties on." She opened the door to her best friend Sanie and hugged her tightly. "Diva!"

Sanie laughed. "Hello, my darling. I brought wine!"

Angel accepted the wine. She walked her best friend into the kitchen, put the wine into the small wine rack and grabbed a cool bottle from the fridge. After pouring two glasses, they climbed the stairs to her bedroom.

"All right. So, where are you going?" Sanie wanted to know, placing her glass beside Angel’s on the bedside table.

"The Garden," Angel replied. She shifted before slipping to her knees to peer into the closet. She shuffled her shoes around and pulled out three pairs.

"Say what now?" Sanie asked.

"I mean it, San. I’ve been searching lately and I think this is what I want to do." She pushed to her knees and fixed the towel tightly back around her body. "Sex with Michael was just so boring. I mean all he wanted to do was just stick it in, pull it out—done! With Hunter, it’s all about the mystery."

"You can’t go slip the light fantastic with a strange man at a sex club."

"It’s not a sex club—per se. It’s a BDSM club, there’s a difference."

"What’s the difference? You go. You pick up a man and you make him do naughty things to you. Sex club."

"Tomato, tomah-to. It’s more than just slipping the light fantastic as you so eloquently put it."

"I thought you said you weren’t going back? You said you were getting too old for those kinds of clubs. You said you only went there to watch."

"I know. But you should see this man, San." Angel shrugged. She dropped the towel to the ground then reached for her corset. After making sure it was turned right side out, she shoved her arms into it. "One more chance to get a hold of Hunter."

"From what you tell me, he rarely gets involved with anyone," Sanie pointed out. "One more night won’t let him take you on as a lover. Besides, he sounds like he’s a Dom."

Angel shivered while she shoved her legs into a tight, black pencil skirt. She pulled it up to her hips, just below the bottom of her corset. "That’s why I want him. He is a take-charge kind of guy."

"But you’re not into domination and you cannot be a submissive. I mean come on! You run one of the biggest architecture firms in the city and let’s face it, you can’t do that successfully unless you’re a little bit of a bitch."

"I don’t know what I’m into." She turned one way then the other before giving Sanie her back. "Can you do me up?"

Sanie started tugging at the ropes to tie her into the corset. She lost her train of thought for a brief moment but gathered herself and took a breath.

Excerpt From: Alex's Angel

Philadelphia, PA

August 1793

A quarter to two in the afternoon. With her stomach knotting, Emily Eliot tore her eyes from the clock. She’d have to hurry, else Grandmother would get a megrim over her being out for longer than it took to walk to the baker’s and back. She hated making Grandmother ill.

Thud, thud, thud.

Emily’s heart echoed the rhythm of the printing presses as she drew up her courage. She took a deep breath and approached the man who was leaning so lazily against the worn walnut desk.

“Good afternoon, Mr Sawyer. I’d like to discuss my book again.”

He blinked several times, then grinned. He wasn’t too old or too ugly, but his reptilian smile repulsed her to the very pit of her soul. “Now, sweeting, I have explained it repeatedly—if you’d only be a little more agreeable with me, I’d look a little more favourably on this book of yours.”

Her mouth fell open. What—had he just made an improper suggestion? After she had so patiently explained the last time that she was uninterested in—in… Well, in what he was interested in? He’d seemed like such a rational person. Why must he be so insensitive? She gaped at him.

He peeled an orange with his ink-stained fingers, filling the air with a sharp citrus scent that mingled with the odours of paper dust and fresh ink. All the time he leered at her. Leered at her while she was here to see him on a matter of such importance.

Crawling sensations tingled over her skin and she resisted the urge to shiver openly. She still wasn’t used to dealing with men on her own and certainly not men who regarded her so salaciously. But for the sake of her mission, she’d have to press on. She wiped her sweating, shaking hands on her skirts and took a step closer.

“Mr Sawyer, please don’t tease me. You said I might return in two months and ask if you had changed your mind about printing my book.”

He lifted his sandy brows as he paused with an orange segment held to his red, overripe lips. “I believe that what I said was for you to wait at least two months before coming to pester me again.”

Pester him? Pester him? How could he suggest that her work was so insignificant? It was only the most pressing issue facing the United States at the moment. Her book was a collection of stories telling the tales of some of the mariners from the Dauphin, a ship out of Philadelphia that had been captured by the Barbary Pirates in 1785.

She’d had to wait so long already, for accomplishing this work had been no small feat under the watchful gaze of her grandmother. She owed a great debt to Mr Thomas Jefferson, the Secretary of State, who had answered her very first enquiry and generously supplied the names and addresses of the mariners’ relatives. Over the past two and a half years, through letters, she’d managed to interview the families of the captured men. She had also done detailed sketches of them, from their family’s descriptions. But gathering the information like that had taken so much time. More time than she could have imagined when she’d embarked on her course.

Now it was taking every ounce of faith she possessed to persevere with trying to get her work distributed to the populace. All she lived for was getting her book printed, but she’d never imagined it would be like this. She’d been sure that the need for her work would ensure its rapid publication. Yet to her vast shock, she’d been rejected by every printer she’d contacted. “Well, Mr Sawyer, it is very hard to remain patient when I know that my book will bring a personal perspective that the people of the United States will no longer be able to ignore.”

He stared back at her silently, blinking a few times. Had he even heard her? Didn’t he know it was rude to refuse to answer? Goodness. Writing letters had been a lot easier than facing printers in their shops. She straightened her spine.

“Mr Sawyer, how could anyone with any human feeling remain passive while our countrymen are still held in Algiers, in shameful slavery?” She couldn’t help letting some of her disapprobation leach into her tone. “It has been almost a decade and still our country refuses to act.”

“Indeed, it is terrible business what those Barbary pirates have done, but our country is young and money is limited.” He rolled his shoulders up and tilted his head to the side. Then he relaxed. “Without a navy and without large sums to pay their ransoms, I just don’t see what more can be done.”

He popped a piece of orange into his mouth and chewed it slowly.

She resisted the urge to shake her head. Initially, he had seemed like a kind person. How could he just stand there and say those things? Didn’t he care about what his countrymen were going through? Apparently not. Unfortunately, in her experience, his apathy wasn’t atypical. Her shoulders sagged. It was so hard to see what needed to be done so clearly and yet to have others be so blind and deaf to her message. But she couldn’t give up.

Clearly she’d have to try harder.

“Please, Mr Sawyer, you must listen.” The words rushed past her lips, their urgency pressing hard on her. She took a deep breath and made a concentrated effort to slow down. “The long-term lack of concern over this issue is what has allowed those men captured in eighty-four to be held for all these years. My book would really help people to see this issue in a more personal light. People need to see those men as fellow citizens, with families who love and need them—not just as names on a list.”

“Young lady, I’ve told you repeatedly what I need. The public wants to read stories of captivity, torture, ravishment, a little allusion to sexual depravity…heaving bosoms.” Mr Sawyer’s gaze dropped to her bodice. “Though for myself, I prefer more tender fruits.” His leer was unmistakable.

She gasped and fought a sudden wave of dizziness. Every time she’d come here, he had pushed the bounds of decency a little more. However, no man had ever spoken to her so bluntly as he had just done. For one thing, they would never have dared with her formidable, sharp-tongued grandmother always close by. But here, today, Emily was alone and she’d have to fend for herself. She crossed her arms over her small breasts and squared her shoulders.

“We could discuss a compromise.”

“A compromise?” she asked warily.

“Aye, a compromise.” He pushed away from his desk and walked towards her.

Excerpt From: Alex's Appeal

“What kind of a crap outfit leaves a customer standing at the door with enough luggage to choke a small army? Lazy bunch of no good…”Alex Brookfield let the rest of the sentence fade into nothingness while he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud.

Across the beautifully appointed lobby, he saw the owner and his good friend, Ethan Roberts, tense. The man spun away from the picture window and faced him, a scowl distorting his normally handsome face. An instant later, the frown faded, replaced by a gaping-mouth look of confusion.

Alex couldn’t stop the laughter from erupting. The look on Ethan’s face was hilarious. The wide-eyed stare, priceless.

“Well, fuck!” Ethan managed to get out after only a few more seconds of obvious confusion. “Alex, I should have known it was you.”

Alex, dressed in his usual suit and tie, strode across the floor, leaving his large suitcase where it was, blocking the doorway. “Possibly, but I’m glad you didn’t. I haven’t had a good belly laugh like that in months.”

With his hand extended, Ethan took a couple of steps forward and grasped Alex’s hand, giving it an enthusiastic shake. “Welcome to Whiskers’, Alex. It’s been too long, my friend.” The owner of the inn patted Alex on the shoulder then pulled him closer for a warm hug. “How are you?”

“I’m good. Thanks, Ethan.” Alex accepted the hug. For an instant, it brought back memories of college days when he and Ethan had been more than friends. But that was a long time ago, and they’d parted on the best of terms. “Really, to leave a man’s luggage sitting by the door. Anyone could walk in and swipe it, you know. And me being a lawyer and all, I’d have to sue.” The last words came out with laughter that came bubbling up again.

“Bloody hell, man.” Ethan grinned and pulled him towards the front desk. “My luck, you’d do it and claim you’ve got all the family treasures, the deeds to any property you own and the winning lottery ticket you purchased not ten minutes ago.”

“You know it.” Alex beamed. Tension he hadn’t realised had been knotting his shoulders seeped out of him the further into the inn he went. “So, the place is doing well, I hope.”

“Yeah, we’re just getting into the busy season. Bookings have really picked up since the beginning of the month.”

“Excellent, I’ll adjust the numbers when I sue.” He tried deadpanning it but managed to keep a straight face for only a few moments. It felt good to laugh.

Ethan chuckled along with him. “Nice. I’m so glad you’re a friend, not just my lawyer.”

“Kidding aside, the place looks great.”

Ethan seemed to glow with pride. “We haven’t made many changes. A new coat of paint, added some artwork that I felt suited the place better. Cade keeps the grounds up and does all the little fixes that need attending to.”

“Cade? Would that be the same Cade Wyatt who’s been here for years?” Alex remembered the man from a previous visit—a hunk if there ever was one, and if he wasn’t mistaken, Ethan’s special someone.

“Yeah, the one and only.” He leaned closer and whispered, “My one and only.”

“If I remember the man correctly, and I always remember good looking men correctly, you’re a very lucky guy. He’s a hunk.” Alex pushed down another sudden flash of memory. His own special someone was gone, and he still missed him terribly.

“He’s around here somewhere,” Ethan said and reached across the desk for the register and a pen. He glanced down the list of names. “Tell me you booked ahead.”

“Yes, a couple of weeks ago.” Alex leant in and scanned down the page.

“Here it is.” Ethan placed his finger on the line. “Logan probably took the call. I have him manning the desk when I’m ‘occupied’,” he said with a smile and wink. “How long do you plan to be with us, Alex?”

“Not sure, I’ve got some thinking to do.” He took the pen Ethan offered. Bending forward, he signed on the dotted line then tossed the pen aside. Reaching into the back pocket of his suit pants, he pulled out his wallet and retrieved both his driver’s licence and credit card. “For sure the weekend. I’ll go from there, if that works?”

Excerpt From: All Jakced Up

Forty and fucked.

Actually, fucked up is more like it.

Jack Manning leaned against the bar, sipping his drink and indulging in his own private pity party. Friday night and all around him in Eli’s, their favourite bar, his friends were celebrating his fortieth birthday. A death knell that had crept up on his rapidly dissipating youth. Not that he didn’t appreciate the cheer and good wishes—it just sucked that everyone was coupled-up except him.

"Still looking for the perfect woman?"

A hand clapped his shoulder and he turned to see his closest friend, Mike Moreland, grinning at him. Jack just shrugged and took another slug of bourbon.

"She won’t find you if you stand there glaring at everyone," a musical voice said.

Carly, Mike’s wife. Great. They were double-teaming him.

"It’s my birthday," he told them with an edge to his voice. "I can glare if I want to."

Carly stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear, "Loosen up a little, will you? Lose the jacket and tie. Forty could be just the beginning for you."

Yeah, right.

"Come on, buddy," Mike urged. "Let’s have a little cheer here."

Jack did his best to stretch his mouth into a smile, but the effort was obviously so bad Carly burst out laughing.

"Okay, okay. I think the glare suits you better."

One by one his friends settled up their tabs, wished him a happy birthday and drifted out, off to their homes or whatever couple of activities might be on their calendars.

How the fuck did everyone else find the right person and I’m still going home to Mr Big?

Mr Big was a cat of indeterminate heritage who had adopted him a couple of years ago and seemed to be the only housemate in his future. He wasn’t a bad catch. His friends told him that all the time. He owned a one-man financial services business that did well. A house that was small but well-furnished in a good neighbourhood. Had no really bad habits to speak of. Considered himself fairly intelligent. He worked out regularly and kept himself in good shape. He might’ve liked to have been a couple of inches taller but it wasn’t a game changer.

So where was the woman for him? At forty, surely he should have found her. Instead he was a single man in the coupled-up crowd of his friends. With no change in that status in the foreseeable future. When people asked him why he wasn’t married yet he wished he had some other answer to give them other than he hadn’t yet met the right woman.

But that was a big part of it. His friends told him he was too picky. Had expectations that were too high. That there were plenty of women right under his nose who were perfectly acceptable.

Trouble was, he didn’t want an ‘acceptable’ woman. He wanted one who would make his friends look at him with envy. One who would validate him as a babe magnet, something he’d never been able to lay claim to.

Excerpt From: All of the Voices

The call from dispatch had Deputy Matt Nixon groaning and rolling his eyes even as he tossed aside his half eaten burger and started up the cruiser. Ten-fourteens occurred regularly at Mrs. Hawkins’ place, and Matt, like every other employee at the Sheriff’s department, dreaded being on the receiving end of the call. All of the times he had been unlucky enough to be on duty when old widow Hawkins claimed a prowler was on her property, not once had there been anyone other than the woman herself waiting for him when he arrived.

And every single one of those calls, Matt had cringed when he’d knocked on Mrs. Hawkins’ door. Well, maybe not the first time. He’d been inexperienced and idealistic and kind of thought the other deputies were full of shit and trying to pull one over on him. It wasn’t until he heard the raspy-voiced widow hollering for him to ‘come on in’ that Matt had faced the slowly dawning horrific reality. After all, who, if there was a prowler about, would leave the damn door unlocked?

He still shuddered with the memory of that first call, because he’d been so sure the gossip had been just that—gossip and not truth—until he started turning that unlocked door knob. Matt had scrambled frantically to recall the rest of the crap the other deputies had teased him about when he was sent to Mrs. Hawkins’, and remembering his fellow officers warnings was about the only reason he didn’t pull his gun when he finally opened the door and was promptly attacked by about two hundred pounds of nearly-nude, quivering old woman.

“Better watch yerself, boy,” Deputy Sparks had sneered, “that crazy ol’ bitch will be on ya the second ya get in the door. She’ll be humping ya like a dog in heat and—” Matt had walked away, his stomach quivery over the sheer amount of disdain in the former deputy Sparks’ voice.

“The man was a bigoted fuckwad anyway,” Matt muttered, pushing aside the anger thinking of Sparks always brought. As for Mrs. Hawkins, the old woman was just lonely, and granted, her means of getting attention were more than a little startling, but in the past few months, Mrs. Hawkins and Matt had come to a sort of truce. She still called in complaints about prowlers, but she no longer dressed in frilly lingerie when she greeted Matt.

Most of the time she had a plate full of cookies and a glass of milk waiting for him. Matt had offered to stop in and check on her when he wasn’t working, but Mrs. Hawkins had declined. She had her routine, and he wasn’t the only deputy who got called out to her place. He was just the only one who got cookies. The only one who’d befriended the old widow instead of mocking her. The only one who saw the lonely, scared elderly woman hiding under the façade Mrs. Hawkins presented to everyone else.

It hadn’t been that way between them before Matt had nearly died, but that traumatic event seemed to have been what made Mrs. Hawkins see past the laid back persona Matt usually affected. And so between them, they’d forged an odd friendship.

Mrs. Hawkins lived alone a few miles out of town on the remains of an old farm that used to be productive. After the death of her husband, Mrs. Hawkins had sold off most of the farm land, equipment and livestock, keeping only an acre or so surrounding her house.

She also kept several chickens, and Matt hated those damn birds. There was one in particular, a Rhode Island Red rooster, who seemed determined to emasculate him, either physically or through humiliation. If Matt thought he could get away with blowing that damn bird to bits, he’d do it. Maybe he could accidentally back over the evil avian on his way out. No doubt the red menace would be chasing after him, trying to peck and claw at any part of Matt he could reach. God, he hated that rooster!

Matt floored the gas pedal as a wave of unease washed over him. He’d been about half an hour away from his destination when the call came through. Normally he hauled ass to the widow’s place, because you just never knew, but this time, he needed to get there faster. His spine seemed to ice over, sending chilly tendrils throughout his body.

The red rooster was forgotten as fear dug its claws into his gut, spearing him in the same spot he’d been stabbed four months ago. He couldn’t say why or how he knew it was so, but everything in him clamoured and screeched in alarm, much like it’d done right before he’d had that knife driven into him.

Matt gasped as his vision dimmed, the memory of the attack springing to life in his mind, the hot slice of the blade through skin and muscle, the agony that ripped right along with the knife. Blinking rapidly to clear his vision, Matt willed the cruiser to go faster even as he took a turn at a speed that nearly caused the vehicle to roll.

He had to hurry, before it was too late. Whatever was going on in his head, Matt couldn’t let it distract him, not now. Not when he knew in some inexplicable way death was coming.

Excerpt From: All or Nothing

“Wow, he’s hotter than I remember.”

Shannon Delaney followed her friend’s gaze and frowned. Holly was checking out Zac Malloy—best friend to Shannon’s husband and their current houseguest.

“I wonder what he looks like in uniform. You know I love me a military man. Is he involved with anyone?” Holly asked.

Shannon turned back to her friend. Holly stared at Zac like she could she was starving, and he was exactly what she craved.

“Hol, be careful there,” she warned. “He’s hot, no denying that, but the man is just…” she struggled to find the right words, “intense.”

“Intense can be good.” Holly chuckled, but sobered when she met Shannon’s gaze. “What’s up? Has he been bothering you or done something to piss you off?”

“No, nothing like that. Hell, he doesn’t really talk to me. He’s been here for a couple of weeks and he’s maybe said five words to me.” Shannon shrugged. “Sometimes he’ll just stare at me, like he’s going to say something, then nothing. He seems happier on his own, that’s all. I mean, look at him now. Everyone’s here, enjoying the barbeque, and he’s standing away from the group, all by himself. He’s not even making an effort to fit in.”

She glanced back towards the man in question and, as if he knew they were talking about him, found his gaze on her. Her heart skipped and her stomach tightened. That was the real problem—how she reacted to the stares. He watched her so intently. She half-expected him to pounce on her, and the sad part was the thought of it excited her. And that made her feel guilty as hell.

“Have you talked to Nate about it?”

At the mention of her husband, Shannon felt her face heat, and she looked away from Zac quickly.

“No, of course not. Zac’s his best friend. I’m not going to whine about him looking at me. Besides, he’ll find his own place soon and will be out of here. So it really doesn’t matter.”

“You know, maybe you’re being too hard on the guy, Shan,” Holly said. “He’s been out of the country for the past year and a half. Maybe he’s just doesn’t know what to say or how to start a conversation with you. Heck, he hardly knows you. You’ve been married to his best friend for a year, and the only time he’s ever seen you was when he was on leave for the wedding. Maybe it’s just awkward for him.”

Shannon thought about it. Everything Holly said was spot on, and it wasn’t like Shannon had gone out of her way to welcome the man. Guilt settled heavily in her gut. This was her husband’s best friend, and she hadn’t even made an effort. She sighed.

“You’re right. I’ve been a real bitch about the whole thing,” she admitted.

“Well, no time like the present to change,” Holly said brightly.

“What?”

“Looks like the man is out of beer. Bring him a fresh one, and be your wonderful charming self. If not for Zac, then for your man.” She gave Shannon a small shove.

Excerpt From: All Roads Lead to Ripon

See Jane. See Jane run. Did it count as running when the reason for fleeing the country was self-preservation? Jane Templeton had been asking that question for a week and a half, ever since she’d gotten on the plane in the Pittsburgh airport and left her old life behind forever. She wasn’t sure where she’d end up starting over but it certainly wouldn’t be anywhere near Pittsburgh. She’d throw herself off a roof before she let herself get sucked back into that life again.

Jane took a calming breath and stared blindly out the train window. She shouldn’t be thinking about that now. She had almost three months to come up with a plan and there was no way she was going to waste the entire time dwelling on it. Not when she was finally taking the trip she’d dreamed about. True it was ten years later than originally scheduled but she was determined to enjoy it as much as possible before facing the reality of her new life, whatever that may be.

Noticing the passing scenery, Jane sighed. The Yorkshire Dales. As pretty and inviting as she remembered. Soon she’d be in Harrogate, a place that held many fond memories. Unfortunately none of her friends lived there anymore but the quaint town itself still held enough appeal to draw her back even without them.

The train pulled into the Harrogate station. Jane grabbed her military surplus duffel and made her way to the exit. She stepped onto the platform with a smile. She was almost there. A day in Philadelphia, six in Toronto, three in London, four planes, two trains and now just a short hike from the station to Agate’s Guest House and she would finally be able to let herself relax. She really was going to make it. All on her own. Without any major disasters. Without even getting lost. Her smile grew. See? She was competent enough to accomplish this so that meant she was more than capable of looking after herself the rest of the time too. Didn’t it?

Walking along Leeds Road, Jane was more than tired, but in a good way, for the first time in what seemed like years. She’d started coming back to life four months earlier when she walked out of the Mount Lebanon house that had become more of a prison the last few years than a home. As it turned out, leaving the structure hadn’t severed her tethers as she’d expected. Once she accepted that, she knew the only way to truly end things with her former jailer was to put enough distance between them to make any continued harassment impractical because she knew there wasn’t a place on earth she could go where it would be impossible. There was a slim chance that having an entire ocean separating them would make it so inconvenient that it would manage to discourage him, or so she hoped. She’d left some false trails along the way and hadn’t told anyone her final destination. She’d have at least a little reprieve before he located her. Not that there was any doubt he would sooner or later. Maybe, with luck, he’d have decided it really wasn’t worth the effort and give up before then. Luck. She was definitely due for some of that since she’d had absolutely none for several years now. She shook her head. There were two things she’d never understand. One, how the man she’d lived with for almost seven years knew so little about her and two, why it had taken her so long to realise that.

Jane turned the corner onto St. Georges Road and stopped to stare at her intended residence. It was a three story stone building, partly covered by ivy, definitely imposing-looking but not at all menacing. To Jane, it seemed protective and welcoming. Sighing, she shifted her bag to her other hand. It felt heavier than it had when she’d claimed it in the Manchester airport earlier, even more so than when she’d checked it in London. She knew it was an illusion, but she’d been travelling for days after months of building tension following years of stressful living. It was a small miracle that she was still standing at this point. And a major triumph.

“Good evening.” The clipped greeting startled Jane from her thoughts.

“Oh. Hi,” she responded, gaping openly at the impeccably dressed man by the impressive car she hadn’t noticed, even though she was standing within touching distance. With a curt nod, he got in and drove away. “Wow,” she whispered when she finally managed to move from the spot, long after he’d gone.

When she’d called from London about availability, Jane only reserved the room for a week since it was sight unseen. The inside made her feel instantly comfortable so she asked about extending her stay to two months when she checked in. After a lengthy assessment, her request earned her a very enthusiastic reception from the owner, Mrs. Agate. Her room assignment was switched from the second floor with shared facilities to the third with a private bath. Apparently she’d passed some unspoken test which rated what she was sure was an upgrade at a reduced rate. If her hunch was correct, her stay in the guest house now also included a tour guide, local historian and pseudo-mom. Jane hadn’t revealed anything other than the required personal details, but she suspected that it was only a matter of time before Mrs. Agate knew everything there was to know about her. Not that the woman was blatantly nosey. It was more that she was so peppy and outgoing with her infectious cheerfulness, that Jane suspected she wouldn’t be able to resist the standing invitation for a cup of tea and a bit of chat once she had her bearings.

She’d probably still be downstairs if she hadn’t pleaded exhaustion and promised to join her the following afternoon.

Excerpt From: All the Wright Moves

Katiya Wright stopped only after a step into the open doorway. The sight before her made her breath catch and she leaned against the doorframe for support and to view the tight jeans hugging a firm ass. The man bent, stretching the already fitted jeans taut. She bit her bottom lip to stifle a whimper. Her gaze travelled from the ass to muscular legs that bulged enticingly as he stood. She retraced her path back up to a bottom that should be declared illegal to a tapered waist, and a back that rippled with muscles visible through his shirt across his broad shoulders. The man shifted to the side as he lifted the computer monitor onto the desk. Katiya snapped out of her daze, glancing away from his luscious body.

The large room, which had been empty a few days earlier, was now filled with over fifty individual oak desks, office chairs and a file cabinet with a printer on it. It was as she’d envisioned, each work area set up like an office. She walked over to the desk closest to her and touched the last item that she knew had arrived today. A complete computer system with all the bells and whistles sat on top of the desk. A look at the screen showed it was installing some sort of software. With another glance around the room she noted that the systems were almost all set up. She returned her attention to the lone man still installing the computers and wondered where the rest of the work crew was.

A flare of interest filled her as she watched him work. With efficient moves he hooked up all the cables. Moments later he flipped on the system, punched a few keys, and the Windows logo came up. The man moved onto another desk and bent to pick up another computer out of a new box. She tried to figure out why she seemed to be attracted to him. It had been years since she’d had even a minuscule amount of interest in anyone. She hadn’t even seen his face nor had any interaction with him. Katiya continued to study him. She should probably let him know she was there, but she didn’t want to break the moment and continued to watch as he set up another system and moved onto another.

Snap out of it. No dating, she reminded herself. Clearing her throat, she walked over to the man. He stiffened and straightened from the box he was unpacking.

"Everything is looking great." She glanced around again, pleased that her vision was finally taking shape.

Katiya turned to look at him again then stopped. Damn, he’s even more captivating up close. His dark, brooding eyes studied her silently. Black shaggy shoulder length hair framed a tanned, craggy face. He wasn’t what she’d call typically handsome, but something about him made her want to look at him more than once. With large blunt fingers, he pushed back his hair from his face. He dwarfed her five feet nine inches—he had to be at least over six feet tall.

"There are just a few more systems left to set up in here."

His deep, bassy baritone set off a clenching sensation in the base of her stomach.

Control yourself. Katiya took a calming breath. "Yes, I see that. I’m surprised that there aren’t more techs helping to get it done."

"There were, but they are setting up the other systems for the centre offices," he replied.

Katiya frowned. "What? The donation was only for these systems." She motioned to the computers around the room.

"Miss?"

"Katiya. Katiya Wright. No need for the Miss." She paused. "I don’t understand. Why are computers being installed in the centre offices?"

"Katiya Wright. You’re the owner of The Oasis, I’m pleased to meet you." He reached out and shook her hand. "You’re doing some great things with the community centre. As for the reason why the centre’s offices are being set up too. Do you realise how outdated your systems are?" The man cocked his head to the side, studying her.

She ignored the flash of pleasure that filled her at his touch and statement about her work at the centre.

"I know they are but this"—she gestured to the systems again—"was more important to get than computers for our offices. What does—?"

"Why didn’t you just ask for a donation that included the centre offices?"

Katiya narrowed her eyes. She didn’t appreciate his almost chastising tone, but instead of replying in anger, she put on her ‘diplomatic mask’.

"We had thought we would have to get more than one donor to get everything here the way we wanted. But when I approached your company, the donation made was more than generous enough and we didn’t need to seek any other donors. Taylor Bytes gave us all the computer systems, printers and provided techs like you to set it all up for us. That was what we needed. The centre offices having computers were secondary to that."

Although she had not met the man behind Taylor Bytes, the multibillion-dollar software company, Katiya was very grateful for his unselfish donation. When she had approached the company she had never expected them to donate everything she’d needed to get her computer classes up and running. The man continued to study her intently. Katiya shifted and tried to mask her wince. Her leg ached from the plane ride.

Excerpt From: All Tied Up

From her place of concealment deep in the shadows, Naymeen watched the little man nervously pace the tiny landing bay. It was obvious, from the way he stayed out in the open, he wasn’t a soldier. No soldier would have made himself such an easy target. Lucky for him, no one was even aware of his arrival. Lucky for him—but luckier for her.

He whirled as she moved forward from her hiding place. A look of alarm crossed his face as he took in the black torso armour and the gun in the holster on her hip. His voice trembled as he spoke. “You’re not the person I’m supposed to meet.”

She shook her head.

He stepped back.

She snorted at his attempt to put some distance between them and advanced on him.

His face paled, the colour leaching from his flabby skin. “Are you here to kill me?”

He didn’t know that wasn’t to be his fate, that he was only a means to an end.

A tight smile lifted her lips. Yet it must have done little to reassure him, as his voice quivered when he asked again, “Are you going to kill me?”

She gave him his reprieve. “Not this time.”

He looked relieved—but not for long.

“I’m well aware you’re here from Jaehdang,” Naymeen went on, “a planet that is under sanction by the United League of Veluvian Planets, to enter into clandestine negotiations with Mr. A. C. Blackshott, one of the wealthiest men in the galaxy. Therefore, you are definitely persona non grata here on Gheldar.”

If possible, he grew even whiter as she revealed the details of his supposedly covert mission.

“Do you really think the League would allow a meeting to take place between an envoy from a hostile planet and a man with an unlimited cash flow?” Naymeen shook her head for emphasis. “It just doesn’t seem like a good thing. So that’s why I’m here.”

Her leather boots nudged his fancy shoes as she invaded his space. “It’s my job to encourage you to go back home. Or, if necessary, persuade you a bit more forcefully.”

Now she was afraid, from the look on his face, the poor creature was going to faint.

“I’m not a killer, Mr. Chengalie. At least, not this time.” He started, but whether at her use of his name or at the reference to her status as a ‘sweeper’ for the League, she couldn’t be sure. Yet she wondered why he was surprised. It was obvious she knew everything about his task, and it also was obvious that, considering whom he was meeting, the League would send in an enforcer, a cleaner-upper of the situation, as it were.

Naymeen was still annoyed they hadn’t allowed Blackshott and the envoy to get together so she could find out the purpose of the meet, but the group seemed more concerned with prevention. She knew that kind of short-sighted thinking often came back to bite one in the arse—with a vengeance. She hoped they were prepared for that possibility.

But now, it was time to perform her duty. “Let me put it to you this way. It would be better for everyone, especially yourself, if you were to turn around and head back home without delay.”

As the realisation apparently took root in his brain that her purpose really was to rout but not kill him, a smidgen of boldness crept into his backbone. He puffed himself up in protest. “But I can’t leave.”

Naymeen wanted to laugh at his sudden burst of indignation. “Anyone from a sanctioned planet is banned from Gheldar—and from every other planet within the jurisdiction of the League. You need to leave, immediately.”

Excerpt From: All Together Now

Sharing Adam by Madelynne Ellis

Becca had once seen lightning strike. The bolt had hit the pavement right in front of her feet and dispersed into the earth, its passage unremarked upon save in the fraying of her nerves and the knowledge that she'd just escaped a life—altering event.

She'd never hoped to survive it, let alone expected to face the same situation twice. But then she'd never expected to find her husband pinned in the shadows by a raven—haired vixen.

Their friends' wedding had passed unremarkably, as most did after the vows were said and the drinks began to flow, until that moment when she left the ladies and glimpsed Elliot a few feet away, embracing somebody else. He wasn't even being particularly circumspect about it, given that a deep alcove lay to his rear and yet he stood under the light adjacent to the cloakroom door.

Becca braced herself behind a marble column, terrified of being seen, though she wasn't in the wrong. What had possessed him? She risked another glimpse.

As the breath squeezed from her lungs and culminated in a cough, Elliot made a half—hearted attempt to peel the pale hand off his arse.

"Not cool, dude," he chastised, giving Becca her first hint that she wasn't dealing with what she'd originally thought. "My wife—"

"Can't give you what I can give you." The deep rumbling purr confirmed it. Not a vixen, but a viper. One of the ushers—a man she recognised from the overly zealous exchange he'd shared with Elliot on the way into the reception. Maybe that ought to have set off alarm bells, but folks met up at weddings who hadn't seen one another in years. Emotions tended to run a little high, and Elliot's response, a firm pat on the back, hadn't given her cause for concern.

The guy released his grip on Elliot's iron—like buns, only to make a grab for the ridge of his cock beneath his trouser fly.

"Bet she doesn't even know how you swing. Probably be horrified to know how much a little rear—door action turns you on."

Damn, if that wasn't a truth that hurt more than this little tableaux. Not the last part—she knew Elliot well enough to know he enjoyed a little exploration in that region—but the not knowing that his interests ran to other men. That was a little hard to swallow.

"Who said it does, any more?" Elliot said. The slight bristle to his words and the stiffening of his shoulders made no impression upon his pursuer.

"Your cock dancing about behind your fly desperate to get out says so."

She didn't need to see the ridge of Elliot's erection to know that it was true. The guy's large hand spanned the whole length of Elliot's imprisoned cock, while the curve of his index finger and thumb provided an extra pinch of encouragement. A softness infused Elliot's gaze, coupled with a slackness of his jaw that spoke of intense delight.

Private Investigation by Fleur T Reid

Miss Elizabeth James upset her cup and swore in a most unladylike fashion as hot tea splattered her hand and wrist and soaked into that morning's copy of The Times, obliterating the advertisement for Professor Mainwaring's Patented Nerve Tonic. It was her own fault of course—she had been trying to breakfast and gloat at the same time. She had graduated from the Metropolitan School for Shorthand in Chancery Lane, and what's more she had graduated top of her class in typing, shorthand, filing and arithmetic. And she had been the only girl in the class to master the stencillographic oscillator—a complicated clockwork device that transcribed dictation, although sometimes the spelling was a little suspect.

She sucked her burnt fingers. She was so happy and distracted that she had already spooned marmalade into her tea and tried to sip her toast. As one of London's new Typewriter Girls, she would be able to find work as a secretary or an author's assistant. Even as a copying clerk for a government official. Although perhaps not that last. To become a typist in a government department, a girl had to be at least five feet in height without boots or shoes. Lilly might just squeak through under that requirement if the person doing the measuring was lax with her tape measure and counted her rather wild, frizzy hair. Still, she had a whole world of options open to her—all perfectly genteel. Given that these days girls were running off to be explorers and fly dirigibles and goodness knows what else, she felt practically prim and proper in her choice of career.

The five guinea fee had been a struggle. She had managed to scrape her rent together, but had subsisted during the course of her training mainly on the breakfast of toast and tea her landlady grudgingly provided each day. But now she was a professional woman, and could expect to earn anywhere between fifteen shillings and two or three pounds a week.

She mopped ineffectually at the spilt tea with her handkerchief, and sighed. Perhaps she might even be able to move to lodgings where the taps didn't scream and clank and dispense brown, brackish water, where the bed wasn't lumpy with a spring that dug into the small of her back no matter how she tossed and turned, and where the landlady didn't look at her with chilly disapprobation every time their paths crossed.

Mrs Langley did not approve of working women—but then Mrs Langley did not much approve of anything. A skinny, middle—aged woman with a pointed, rather red nose that she enjoyed poking into other people's business, she had lost her husband after twenty years of childless marriage—which was probably something of a relief to the poor man, since it meant he could finally get some peace. Except, of course, he couldn't—every Thursday evening at six o' clock, Mrs Langley trotted off in her respectable coat and her sensible button boots with her capacious handbag tucked under her arm to visit the shade of her late, lamented husband at Doctor Moriarty Caine's House of Spiritual Solace. When she got a message from the other side, she came back in good humour. When no message was forthcoming, she was even more officious and sour—faced than usual.

The Perfect Third by Morticia Knight

Alexa Wharton unsnapped the front of her deep purple, lacy, push—up bra and let it fall to the floor. With the last bit of clothing off her body, she inspected herself in the full—length antique mirror in her bedroom. Her round, heavy breasts hung beautifully, her large pink nipples peaked from the slight chill in the room. As she continued looking down her body, she smiled in satisfaction at how her Pilates and yoga classes had helped to shape her torso into a lean, but still feminine form. Slightly curved hips, a flat tummy and a perky ass with long legs made her any man's dream.

Yet, she was alone. She pulled her long, brunette curls into a ponytail that fell to the middle of her back, and scrunched up her slightly upturned nose in the mirror. She was almost twenty—five years old, a quarter of a century. What a thought that was. It was getting scary to think that someone who was as sensual as she was could be this hopeless when it came to finding a deep love and real pleasure in her life.

Perhaps it was time to take the proverbial bull by the horns, or at least his horn as it were, and really make something happen. She had always been attractive enough that having to go after a man hadn't been a problem—many had approached her. The guys in her law firm in the financial district of downtown New York City never hesitated to come on to her. But she needed to remain professional, while having a social life. So she made do with meeting potential dates at attorney get—togethers where there were men from other firms. She wasn't much of a bar scene girl, and most of her friends were already in committed relationships.

Throwing on her cream silk robe, she went into the living room of her Soho apartment and opened her laptop. Internet sources might be a possibility. She wasn't quite ready for an e—date service, but maybe some ideas on the latest hot clubs, or she could look into joining a social group. This is pathetic. What sort of lame social group was she going to join? The same old business—minded, straight—laced men were not what she wanted. She had always fantasised about being with a wild and uninhibited male who would open up her mind and body to all manner of erotic thrills. She wanted a bawdy man with staying power. Someone creative and daring, who was ready to turn her on over and over again, all night long. I wouldn't say no to a huge dick either.

Just then her desk phone rang, and she jumped, abruptly torn from her sexual reverie. It was Jill, a very upwardly mobile colleague at her firm who loved to party, but could still negotiate the finer points of a business contract on only three hours of sleep. She was a tall and lanky temptress with a short, red bob who could literally charm the pants off any man.

"Hey, hot stuff," she cooed into the phone. "What are you doing at home at eight p.m. on a Saturday night, you naughty thing? Or should I say, you not very naughty thing?"

"Ha! I suppose I should ask you the same. You are the one calling me, after all, and I don't hear the customary laughter and clinking glasses in the background. Nor do I hear any dance beats, so you can't be at a club. Don't tell me you're losing your touch..."

Country Hearts by Nan Comargue

Isabel stood, hands on her hips, and looked over her empty apartment.

From the hall, a deep voice asked, "You ready?"

She had to swallow hard before she could answer. "Just give me a minute. Please."

Isabel heard his footsteps clattering back down the stairs and after that, she was alone with her memories.

For four years, she'd laughed and cried within these thin walls, listening to her neighbours laugh over their joys and cry over their frustrations. Lately all they must have heard from her unit were tears. Angry, bitter sobs over the man who had recently moved out. He was moving on, Jason had told her, as if she was an accident scene that had momentarily snarled up the smooth traffic of his life.

Damn him.

They'd only lived together for the past eight months, but already his personality had sunk itself into the furniture she'd packed away for shipping on to his mother's. He hadn't even wanted to give her his new address. Probably because it was her address, too. The other woman. His new woman. Which probably made Isabel the other woman now.

Damn him. Damn them both.

Jason hadn't thought to help Isabel pack either, and had left it to her and whatever help she could rustle up. There had been a lot of possessions to move, mostly the recent and expensive accumulations from Jason's side of the apartment, consisting of a state—of—the—art stereo system and brand new television set. They'd cost a big chunk of his last bonus from work, yet the people she'd asked to assist her with the task of emptying out the apartment hadn't seemed impressed. The magazines she'd thrown into the recycling bin behind the building were mostly his business journals. The books on his side of the bookcase were all about money and power. She'd seen her helpers grimacing as they'd pulled them down from the shelves. Between them, the two men who were helping to move her out of her apartment had enough wealth to buy and sell any of the partners at Jason's investment firm, but they'd never cared about the influence and clout Jason craved most of all.

Isabel had folded away the T—shirts he'd left in the drawers after taking only the newest designer versions and the jeans he rarely wore anymore since his promotion twelve weeks ago. They reminded her of the Jason she'd fallen in love with, a Jason whose dreams were still to be fulfilled. Now that he was realising them, he was a different man. Not cold, exactly, but distant. His affections were kept for material things now. Even the woman, she'd heard, was—

No, she wouldn't think about the other woman.

The Triumvirate's Consort by Shannon Peters

"He's still watching you. They're all still watching you."

"Evangeline Flint frowned at her girlfriend Melissa. "I don't care. I'm not here to pick up. I have to be back at work in fifteen minutes." She sipped from her straw. She was on to her second scotch, and it still wasn't going to be enough anaesthesia for the coming afternoon's budget meeting.

"C'mon, Evie, live a little," Melissa urged as she put her wine glass on the table. "They're definitely interested."

"How can you tell? They're all wearing sunglasses." Inside a pub. On a dark and gloomy afternoon. Go figure. Yet they didn't look ridiculous. They looked—well, hot.

"He's obviously into you. He and his friends have been staring at us—you, for over half an hour."

"And that's exactly why she wanted to run back to work. She wasn't the blonde nympho type that Melissa was, or the hot—man magnet that their other friend, Paris, was. She was Evie. Tall, dark, blend—into—the—background Evie. She made the effort to disappear in a crowd, and, at six foot, she was used to some stares, but only because of her above—average height. She never attracted any other kind of attention, and didn't know what to do with it when she did. They were looking at her. Staring—at her. Her nipples peaked in her lacy bra. She'd checked the men out, too, but hopefully nowhere near as obviously.

"Evie glanced surreptitiously over her shoulder at the gentlemen at the bar. They stood out like construction workers at a tea party. Three of them, all tall, broad—shouldered and lean—hipped, with expensive sunglasses masking their eyes. The one with the dark hair kept drawing her gaze. She wished she could see him clearly. His curly dark hair brushed the collar of his shirt and should have looked scruffy, but instead it looked rumpled and sexy, begging for a lover's touch.

"At that moment he looked up from the conversation he was having with his blond companions, and met her gaze. He nodded at her, and Evie blushed as she looked quickly away. Hoo—yeah. He was gorgeous. Like a model from a Polo Ralph Lauren advertisement. No, make that a Calvin Klein advertisement; at least then he'd be near—naked.

"I have to go, Mel. Baxter wants to do a quarterly review. I shouldn't be late."

"Baxter wants to do you, Evie. Anyone else in the department can look after that report. Why do you think he's always trying to get you to work back late?"

The Dare by Jordyn McKenzie

I sat staring into the fading orange—to—blue flames as they glowed from the remnants of a massive campfire. It was the final evening of what had been one of the most fun weekends I'd ever had with my closest circle of friends. Having just graduated from college, we were all heading into that dreadfully long phase of life called adulthood. I myself was the proud owner of a bachelor's degree in science and was preparing to start my first job in a medical laboratory in three weeks.

"Planned as a celebration, a last hurrah before we all officially became grown—ups, the weekend had been spent hiking the trails and swimming the lake, with the guys unsuccessfully daring us girls to skinny—dip. We'd played and argued over various board and card games on the ageing picnic tables provided by the campground, and concluded each day in drunken revelry round the campfire. Feeling tired but oddly content, I allowed myself to become lost in my thoughts, surrounded by some of the people I cared for most in this world, while they exchanged stories of what would soon be known as 'the good old days'. I was looking forward to seeing what the future held for us, what the future held for me. Well, for the most part anyway. One particular aspect of my future wasn't looking so good, and I'd spent the better part of the weekend trying to convince myself that the time had come to make a very difficult decision.

"Where's the chocolate at? I need another s'more!" Mark's sudden and loud announcement jarred me from my deep thoughts. He stood up and walked over to the picnic table, knocking over unoccupied fold—up camp chairs and spilling beers in the process. I couldn't help but laugh at the wake of destruction my Hulkish friend had left in his quest for more chocolate.

"Dude! Watch where you're going!" Damien protested, jumping to his feet after his leg was soaked with beer. "These were the only dry jeans I had left here. Damn!"

"Not anymore." I smirked at him, and he replied with a middle finger. I waved my metal hot dog roaster at Mark. "Hey, Mac—daddy, will you hook me up with a couple more marshmallows?"

"He grinned at my years—old nickname for him and brought over the bag, plopping down in the chair next to me. "Anything for you, Sexy Lexi."

"You two are twenty—two years old, how much longer are you going to call each other those dumb fucking names?" groaned Natalie, Mark's girlfriend. Scowling, she stretched her long legs to bring her feet closer to the fire. Though she and Mark were very much an item now and had been for nearly two years, she hated the fact that for four months in eighth grade, Mark and I had been together. We'd broken up, become the best of friends, and, to her chagrin, the pet names Mark and I had called each other through our short—lived romantic relationship had stuck throughout our mostly platonic one.

Excerpt From: All Together Now

Sharing Adam by Madelynne Ellis

Becca had once seen lightning strike. The bolt had hit the pavement right in front of her feet and dispersed into the earth, its passage unremarked upon save in the fraying of her nerves and the knowledge that she'd just escaped a life—altering event.

She'd never hoped to survive it, let alone expected to face the same situation twice. But then she'd never expected to find her husband pinned in the shadows by a raven—haired vixen.

Their friends' wedding had passed unremarkably, as most did after the vows were said and the drinks began to flow, until that moment when she left the ladies and glimpsed Elliot a few feet away, embracing somebody else. He wasn't even being particularly circumspect about it, given that a deep alcove lay to his rear and yet he stood under the light adjacent to the cloakroom door.

Becca braced herself behind a marble column, terrified of being seen, though she wasn't in the wrong. What had possessed him? She risked another glimpse.

As the breath squeezed from her lungs and culminated in a cough, Elliot made a half—hearted attempt to peel the pale hand off his arse.

"Not cool, dude," he chastised, giving Becca her first hint that she wasn't dealing with what she'd originally thought. "My wife—"

"Can't give you what I can give you." The deep rumbling purr confirmed it. Not a vixen, but a viper. One of the ushers—a man she recognised from the overly zealous exchange he'd shared with Elliot on the way into the reception. Maybe that ought to have set off alarm bells, but folks met up at weddings who hadn't seen one another in years. Emotions tended to run a little high, and Elliot's response, a firm pat on the back, hadn't given her cause for concern.

The guy released his grip on Elliot's iron—like buns, only to make a grab for the ridge of his cock beneath his trouser fly.

"Bet she doesn't even know how you swing. Probably be horrified to know how much a little rear—door action turns you on."

Damn, if that wasn't a truth that hurt more than this little tableaux. Not the last part—she knew Elliot well enough to know he enjoyed a little exploration in that region—but the not knowing that his interests ran to other men. That was a little hard to swallow.

"Who said it does, any more?" Elliot said. The slight bristle to his words and the stiffening of his shoulders made no impression upon his pursuer.

"Your cock dancing about behind your fly desperate to get out says so."

She didn't need to see the ridge of Elliot's erection to know that it was true. The guy's large hand spanned the whole length of Elliot's imprisoned cock, while the curve of his index finger and thumb provided an extra pinch of encouragement. A softness infused Elliot's gaze, coupled with a slackness of his jaw that spoke of intense delight.

Private Investigation by Fleur T Reid

Miss Elizabeth James upset her cup and swore in a most unladylike fashion as hot tea splattered her hand and wrist and soaked into that morning's copy of The Times, obliterating the advertisement for Professor Mainwaring's Patented Nerve Tonic. It was her own fault of course—she had been trying to breakfast and gloat at the same time. She had graduated from the Metropolitan School for Shorthand in Chancery Lane, and what's more she had graduated top of her class in typing, shorthand, filing and arithmetic. And she had been the only girl in the class to master the stencillographic oscillator—a complicated clockwork device that transcribed dictation, although sometimes the spelling was a little suspect.

She sucked her burnt fingers. She was so happy and distracted that she had already spooned marmalade into her tea and tried to sip her toast. As one of London's new Typewriter Girls, she would be able to find work as a secretary or an author's assistant. Even as a copying clerk for a government official. Although perhaps not that last. To become a typist in a government department, a girl had to be at least five feet in height without boots or shoes. Lilly might just squeak through under that requirement if the person doing the measuring was lax with her tape measure and counted her rather wild, frizzy hair. Still, she had a whole world of options open to her—all perfectly genteel. Given that these days girls were running off to be explorers and fly dirigibles and goodness knows what else, she felt practically prim and proper in her choice of career.

The five guinea fee had been a struggle. She had managed to scrape her rent together, but had subsisted during the course of her training mainly on the breakfast of toast and tea her landlady grudgingly provided each day. But now she was a professional woman, and could expect to earn anywhere between fifteen shillings and two or three pounds a week.

She mopped ineffectually at the spilt tea with her handkerchief, and sighed. Perhaps she might even be able to move to lodgings where the taps didn't scream and clank and dispense brown, brackish water, where the bed wasn't lumpy with a spring that dug into the small of her back no matter how she tossed and turned, and where the landlady didn't look at her with chilly disapprobation every time their paths crossed.

Mrs Langley did not approve of working women—but then Mrs Langley did not much approve of anything. A skinny, middle—aged woman with a pointed, rather red nose that she enjoyed poking into other people's business, she had lost her husband after twenty years of childless marriage—which was probably something of a relief to the poor man, since it meant he could finally get some peace. Except, of course, he couldn't—every Thursday evening at six o' clock, Mrs Langley trotted off in her respectable coat and her sensible button boots with her capacious handbag tucked under her arm to visit the shade of her late, lamented husband at Doctor Moriarty Caine's House of Spiritual Solace. When she got a message from the other side, she came back in good humour. When no message was forthcoming, she was even more officious and sour—faced than usual.

The Perfect Third by Morticia Knight

Alexa Wharton unsnapped the front of her deep purple, lacy, push—up bra and let it fall to the floor. With the last bit of clothing off her body, she inspected herself in the full—length antique mirror in her bedroom. Her round, heavy breasts hung beautifully, her large pink nipples peaked from the slight chill in the room. As she continued looking down her body, she smiled in satisfaction at how her Pilates and yoga classes had helped to shape her torso into a lean, but still feminine form. Slightly curved hips, a flat tummy and a perky ass with long legs made her any man's dream.

Yet, she was alone. She pulled her long, brunette curls into a ponytail that fell to the middle of her back, and scrunched up her slightly upturned nose in the mirror. She was almost twenty—five years old, a quarter of a century. What a thought that was. It was getting scary to think that someone who was as sensual as she was could be this hopeless when it came to finding a deep love and real pleasure in her life.

Perhaps it was time to take the proverbial bull by the horns, or at least his horn as it were, and really make something happen. She had always been attractive enough that having to go after a man hadn't been a problem—many had approached her. The guys in her law firm in the financial district of downtown New York City never hesitated to come on to her. But she needed to remain professional, while having a social life. So she made do with meeting potential dates at attorney get—togethers where there were men from other firms. She wasn't much of a bar scene girl, and most of her friends were already in committed relationships.

Throwing on her cream silk robe, she went into the living room of her Soho apartment and opened her laptop. Internet sources might be a possibility. She wasn't quite ready for an e—date service, but maybe some ideas on the latest hot clubs, or she could look into joining a social group. This is pathetic. What sort of lame social group was she going to join? The same old business—minded, straight—laced men were not what she wanted. She had always fantasised about being with a wild and uninhibited male who would open up her mind and body to all manner of erotic thrills. She wanted a bawdy man with staying power. Someone creative and daring, who was ready to turn her on over and over again, all night long. I wouldn't say no to a huge dick either.

Just then her desk phone rang, and she jumped, abruptly torn from her sexual reverie. It was Jill, a very upwardly mobile colleague at her firm who loved to party, but could still negotiate the finer points of a business contract on only three hours of sleep. She was a tall and lanky temptress with a short, red bob who could literally charm the pants off any man.

"Hey, hot stuff," she cooed into the phone. "What are you doing at home at eight p.m. on a Saturday night, you naughty thing? Or should I say, you not very naughty thing?"

"Ha! I suppose I should ask you the same. You are the one calling me, after all, and I don't hear the customary laughter and clinking glasses in the background. Nor do I hear any dance beats, so you can't be at a club. Don't tell me you're losing your touch..."

Country Hearts by Nan Comargue

Isabel stood, hands on her hips, and looked over her empty apartment.

From the hall, a deep voice asked, "You ready?"

She had to swallow hard before she could answer. "Just give me a minute. Please."

Isabel heard his footsteps clattering back down the stairs and after that, she was alone with her memories.

For four years, she'd laughed and cried within these thin walls, listening to her neighbours laugh over their joys and cry over their frustrations. Lately all they must have heard from her unit were tears. Angry, bitter sobs over the man who had recently moved out. He was moving on, Jason had told her, as if she was an accident scene that had momentarily snarled up the smooth traffic of his life.

Damn him.

They'd only lived together for the past eight months, but already his personality had sunk itself into the furniture she'd packed away for shipping on to his mother's. He hadn't even wanted to give her his new address. Probably because it was her address, too. The other woman. His new woman. Which probably made Isabel the other woman now.

Damn him. Damn them both.

Jason hadn't thought to help Isabel pack either, and had left it to her and whatever help she could rustle up. There had been a lot of possessions to move, mostly the recent and expensive accumulations from Jason's side of the apartment, consisting of a state—of—the—art stereo system and brand new television set. They'd cost a big chunk of his last bonus from work, yet the people she'd asked to assist her with the task of emptying out the apartment hadn't seemed impressed. The magazines she'd thrown into the recycling bin behind the building were mostly his business journals. The books on his side of the bookcase were all about money and power. She'd seen her helpers grimacing as they'd pulled them down from the shelves. Between them, the two men who were helping to move her out of her apartment had enough wealth to buy and sell any of the partners at Jason's investment firm, but they'd never cared about the influence and clout Jason craved most of all.

Isabel had folded away the T—shirts he'd left in the drawers after taking only the newest designer versions and the jeans he rarely wore anymore since his promotion twelve weeks ago. They reminded her of the Jason she'd fallen in love with, a Jason whose dreams were still to be fulfilled. Now that he was realising them, he was a different man. Not cold, exactly, but distant. His affections were kept for material things now. Even the woman, she'd heard, was—

No, she wouldn't think about the other woman.

The Triumvirate's Consort by Shannon Peters

"He's still watching you. They're all still watching you."

"Evangeline Flint frowned at her girlfriend Melissa. "I don't care. I'm not here to pick up. I have to be back at work in fifteen minutes." She sipped from her straw. She was on to her second scotch, and it still wasn't going to be enough anaesthesia for the coming afternoon's budget meeting.

"C'mon, Evie, live a little," Melissa urged as she put her wine glass on the table. "They're definitely interested."

"How can you tell? They're all wearing sunglasses." Inside a pub. On a dark and gloomy afternoon. Go figure. Yet they didn't look ridiculous. They looked—well, hot.

"He's obviously into you. He and his friends have been staring at us—you, for over half an hour."

"And that's exactly why she wanted to run back to work. She wasn't the blonde nympho type that Melissa was, or the hot—man magnet that their other friend, Paris, was. She was Evie. Tall, dark, blend—into—the—background Evie. She made the effort to disappear in a crowd, and, at six foot, she was used to some stares, but only because of her above—average height. She never attracted any other kind of attention, and didn't know what to do with it when she did. They were looking at her. Staring—at her. Her nipples peaked in her lacy bra. She'd checked the men out, too, but hopefully nowhere near as obviously.

"Evie glanced surreptitiously over her shoulder at the gentlemen at the bar. They stood out like construction workers at a tea party. Three of them, all tall, broad—shouldered and lean—hipped, with expensive sunglasses masking their eyes. The one with the dark hair kept drawing her gaze. She wished she could see him clearly. His curly dark hair brushed the collar of his shirt and should have looked scruffy, but instead it looked rumpled and sexy, begging for a lover's touch.

"At that moment he looked up from the conversation he was having with his blond companions, and met her gaze. He nodded at her, and Evie blushed as she looked quickly away. Hoo—yeah. He was gorgeous. Like a model from a Polo Ralph Lauren advertisement. No, make that a Calvin Klein advertisement; at least then he'd be near—naked.

"I have to go, Mel. Baxter wants to do a quarterly review. I shouldn't be late."

"Baxter wants to do you, Evie. Anyone else in the department can look after that report. Why do you think he's always trying to get you to work back late?"

The Dare by Jordyn McKenzie

I sat staring into the fading orange—to—blue flames as they glowed from the remnants of a massive campfire. It was the final evening of what had been one of the most fun weekends I'd ever had with my closest circle of friends. Having just graduated from college, we were all heading into that dreadfully long phase of life called adulthood. I myself was the proud owner of a bachelor's degree in science and was preparing to start my first job in a medical laboratory in three weeks.

"Planned as a celebration, a last hurrah before we all officially became grown—ups, the weekend had been spent hiking the trails and swimming the lake, with the guys unsuccessfully daring us girls to skinny—dip. We'd played and argued over various board and card games on the ageing picnic tables provided by the campground, and concluded each day in drunken revelry round the campfire. Feeling tired but oddly content, I allowed myself to become lost in my thoughts, surrounded by some of the people I cared for most in this world, while they exchanged stories of what would soon be known as 'the good old days'. I was looking forward to seeing what the future held for us, what the future held for me. Well, for the most part anyway. One particular aspect of my future wasn't looking so good, and I'd spent the better part of the weekend trying to convince myself that the time had come to make a very difficult decision.

"Where's the chocolate at? I need another s'more!" Mark's sudden and loud announcement jarred me from my deep thoughts. He stood up and walked over to the picnic table, knocking over unoccupied fold—up camp chairs and spilling beers in the process. I couldn't help but laugh at the wake of destruction my Hulkish friend had left in his quest for more chocolate.

"Dude! Watch where you're going!" Damien protested, jumping to his feet after his leg was soaked with beer. "These were the only dry jeans I had left here. Damn!"

"Not anymore." I smirked at him, and he replied with a middle finger. I waved my metal hot dog roaster at Mark. "Hey, Mac—daddy, will you hook me up with a couple more marshmallows?"

"He grinned at my years—old nickname for him and brought over the bag, plopping down in the chair next to me. "Anything for you, Sexy Lexi."

"You two are twenty—two years old, how much longer are you going to call each other those dumb fucking names?" groaned Natalie, Mark's girlfriend. Scowling, she stretched her long legs to bring her feet closer to the fire. Though she and Mark were very much an item now and had been for nearly two years, she hated the fact that for four months in eighth grade, Mark and I had been together. We'd broken up, become the best of friends, and, to her chagrin, the pet names Mark and I had called each other through our short—lived romantic relationship had stuck throughout our mostly platonic one.

Excerpt From: Retribution

“Commander Rave Anders, a panel of your peers has found you guilty of theft of government property. You are hereby dishonourably discharged and sentenced to thirty days on the penal colony Devil’s Island.”

Rave fell to his seat in disbelief as the panel left the room. Just like that, his military career was gone, like so much smoke. Most would think that was the worst thing, but it wasn’t. The worst was Rave’s lover, Kain, couldn’t be found.

A hand landed on his shoulder. He turned, hoping to see Kain. His stomach sank when he saw his friend, Sela instead.

“It’s no use, Rave. It’s as if he’s disappeared. His parents don’t know where he is, either. I’m sorry.”

He rested his head in his hands. “I can’t believe it, Sela. He’s out there, somewhere, hurt. He’d be here if he was able.”

Rave looked up at Sela and saw the guards approaching behind her.

“I’ll do what I can to find him, Rave.”

He gave a sharp nod and turned to follow the guards to the pod waiting to take him to Devil’s Island, his thoughts in turmoil. How would he survive the next thirty days? Being in the military put a target on his back and Devil’s Island was one of the worst prison colonies in the universe. His heart ached at the thought of Kain, alone and hurt while he could do nothing about it. Nothing really mattered if Kain wasn’t safe. The guard shoved him into the craft and shackled him to the seat.

After the criminals were processed, the ship started the journey to Devil’s Island.

“Hey, you’s that military thief? Yep, you is. You’s the guy whose got fucked up the ass, but then, I hear ya like that, don’t ya?” The passenger beside him snickered. “I’m sure you’ll get plenty of action on DI.”

Rave leaned over and yanked him close enough that Rave could smell the man’s putrid breath. “Shut the fuck up.”

“No need to gets with the rough stuff. I ain’t after that pretty ass,” the man mumbled as Rave shoved him back into his seat.

Rave closed his eyes to block out the upcoming nightmare. He had two hours to devise a plan that would keep him from getting killed while being detained. He had a lover to find.

One step at a time.

His thoughts drifted.What had happened?

That question played over and over in his mind. One minute, Kain had left the ship. The next, the Alliance had boarded the ship and arrested Rave. Two days before the ship docked, the crew had conducted an inventory and those government boxes hadn’t been there. The Alliance had shown up, and suddenly, there the boxes had sat, pretty as you please. Something wasn’t adding up.

Rave didn’t do suspicion. He placed his faith in all his crew and expected their trust in return. Kain had never given him a reason not to trust him. Hell, Rave loved the man. He couldn’t love a traitor, could he? Focus, Damn it! Worry about now.

The force of take off glued him to the seat. He swallowed then bit his lip. He wasn’t prepared, not really. All the training in the world couldn’t prepare a person for a prison colony—an open world full of the worst criminals in the universe. He couldn’t figure out why the Alliance wanted to send him to a high security planet. He should have been shipped off to one of the minimum security colonies.

When the flight smoothed out, Rave forced himself to relax. He had to get some sleep. He wouldn’t get much on DI. Rave prayed he would wake from this nightmare, wrapped in the comfort of Kain arms, ready for their morning romp.

Kain, where are you?

Excerpt From: Salvation

“What the fuck?” Rock stumbled as the ship shuddered. He looked up as Sela ran onto the bridge. “Hold on to something. A ship just exploded in our path.” He focussed on steering the Salvation out of the flames but something caught his eye. “Se, there’s an emergency pod! See if you can find their frequency and hail them,” Rock said over his shoulder, fully expecting her to jump to it. She was efficient that way. He scanned the area to see if there were any other emergency crafts, but didn’t see any other pods in the aftermath of the explosion.

“I’m supposed to be on vacation. I didn’t sign up for this,” Se grumbled.

“You didn’t have to come, you know.” It came out more harshly than he’d intended, but they were in crisis mode right now.

“Rave wouldn’t have forgiven me if I’d let you go on a gun run on your own,” she said clearly, then he thought he heard her mumble, “Stupid libido.”

“I’ve been doing this solo for a while. I don’t need my hand held by Rave and your cousin. Or you for that matter. Shit. Someone’s shooting at the pod. You get a frequency yet?” Rock threw back at her.

“I’m going as fast as I can.”

“Go faster,” he snapped. He wasn’t irritated with her but he needed to get to the pilot of that pod. He’d apologise later. Maybe.

“Damn it, Rock. If you don’t like my speed, do it yourself.”

“Stop arguing with me. I’d like to find out why my gun sale went south.” He didn’t understand her need to fight him at every turn. Most days it was a turn-on, but this wasn’t the time or the place for his cock to take charge.

“What are you talking about?” Se sounded peevish.

“That ship was my contact. Maybe whoever escaped in the pod has the answers I need.”

“Put more pressure on me, why don’t you?” Se said under her breath.

“Se!” He was about to lose what little sanity he had left. Didn’t she know that?

“It isn’t the fate of the world. It’s one gun sale.” Se sighed, pushing her hair out of her face.

“Those guns were going to a planet being overrun with marauders. The inhabitants need to protect themselves or they’ll be enslaved. So, yeah, the fate of someone’s world could be at stake. We need that pod.” They were going to have to do something about the sexual tension between them soon because he couldn’t take the fighting anymore. He’d rather be fucking. And now wasn’t the time. Damn.

“Stop it with the bleeding heart stuff. I’ve got them,” Se mumbled almost to herself.

“I’m the bleeding heart?” That made him smile. He’d never been known for his sympathy. Not that he wasn’t sympathetic, but money was a bigger motivator.

Se laughed. “Just talk to the pod. You’re keyed in.”

And just like that, his sanity was back. They really did work well together.

“Emergency pod, this is the captain of the Salvation. Do you need assistance?”

There was no response. Fuck. That couldn’t be good.

“Are you sure this is right?” He looked over at Se.

“Yes. They probably don’t know if we are friend or foe. They did just come off an exploding ship and who knows who’s there or what shape they’re in.” Se shrugged.

“This is the captain of the Salvation. We will shelter you. Please acknowledge,” Rock tried again, realising that Se was correct—anyone could be in there and only a handful of people had known he was meeting up with the ship.

“How do you use this thing? Hello? Hello?” A masculine voice floated over the airwaves.

Rock bit back a shout of relief. “I hear you. Do you need us to bring you in?”

On screen, another shot hit the pod. Rock couldn’t look away—it was like a bad vid streaming in 3D, and he had front row seats.

“Rock, you need to get that ship in here or it’s going to fall apart.” Se’s worry coloured her voice.

“Emergency pod, we’ve got a lock on you. Don’t touch anything. We’re bringing you in.” Rock manipulated the controls and the pod slowly inched its way towards the Salvation.

Come on, come on.

It was taking forever. Or seemed to be. He needed to upgrade his fucking equipment.

Excerpt From: Freedom

"You can’t make me do it," Voss Potter sneered. He was getting good at that expression, but he had no choice in the matter. If his mask slipped his uncle would walk all over him.

"Yes, I can. I’m your guardian and you’ll do as I say." His uncle folded his hands in front of him and expected to be obeyed. They’d had this argument before and it wouldn’t be the last time either, unfortunately. Why couldn’t he just have his uncle’s love? They needed each other, but something about Uncle Basil had changed.

"No, I will not," Voss stood his ground. He couldn’t appear weak even for a second. He’d learned that the hard way. The last time he’d given into his uncle he’d been forced to stay in his room for a week and by forced he didn’t mean sent to his room without any supper, but sent there with guards blocking his way. They wouldn’t budge no matter how much he begged and tried to bribe, they probably thought he was a royal brat getting his just desserts. He couldn’t blame them. Not one of them was the original security detail that he’d known since he was born. His uncle had fired all of them and replaced the team with his own men a few months after Voss’ parents had been killed. That’s when things had started going crazy around his house.

"Go to your suite. I’ll deal with you later when you will marry who I tell you to—so get yourself prepared." Not one inch of the man was in disarray. Voss wanted to muss him, but refrained, not letting his anger get the better of him.

"You just want control of my estate. You don’t care about me or my feelings. I will stand against you on this. I’m not ready to marry some stranger of your choosing." Voss crossed his arms over his chest, but didn’t back down.

Great, now I sound like a spoiled brat. All I need to do is stomp my foot and pout.

That’s probably why he kept getting sent to his stupid room like a child.

Basil slapped him. "Leave my presence. Now. Before I really lose my temper."

He should have seen that one coming, it wasn’t the first time he’d been hit, but at least this time it was a slap and not a punch. He rubbed his cheek, but didn’t respond to his uncle in any other way. It was best to keep his silence on this one if he didn’t want more than a hit to the face. Oh, he’d leave all right, but it wouldn’t be to his rooms. Captain Rodrick was due to leave port and when he did, Voss would stowaway. Anything was better than being on a planet without his parents. Since their death Uncle Basil had kept trying to push him off on someone else he could control. That wasn’t the only change he’d noticed. His uncle was more irritable and quick to anger and it didn’t seem to be through grief. Voss’ parents were never spoken of. That was the hardest for him because he needed time to grieve, but he couldn’t because he was too busy staying one step ahead of the marriage train his uncle was on.

He had his own craft, but it wasn’t like he could fly the damn thing and Voss had no idea who he could trust now that his family retainers were all gone. He had no way to contact them even if he wanted to. They’d left in the middle of the night and Voss had never got their personal information because they were always at the house if he needed something. The whole situation was just about hopeless.

It didn’t help that he had to have someone shadow him at all times. He couldn’t be caught alone with any interesting men—or women for that matter—because he would be compromised and forced to marry and right now he couldn’t even have a hint of scandal or his uncle would take advantage of it. It was a dumb rule that was put into law millennia ago when there were wars over estates. Someone needed to change it. At twenty-one he would be free to live his life how he wanted and that scared the crap out of his uncle because it meant Voss’ trust fund would go bye-bye and Basil would be forced to fend for himself and it wouldn’t come fast enough for Voss. Some days he wished he’d been born a lower class because then he wouldn’t have to worry about the archaic rules. The society on Adair would do what it must to protect their precious money, but the rule was stupid and Voss didn’t fully understand it anyway. His birthday couldn’t get here fast enough. Not that he’d throw his uncle out and Basil should know that.

Despite the crazy way his uncle was acting, Voss still loved him. Uncle Basil was the only family he had left and Voss treasured that. Maybe not right this second, when his cheek still stung with the slap from his uncle, but later when he calmed down, Voss would remember the good times.

Excerpt From: Reward

This was the life. James Rodrick pulled a pair of solar goggles from his pack and lay back on the lounger. He needed this vacation. The last few months had put a strain on his belief in right and wrong. Zeb II was the perfect place to put his worries behind him and relax.

His best friend and ex-first mate, Maverick Sayers, was married and settled on Adair and it was time for James to evaluate what he wanted out of life, but that would wait. Right now he wanted to do nothing but clear his mind. The day was heating up. Maybe later he’d take a swim.

Jim activated the e-reader feature in his shades. A little light reading, a nap, a good dinner and a cocktail followed by dancing later on would do nicely for the rest of the day. He loved to dance and didn’t get to do it nearly enough. Usually he was busy hauling cargo. The life of an ex-Alliance soldier was boring unless they turned mercenary.

He’d left the Alliance after what had happened to his good friend Rave Anders. A few years ago Rave had been wrongly accused of theft and sent to a prison planet. Rave never talked about what had happened to him on that waste of space, but Jim didn’t need much of an imagination to figure it out.

His good friend had changed and Rave’s partner, Kain Sims, had disappeared. The last Jim had heard they were back together and things were going well. It was Rave who had helped Jim get going with his cargo business. Jim needed the stability and having his own ship let him be in control. He didn’t have to worry about the mucky grey area the Alliance seemed to bleed into all too regularly. There was only a right way and a wrong way.

Jim pushed thoughts of the Alliance from his mind. The book he was reading was about life on Earth a millennia ago. Fascinating stuff about creatures called dinosaurs. The book toted itself as non-fiction, but Jim wasn’t too sure if it was, especially since the author spouted what amounted to speculation. The great flood of 2050 had wiped out all the physical evidence of life on Earth before humans, then World War III had pretty much destroyed the planet as his ancestors knew it.

The only good thing to come out of the war was space travel. Jim wouldn’t be where he was today without it. He wondered if he could get a crew together to go exploring some of the old world, but that would be too much work. He’d need permits to even think about heading to Earth. The Alliance guarded it too closely and they wouldn’t let someone who’d walked away from them poke his nose around.

It was a good thought though. Jim read more on the theories of what had happened to the creatures and hoped it would keep his attention.

Who was he kidding? He was getting restless. It had only been an hour and the story was good, the sun nice and hot, with a cool breeze coming off the sea, but he wanted to do something. Jim tossed his goggles aside and sat up. Maybe he’d go for a run. This was the first day of his vacation and he wasn’t handling it very well. He still had six days to go until he could go back to his ship-he’d scheduled an overhaul of the systems to force himself to relax. Usually if they took a break from freighting, he and Maverick would hit up a few places and visit with friends but now it was just him. And a pity party for one was not cutting it, so a run it was.

The com he’d carelessly tossed to the side in the sand buzzed before he got completely out of the lounger.

"Rodrick."

"James, how’s vacation going?"

A smile worked its way over his face. It was good to hear from his former first mate.

"Maverick! Why’re you calling me? Shouldn’t you be wallowing in matrimonial bliss?"

"So...vacation isn’t going as planned?"

"What makes you say that?"

"You sound tense and you’re avoiding the question." Maverick’s laugh echoed across the com. "What’re you doing right now?"

"Getting ready for a run, if you must know."

"You need to be getting ready for a good hard fuck."

"Mav!" Maverick’s husband’s voice was distant, but clear.

Jim missed Maverick, but he was happy he’d finally made a go of it with Voss. Things had been hairy for a while when Voss had almost been forced to marry someone else because his uncle had gone crazy with a plague that was travelling around the universe. The entire situation was one of the reasons Jim had forced himself to come alone to a pleasure planet.

He’d had to hedge the truth while helping Voss out and he’d hated every second of it. Jim was an honest man and lying was too much of a grey area that always came back to bite him in the butt. He’d learned that the hard way at a young age.

"You leave my sex life out of it. Did you call for a reason or just to mess with me?"

"Just to mess with you. Okay, not really. Voss and I were thinking-"

"Uh oh."

Excerpt From: Almost Home

The kiss caught her off guard.

One moment Suzanne was standing in the doorway to Helena’s den, scanning the occupants and wondering if she knew anyone at all at this party. The next moment someone twirled her around and fastened a pair of firm lips on hers. Out of instinct or habit, she closed her eyes. The darkness heightened her other senses. Powerful arms circled her body and pulled her against a fuzzy male chest. Her partner’s scent rose around her, a complex mix of soap and musk, evergreen and wood smoke. His tongue teased the seam where her lips met and she let him enter, her self-protective reflexes dulled by his warmth and the glass of merlot she’d downed on her arrival. His mouth tasted of eggnog and candy canes, appropriately seasonal. He was delicious, in fact—not just his mouth but the quiet confidence of his probing tongue, the sculpted muscle she felt under his sweater, his bold hands wandering across her back to her buttocks. She hadn’t enjoyed a kiss like this in a long time.

She’d felt chilled and tense ever since her plane touched down in frigid Boston but now her muscles began to unknot. He was a miniature sun, melting her, turning her languid and dreamy. She clutched at his solid form and returned his kiss, trading heat for heat. Tropical colours paraded behind her eyelids—fuschia, lime, peach, and aqua—shimmering like the water in her pool back home. She even began to perspire, her long-sleeved velvet dress suddenly too warm for comfort.

He pulled her full hips against his lean ones. A tell-tale lump, wonderfully hard, pressed against her belly. Her panties and tights dampened, too.

Normally she would have resisted but stress and alcohol made her susceptible. She allowed the kiss to lengthen and deepen, sinking into the pure pleasure of it.

A smattering of applause brought her back to awareness. “Whoa there!” hooted one of the guests. “You two want some privacy?” Suzanne broke away from the man who had ambushed her. “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” Embarrassment added a sharp edge to her voice.

Excerpt From: Aloha Kaua

Michaela Donovan had just finished the best Screaming Orgasm of her life. Several of them, in fact, and each had been the perfect mix of vodka and Kahlua. Now, she feared the alcohol was getting to her. She glanced around the dimly lit bar, much darker than it ought to be, considering her watch indicated it was barely late afternoon. The windows were covered with blinds, but through the slats she could see how bright it was outside. Not a surprise. She’d only been there two days, but, thus far, Hawaii had proven to be a sunny, cheery place.

Everywhere except right here. She looked around again. The bar was deserted except for a couple who really needed to take the lift upstairs to their hotel room. Michaela wasn’t sure if the man’s tongue was all the way down the woman’s throat, but it had to be close. His right hand caressed her breast through a sheer, gauze shirt, and both of them seemed oblivious to everyone else in the world. They were a cute couple, both blond enough so it was easy to tell they weren’t native. She’d tried not to stare while nursing her last drink, but it was somewhat like a train wreck. No one wants to look, but it’s hard not to.

The only other person in the room was a middle-aged, black-haired bartender who’d been friendly but not too chatty with Michaela. She’d liked him better before she’d noticed him ogling the couple who couldn’t keep their hands off one another. He obviously enjoyed looking and wasn’t trying to hide the fact. No wonder he hasn’t asked them to leave. He’s getting off on the show.

When his hand slipped underneath the short apron he wore, Michaela shoved away from the bar. That, I don’t need to see. She wished she’d never noticed the man and woman. Their public display only made her hornier than she already was. After tossing some cash on the table, Michaela clutched her small, white handbag and stumbled towards the exit. She spotted a ladies’ room off to the side and changed her mind, slipping inside.

Excerpt From: Alrik

Alrik watched the live sex show on his computer with a critical eye. Porn stars. As much as he loved their looks and bodies, he preferred to watch amateurs going at it. When the sound screwed up and the voices no longer matched the action, he gave up and exited the site. He was in a rut. His sex life was boring as hell, but after three hundred and forty-six years of fucking, it was hard to come up with new things to make it exciting.

He keyed in a site of straight porn. An image of a woman with big tits getting her pussy licked by some random dude made Alrik wince. Nope—still gay, so that wasn’t the problem.

The door to his office opened. Angel, the baby of the agency and the boss’s favourite, stuck his head in. "Nero needs to see you in the conference room."

Alrik’s mood immediately lightened. "Client?"

Angel nodded. "Don’t get too excited. It’s a woman."

"Hell, as long as I can get out of this office, I don’t care who it is." Alrik pulled his suit jacket off the back of the desk chair and put it on.

Angel stared at the mountain view through the wall of glass. "Could be worse. Nero worked hard to get us this building and location."

Leave it to Angel to get offended on behalf of their boss and saviour. Kiss-ass. "Don’t get your panties in a wad. Shifters aren’t meant to be inside all the time, especially Chameleons. That’s all I was trying to say." Alrik straightened his jacket.

Despite Angel’s small, five-six stature, he didn’t back down. He opened the door and gestured to Nero’s office. "He’s waiting."

Alrik grinned as he passed. It was well known inside the C-Squad that Angel, or Mouse as most of them called him, was more than smitten with Nero. Unfortunately, Nero was either too blind or too stupid to take advantage of the hot little Spaniard.

Alrik knocked on the conference room door and waited.

"Come in," Nero called.

Alrik stepped into the room and gave the female client a slight bow.

"Alrik, I’d like you to meet Beth Cook," Nero introduced. "Ms Cook, this is one of our best C-7 agents."

"Nice to meet you." Alrik shook Beth’s hand before taking a seat at the table.

"And you," she replied.

"Ms Cook’s brother, Dr Benjamin Cook, received photos from an aerial photographer of a large pack of Mexican grey wolves near Logan, Utah. Because Dr Cook has devoted his life to bringing the wolves back from the brink of extinction, he wants to find and study them." Nero sat back in his chair. "A year ago, he was hot on their trail when he was shot and nearly killed." He gestured to Beth. "According to Ms Cook, Dr Cook is planning to try again, and she’d like our agency to make sure he’s safe."

Alrik had to state the obvious. "Utah’s too far north for Mexican grey wolves."

Nero met Alrik’s gaze. "Yes, it is."

Wolf shifters. The C-7 squad had to walk a fine line when dealing with members of their own kind. The world knew shifters existed and had tried more than once to round them up for extermination and scientific research. If there were wolf shifters in the mountains outside Logan, Utah, Alrik would bet they didn’t want to be discovered.

"I’ve already explained to Ms Cook what we may be dealing with, and she has agreed to talk to her brother about the possibilities that exist," Nero further explained.

"I won’t allow them to be exposed," Alrik stated.

"My brother has spent his entire adult life fighting for the survival of the species. All he wants is a chance to study them and count their numbers."

"If they turn out to, indeed, be Mexican greys, I’ll allow that. But he has to be willing to walk away if they turn out to be shifters. Until I get that promise, he’s on his own." Alrik rubbed the back of his neck. There were only seven of his kind left, so he took the extinction of a shifter population very seriously and would die to protect them, even from his own client if it came to that.

Alrik stood and held out his hand. "It was nice to meet you, Ms Cook." He started to leave, but Nero called him back.

"Alrik! Be prepared to leave in two days."

Alrik nodded as he eased the door shut on his way out. He stopped by Gowon’s office and stuck his head inside. "Got a minute?"

"Sure," Gowon replied, his voice so deep he was often hard to understand.

Excerpt From: Always Christmas in Lincoln

I have to walk past Ho, Ho, Ho! every day and I don’t understand it. It’s the middle of July and the window is filled with Christmas trees, tinsel and snow. It’s been like that since last Christmas and will be like that next Christmas and it won’t change much in between. Funny thing is that tourists and locals alike flock to that place all year round.

They’ll laugh when they go past, maybe even exclaim their shock, but moments later they’ll be in there and, nine times out of ten, they’ll exit with a holly-patterned bag in hand. I’ve never been in. I hate Christmas at Christmas time and I sure as hell don’t want to be reminded of its existence every damn day, but to get to my quirky vintage boutique I have to walk past the place. I find it depressing.

Most people accept it because the shop used to be empty and an empty shop in Lincoln is not to be tolerated. It looked scruffy and locals did not like that one bit. I don’t count myself a local, though. I only moved into the area a year ago, from the far less glamorous Wirral. All right, so I come from Birkenhead, but thankfully I don’t have that Scouse screech - my parents brought me up a whole lot posher than that. In their world, we lived in Cheshire - after all, that’s what the postcode indicated.

I’d visited Lincoln with my mum on one of those weekend coach trips. I’d treated her for her sixtieth birthday and I’d fallen in love with the place. The cathedral is dramatic and dominant, as is the castle, and everything in between is so quaint and ‘olde worlde’. The high street is less picturesque, but I avoid going down that end of the hill as much as I possibly can.

Yes - there is no escaping the hill, I’m afraid, and many people huff and puff and come to a stop outside my window on Steep Hill, pretending to be interested in my stock when really they just want a breather before they take on the rest of the slope. I find that it works out very well for me, since many of these people actually come in and purchase something once they’ve got their breath back.

I love the range of people I meet in my little boutique. It never ceases to amaze me how many people from all over the world I have buying things in my shop on a weekly basis. I can virtually guarantee I’ll see a German, an American, someone who’s Chinese and a Scottish person every week - close to every day, in fact. Lincoln is a massively popular tourist destination.

As I opened up on that bright, sunny morning, I smiled. I loved my job. I sourced clothing from all over the country, along with jewellery and knick-knacks with a vintage feel. I get to pick and choose things I like and fill my shop with them. I don’t sell a thing that I don’t love and that makes for one very happy shopkeeper, I can tell you.

I say shop like it’s something impressive but it’s not a particularly huge one. The building is pretty ancient - not quite as old as some of the other buildings along this cobbled street, but still old enough to have been around when Shakespeare was bigger than X Factor. I felt the age of the place like a comforting blanket the first time I came to visit. I knew I wanted it the moment I walked in the door and, although small, it’s perfectly formed for what I need.

I’m lucky - my parents gave me capital to set up my business. However, I pay them back a significant sum each month and so I have to work hard to ensure I make enough money to pay them and keep a roof over my own head - which, believe me, is hard work.

I set about sorting out my stock and putting a float into my till and all the other daily routines I do.

I like routine. I like everything to happen just so and at the right time. I’m not a fan of surprises; I’m not terribly impulsive. All of which probably explains why I haven’t been on a date in more years than I care to remember, and why I was lonely. I was. I was mostly happy on my own. I could do what I wanted, how I wanted and when I wanted, but some nights I did just long for somebody to snuggle up to. Someone to share my dreams with.

Excerpt From: Always the Quiet Ones

"So I’ll see you guys later in the week?"

Nicola shrugged on her jacket, looking from one of her closest friends to the other. Dana smiled and nodded, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. Lee gave her the barest of nods, stoic as always, then sneaked a stray fry from Dana’s plate while she wasn’t looking.

Nic laughed. "Okay, I better get back to the office. I’ll catch you guys later."

Dana watched Nicola go, eyes drawn irresistibly to her swaying hips. A sharp slap on her hand brought her attention back to her remaining companion. "Lee! What was that for?"

"Checking out Nic." It wasn’t as though either of them was dating her, but Lee had always been protective of the impish girl he’d gone through school with. Without waiting for Dana’s reply, he reached for the cheque the waitress had left on their table. Conversation over.

Only that had never worked with Dana.

"I’ve seen you doing the same thing, lots of times," she protested, pulling cash from her purse.

Lee fixed her with one of his patented stares, but she was undeterred. "Not to mention the way you look at me..."

"Your point, Dana?" he asked, snapping out the syllables of her name. Surely by this point he knew exactly what was going through her mind and was just treading carefully in case he was wrong.

Nicola was the connection between them; she and Dana used to work at the same company, and Lee and Nicola had known each other since they were at high school. Dana wasn’t sure whether Lee liked her as a person, or whether he just tolerated her because of Nic, but she knew one thing—he wanted her. Wanted them both.

And what girl wouldn’t want Lee? Dana knew Nicola had for a while, but refused to act on it out of fear of damaging their friendship. And Dana herself? Well...she wouldn’t say no. To either of them.

She had to get the two of them together somehow—she was sick of being piggy-in-the-middle, watching them shoot longing glances at each other when they thought no one was looking. The trouble was, she wasn’t sure exactly how to go about it.

Feeling reckless, she said, "I just wanna know if you’re thinking what I’m thinking."

Excerpt From: Of Crimson and Collars

Ben awoke to soft lips kissing their way down his chest, and he opened his eyes, growling.

Katie smiled and moved lower, licking him. �Um�good you�re awake,� she whispered and kissed the tip of his now turgid cock.

�So it would seem,� he rasped groggily, narrowing his eyes at her. �Why aren�t you in your box?�

She pouted. �You didn�t tell me to leave last night, lover. I thought I would surprise you,� she said as she licked a slow line up his shaft. �You like when I use my mouth on you, so I am.�

�So you are, pet.� He smirked down at her, all traces of sleep fading fast. He stroked over her soft hair. Kate was a perky little blonde thing, but she would need to learn her place soon. Human pets often did. The only thing Ben hated more than pawing was being woken up. It was his own fault for not putting her back in her box, which was more of a small room, when he�d finished playing with her the night before. It wasn�t a mistake he�d make again or one that he�d readily admit to making. She�d have to be punished for this, a task that, with her hot mouth working him so sweetly, he was more than ready to take on.

She smiled again and slipped down his shaft completely then came back up slowly, sucking sweetly but firmly on him. She pulled off his cock with a pop and licked her lips. �Does this please you, my darling?�

�Less talking, more sucking,� he growled, pushing her mouth back down his turgid cock.

She set to work, moaning and humming as she palmed his sac. She was enjoying herself, luxuriating in the feel of him in her mouth.

�This is about me, not you,� he instructed, pinching her nose with one hand. The other drove her head further down his shaft. �I told you there were rules,� he drawled lazily. He pumped himself deep into the back of her throat, enjoying the suction every airless gasp for breath that she made. �Countless ones. You dare wake me then make it up to me by giving lazy head?� He shook his head, disgusted, ripping her off him and pushing her further back on the bed. �On your knees.�

She shivered and nodded, doing as he asked, and licked her lips. On all fours, she knew better then to make him give her more direction. She lowered her shoulders to the bed and put her ass higher in the air and let her legs part ever so slightly. Her pussy glistened with her ever-growing juices, waiting for him.

�I don�t make you stay here, you know,� he told her, moving up behind her and stroking over her soft fleshy ass. �You can leave any time you want.� He waited to hear her response.

�I�I don�t want to. I need you�� she moaned and wiggled her rump at his attentions. �You�you�re everything.�

�Of course, I am, but there are rules to follow if you want to stay with me. I�ve already explained them to you, and I hate repeating myself.� He knew she wouldn�t leave, she couldn�t, and they never did. One taste of him, and women couldn�t refuse him, some trick of genetics nobody quite understood.

His mother had been a Strigo, a royal, time demon. Ben had inherited all her time abilities. As for his father, well, that was another story. Since his mother had abandoned him on the court steps, no one was really sure what he was. Neither mother nor father was around to answer any questions that he might have had, and Ben did have them, a lot of them.

�Forgive me. I�m sorry, my darling. Please�please, don�t send me away. I will fade without you.�

�I�m not going to do that just yet,� he warned, not dismissing the idea right away. New pets were always a chore. �But you�ll have to prove to me that you want to be in my bed, pet. Tell me, what do you think would be a fitting punishment?�

�Anything you wish to bestow on me, my darling. Anything,� she panted and shuddered. �Only, don�t turn me away.�

�I�m not your darling, I�m your Master, and I want you to come up with a fitting punishment, or I�ll leave you on your own for two weeks to think one up.�

She whimpered and shook her head. �Please�� She frowned. �Deny me release? Or the use of those stunning tricks you pull with me,� she offered and bit her bottom lip, looking over her shoulder at him with pain-filled eyes.

�Very well,� he nodded, pleased with her answer. �Don�t you dare come, or I promise you, you�ll be out.� He moved up behind her, slapping her ass hard and leaving a red imprint.

She gasped and nodded, closing her eyes, but before she did, he spied a small look of relief in them. �Anything, Master. I shall endeavour to obey you in all things. Your pleasure is my own.�

�A much better attitude.� He smiled proudly, stepping up behind her. �Now, be a good girl, and don�t disappoint me.� He took his cock, guiding it into her slick heat.

She shivered as she always did as he entered her and gasped as he reached the hilt of his body and hers. She moved slowly, knowing how he liked to play, rolling her hips to give him room to manoeuvre.

Excerpt From: To Collar and Keep

Harlequin Donahue�s desk was strewn with textbooks, legal pads and highlighters, and he sneered at it. His father, Boris Donahue, clan leader of the Rummer Satyr house, barked into the phone as he kept it away from his ear. He might be a Satyr, but his hearing was as precious to him as any normal person.

�Harlequin, you will be at the Olanis gathering early. The Grecian contingent is coming three days before and you must be present, no exceptions.�

He winced at the mention of his full name, rolled his eyes and sighed. While it wasn�t a problem for him to meet his future female, he did have other responsibilities he had to tend to. As a Rummer prince, he was charged with becoming a leading force in the scientific community, as all the rest of the clan elders before him. His area of expertise was physics, and while still young compared to most getting their doctorate, Harley was driven by the need to be the best and most powerful Satyr of the Rummer clan. That meant taking over the scientific department of Rummer International, his clan�s defence and aerospace firm, something he was more than prepared to do. Granted he got his degree. The fact that the Olanis celebrations were less than two weeks away and his finals were this week, the stress was unbelievable. Throw on top of that, meeting his intended, and he was stressed, pent up and pissed off. Who had time to fuck when they were trying to create the perfect future?

�Father, there isn�t a shot in hell of me not making the celebrations, let alone getting there late. But I do have a few things I need to close out before I get there, and I do have finals.�

�You�re a Satyr!� his father bellowed. �Do what you do best, fuck the grades outta them and get your ass there.�

�Would that it were possible, but even I have standards, and I�m not getting bound to any one of those buzzards, not to mention two of my professors are guys.� At his words Karina, his flavour of the year, sauntered in nude and came to kneel at his feet, smiling up at him.

She was beautiful, and very comely, but she wasn�t special enough to truly be a Satyr prince�s property. Lower Satyr maybe. Sure, she was tall with russet coloured hair, big hazel eyes, a perfect body and breasts, a mouth and lips made for sucking cock, not a mark on her latte coloured skin and a mind to rival half of the world�s Nobel Prize winners, but she wasn�t Beloved material for a prince such as he. No, Harley, like those before him, would have a Beloved, and wouldn�t settle for less than royalty. Which was probably why he agreed to the match with Arabella.

There was a possibility that he would bring Karina with him to the gathering, and pass her off to the congregation the first night of the celebrations. She would enjoy it, she was fully integrated as a pet, and he had cultivated her over the year just as an experiment. It wasn�t that he needed to, but the fact that he could was his driving force.

It wouldn�t be the first time a prince brought a living present for someone to master. He petted her hair and nodded, needing the distraction, and she quickly opened his pants and set to work sucking sweetly on his cock. She was good, and this was the limit on what he was allowing himself. He had no time to engage in his normal menu of carnal desires, so this would have to do. It was a damn good thing she sucked cock like a pro. He sighed and affected his bored expression, careful not to give her any form of praise, and turned his attention back to his father, who was still raving about his prior commitments.

�Harlequin, I don�t care what you have to do, get your ass to New York in five days� time!�

�Can do, Father. Where are we meeting?�

His father sighed. �Olanis this year is not at Belvedere Castle. After the summit and the issues that came up once Esben and Minerva left, Milton decided we would use Site B, so you will escort the contingent to New Paltz, New York, to Mohonk Mountain House. Arturo and his people will be meeting you at the Waldorf Astoria on Saturday afternoon, and you will be gracious and accommodating. Everything has been set up by way of transportation, just get them from the city to the hotel upstate so you can claim your place.�

Harley was rather aware of the bullshit that had transpired months before during the convergence summit with Esben and his Beloved, Minerva. He had heard Esben rail and complain about his now father-in-law�s arrogance for quite a while.

Milton was a jerk, and Esben had been plotting against the old codger ever since he and Minerva had left the summit early. Esben really hated Milton, mostly for his assumptions and arrogance, which was amusing considering Esben�s own monster ego. No doubt word had gotten out to the European Satyrs, and they smelled dissention within the American clans, especially with the Olanis celebrations pushed to the spring months, and Harley knew his father did not want the alliance he and Arturo had been cultivating for the better part of twenty-five years compromised by Milton�s nefarious plans.

�Understood. Now if you don�t mind, I have something here that requires my attention.�

�Better be someone and not something, Harlequin,� Boris growled with frustration. He always thought Harley spent more time between the pages of a book than between the legs of a willing woman.

His father hung up, and Harley closed his eyes enjoying the soft suction from his pet servicing him. Yes, he thought. Her talents shouldn�t go to waste. She will have to come with me.

This was going to be tight. If he timed it just right, he would be able to finish his last exam and get him and Karina on the family jet before Friday. He was going to make it by the skin of his teeth, but nothing worth it was easy.

Excerpt From: Ample Delights

"Terrah, can you add a few more sparkles to Jocelyn’s eye makeup?"

"My pleasure. Can you look up for me?" Terrah asked Jocelyn. She ignored the model’s bored sigh as she began to apply more blue rhinestones around her eyes.

The blonde bombshell could be a pain to work with, but today she was worse than usual.

Biting back a sigh of her own, Terrah dusted her brush on her hand before applying more of the smoky bronze eyeshadow to highlight Jocelyn’s blue eyes.

"How’s this?" Terrah asked, turning to Michelle.

The art director had been instrumental in helping Terrah build her portfolio when she’d first started by recommending her to other clients. Terrah had snagged some of the best jobs of her career because of Michelle’s confidence in and praise for her work.

"Perfect!" Michelle looked at her watch. "We start shooting in twenty minutes."

"Perfect," Jocelyn muttered as she scrutinised her appearance in the mirror. She got up from her chair, stunning in the couture evening gown that clung to her slender form, and walked away.

Michelle frowned. "She’s in a mood today."

"I couldn’t tell."

Her sarcasm wasn’t lost on the art director, and they both chuckled as Terrah stored her brushes.

"You’d think she’d be in a great mood"—Michelle shook her head as she fiddled with her iPad—"especially since she’s working with Nick today."

Nick Tasso.

Everyone in the world of fashion knew his name. He was one of the most sought-after male models in the business. Tabloid pictures of Nick and Jocelyn kissing in a club had circulated in entertainment news for months. Today would be Terrah’s first time working with him.

"Speak of the gorgeous devil..."

Terrah glanced up from her makeup case to see Nick approaching them. Her heart skipped a beat as her gaze skated over the Greek model.

Lawd, have mercy.

Nick Tasso was beyond gorgeous. Dressed in an elegant tux, he was positively lethal to any female with a pulse, and Terrah’s was racing. He was sexier in person than on the magazine pages she’d never admit to having stared at before arriving at the studio. His thick, dark brown hair gleamed almost black in the studio. He had beautiful...no, mesmerising green eyes framed by long, sooty lashes on a profile the gods had surely chiselled with love, by hand. Terrah loved the way his olive skin contrasted perfectly with the pristine white tuxedo shirt, which he wore open, revealing taut abs beneath. His dark good looks belonged on the glossy pages of magazines, to be seen and adored by women all over the world.

Adored and ogled.

Terrah cursed under her breath, annoyed by her thoughts. She was used to working in close proximity with beautiful females and males. It was her job, and not once had she been physically attracted to a model.

Until today.

"Ready for me?" Nick asked, flashing them both a brilliant smile before turning his green eyes on Terrah.

His deep voice reminded her of warm leather, strong and soothing to the senses.

"I am." Terrah patted the chair beside her. "Have a seat here."

"You’ll be in good hands with Terrah."

Michelle winked at her as Nick sat down. The art director walked off, and Terrah ignored the flutter of butterflies in her stomach as she fished around in her makeup case for the right powder for Nick. She selected a sponge for application, then pivoted on her heels to find Adonis looking right at her.

And that would be because you’re right in his face.

"This won’t take long. Can you take off your shirt? I don’t want to get makeup on it."

"No problem."

Terrah stepped out of his way as he stood up to shrug out of his tuxedo jacket and shirt. Her pulse quickened as her eyes swept over hard, defined muscles. She met his eyes and knew, finally knew, what it meant to be spellbound by a man.

How could she have thought his eyes were simply green? They were aqua green.

Like the ocean.

Terrah straightened her back, annoyed by the flash of heat running up her neck to her cheeks. She prided herself on being a seasoned professional, unaffected by the plethora of male goodness she often found herself surrounded by. Besides, she refused to mentally moon over a pretty-boy model, especially one dating someone as vapid and annoying as Jocelyn. He was obviously into boring, bone-skinny blondes.

Terrah pressed the sponge to Nick’s face and quickly blended the foundation into his skin. It took all of her energy to focus on her task and not the strong line of his jaw or his ripped abs she lightly dusted. She was almost done when Jocelyn rounded the small partition in front of Terrah’s workspace.

"Nick, we need to talk."

"Not now, Jocelyn."

Excerpt From: Ample Delights

"Terrah, can you add a few more sparkles to Jocelyn’s eye makeup?"

"My pleasure. Can you look up for me?" Terrah asked Jocelyn. She ignored the model’s bored sigh as she began to apply more blue rhinestones around her eyes.

The blonde bombshell could be a pain to work with, but today she was worse than usual.

Biting back a sigh of her own, Terrah dusted her brush on her hand before applying more of the smoky bronze eyeshadow to highlight Jocelyn’s blue eyes.

"How’s this?" Terrah asked, turning to Michelle.

The art director had been instrumental in helping Terrah build her portfolio when she’d first started by recommending her to other clients. Terrah had snagged some of the best jobs of her career because of Michelle’s confidence in and praise for her work.

"Perfect!" Michelle looked at her watch. "We start shooting in twenty minutes."

"Perfect," Jocelyn muttered as she scrutinised her appearance in the mirror. She got up from her chair, stunning in the couture evening gown that clung to her slender form, and walked away.

Michelle frowned. "She’s in a mood today."

"I couldn’t tell."

Her sarcasm wasn’t lost on the art director, and they both chuckled as Terrah stored her brushes.

"You’d think she’d be in a great mood"—Michelle shook her head as she fiddled with her iPad—"especially since she’s working with Nick today."

Nick Tasso.

Everyone in the world of fashion knew his name. He was one of the most sought-after male models in the business. Tabloid pictures of Nick and Jocelyn kissing in a club had circulated in entertainment news for months. Today would be Terrah’s first time working with him.

"Speak of the gorgeous devil..."

Terrah glanced up from her makeup case to see Nick approaching them. Her heart skipped a beat as her gaze skated over the Greek model.

Lawd, have mercy.

Nick Tasso was beyond gorgeous. Dressed in an elegant tux, he was positively lethal to any female with a pulse, and Terrah’s was racing. He was sexier in person than on the magazine pages she’d never admit to having stared at before arriving at the studio. His thick, dark brown hair gleamed almost black in the studio. He had beautiful...no, mesmerising green eyes framed by long, sooty lashes on a profile the gods had surely chiselled with love, by hand. Terrah loved the way his olive skin contrasted perfectly with the pristine white tuxedo shirt, which he wore open, revealing taut abs beneath. His dark good looks belonged on the glossy pages of magazines, to be seen and adored by women all over the world.

Adored and ogled.

Terrah cursed under her breath, annoyed by her thoughts. She was used to working in close proximity with beautiful females and males. It was her job, and not once had she been physically attracted to a model.

Until today.

"Ready for me?" Nick asked, flashing them both a brilliant smile before turning his green eyes on Terrah.

His deep voice reminded her of warm leather, strong and soothing to the senses.

"I am." Terrah patted the chair beside her. "Have a seat here."

"You’ll be in good hands with Terrah."

Michelle winked at her as Nick sat down. The art director walked off, and Terrah ignored the flutter of butterflies in her stomach as she fished around in her makeup case for the right powder for Nick. She selected a sponge for application, then pivoted on her heels to find Adonis looking right at her.

And that would be because you’re right in his face.

"This won’t take long. Can you take off your shirt? I don’t want to get makeup on it."

"No problem."

Terrah stepped out of his way as he stood up to shrug out of his tuxedo jacket and shirt. Her pulse quickened as her eyes swept over hard, defined muscles. She met his eyes and knew, finally knew, what it meant to be spellbound by a man.

How could she have thought his eyes were simply green? They were aqua green.

Like the ocean.

Terrah straightened her back, annoyed by the flash of heat running up her neck to her cheeks. She prided herself on being a seasoned professional, unaffected by the plethora of male goodness she often found herself surrounded by. Besides, she refused to mentally moon over a pretty-boy model, especially one dating someone as vapid and annoying as Jocelyn. He was obviously into boring, bone-skinny blondes.

Terrah pressed the sponge to Nick’s face and quickly blended the foundation into his skin. It took all of her energy to focus on her task and not the strong line of his jaw or his ripped abs she lightly dusted. She was almost done when Jocelyn rounded the small partition in front of Terrah’s workspace.

"Nick, we need to talk."

"Not now, Jocelyn."

Excerpt From: Amply Rewarded

Glendale

I grew up in Glendale, Idaho, miles from anywhere that mattered and whole states away from the cities I dreamed of. Other kids grew up collecting the usual objects-stuffed animals, stamps, stickers. I didn’t care for any of that. I collected money. Once I had enough of it, I reckoned, I would have a ticket out and that mattered more to me than any toy ever could. Until then, I would placate myself with soap operas.

Houses on farms are measured differently than houses in the city. Ours, it seemed, was majestic. Even though I’d never been to any big cities, or any cities outside Idaho, I knew that everything was different there. There was no shortage of people who confirmed that fact-it’s just that they always assumed they were preaching to the converted. "Glendale is a great place to raise a family," they’d say.

My sister, Faith, and I did not have many playmates. Glendale is an isolated farming village, and no one ever came to visit. We were miles off the main road that was miles off the main interstate highway. Our social life consisted of the church and each other.

But, at home, we had it all. There was a beautiful pond, over which my father had constructed a swing that was ours alone. Our mother was a fantastic baker and, since we lived in the midst of the finest orchards, she made decadent pies and tarts all summer long. Her happiness came from serving my father and us. I didn’t have the heart to deprive her of that desire so I never offered to help. My sister, who loved to seem more selfless than me, would rush into the kitchen in the morning and find out what was on the agenda. If it was blueberry pie, she would grab the basket that my mother usually used, throw on a smock and scurry down to the bushes to pick the berries. Her seeming servitude disgusted me. I knew that she did what she did so that my mother would call her a good little girl and ask her to sit on the kitchen counter while she rolled the pie shells. They would both cast knowing glances my way when the time came to eat pie, as though all along they had wanted my help and I had withheld it. I never deprived anyone of anything that they didn’t willingly give up.

But, in those days of summer, I had better things to do. Most of my day I spent on the swing my father had built, which my sister complained I greedily hoarded. At any time she could have claimed it as her own, but she never did. She preferred life in the kitchen, on my mother’s tail, to fending for herself outside with me.

The time alone served me well. Every summer, I made it my goal to collect as much money as I could into my hidden tin. Mostly, this meant keeping the little gifts given to me by the produce dealers who drove out to our farm to buy our famous fruits and vegetables. We had a stand out front that my father’s apprentices usually tended, but that I sometimes took care of. When I was there, the older men that pulled up would slow down before stopping and peer out of the window at me in my white summer dress. They always found something to give me and tried to win my favour with gifts.

My sister and the other girls from church were afraid of men, but I never understood their fear. I suppose it was my boldness that paid off in the end. It wasn’t their offering but my boldness to ask that filled my tin every summer with more and more money that I kept hidden from everyone.

Sometimes they would pay me just a tiny bit more than the total they owed, and would flash me a smile and tell me that they enjoyed my service more than my father’s or that of his hired help. I’d smile and nod and, when the truck pulled away on the old dirt road, I’d put the little token in my pocket and think about how much more my tin contained. It was amazing what men would do to make a little girl smile.

There are several types of men, and I learned to identify them and use their weaknesses against them. Some men responded to outright professionalism, like my father’s friend Frank. He had raised five boys, all long gone now, and with his wife gone too, he came out to our farm for my mom’s baking. I was straightforward with him. I’d walk right up to him and say, "Hello, Frank. Can I have a dollar?" The first time, it caught him off guard.

"What if I don’t have a dollar?" He patted the top of my head.

"Hmm, well, I know you have a bill clip in your pocket, because you leave a few dollars on my mom’s windowsill for the pies every week. So I know they’re in there and I’m just asking if I can have one." I was reasonable and forthright.

"And what if I ask you what you’re going to spend it on?"

"I’d say I’m saving it."

"For what?"

"For my future."

He laughed. "Oh, well, aren’t you clever?" he said, and patted my head once more. Then he handed over a faded-yet perfectly fine-dollar bill and shook my hand. He found me amusing and never denied me the dollar. Over the years it became our ritual. It was his toll fee, and I held out my hand and nodded my head with the kind of authority that I’d seen officials use on television. We both laughed, and I filled a whole tin with Frank’s crumpled dollar bills.

By the time I got a little older, I became obsessed with the idea of leaving Glendale to become a rich lady, like the kind they showed on daytime television. The women that lived dangerous lives in exciting cities. The women who woke up to vanities and dozens of the finest department store perfumes.

There was no such thing in Glendale. My mom had an old bottle of perfume that smelt of lily of the valley and an even older bottle of a musky perfume with the label worn off. She’d had these for as long as I could remember and, even though she never used them, they were prominently displayed on her bedside table, like coveted jewels.

I wanted nothing to do with my parents’ lives. My dad wanted to show me how to run the business. I was the daughter of choice to take over after him, and I was flattered. I didn’t know how I would tell him-but I knew I would eventually have to-that I was going to move to the coast, to San Francisco or Los Angeles or New York, and I was going to make it big. Of course, I said nothing.

On Sundays, my father would haul us off to church in his pickup. My parents sat in the front of the truck’s cabin, Faith and I sat in the back on the folding benches and the workers sat in the very back, outside the cabin. This order meant something to my dad. In my father’s household, everyone knew their place. The man was the head of the household and everyone passively accepted that, except me.

The church itself jutted out of the landscape in the most unnatural way, with an enormous cross that stretched up to the sky, serving to remind the parishioners of how small we ordinary people are compared to the greatness of the church. The minister disgusted me. He was an old, lecherous man who spat as he preached to his tiny congregation and seemed to feel superior to all of us. His favourite subject was greed, and he would go on and on about how content we should all be with little. How humble we should be. Of course this did not stop him from asking my mother, who could never say no to a minister, to supply baked goods every Sunday to the social that followed the sermon. There were only twenty or so women in the congregation and my mother was the best baker by far. Faith was happy with the arrangement because it meant that she could spend every Saturday with my mother. If she could, my sister would still have been nursing at my mother’s breast back then, when she was eleven and twelve and thirteen. And my mother, downtrodden by all her lost dreams and the life that surrounded her, was flattered by my sister’s supplication.

Excerpt From: Amply Rewarded

Glendale

I grew up in Glendale, Idaho, miles from anywhere that mattered and whole states away from the cities I dreamed of. Other kids grew up collecting the usual objects-stuffed animals, stamps, stickers. I didn’t care for any of that. I collected money. Once I had enough of it, I reckoned, I would have a ticket out and that mattered more to me than any toy ever could. Until then, I would placate myself with soap operas.

Houses on farms are measured differently than houses in the city. Ours, it seemed, was majestic. Even though I’d never been to any big cities, or any cities outside Idaho, I knew that everything was different there. There was no shortage of people who confirmed that fact-it’s just that they always assumed they were preaching to the converted. "Glendale is a great place to raise a family," they’d say.

My sister, Faith, and I did not have many playmates. Glendale is an isolated farming village, and no one ever came to visit. We were miles off the main road that was miles off the main interstate highway. Our social life consisted of the church and each other.

But, at home, we had it all. There was a beautiful pond, over which my father had constructed a swing that was ours alone. Our mother was a fantastic baker and, since we lived in the midst of the finest orchards, she made decadent pies and tarts all summer long. Her happiness came from serving my father and us. I didn’t have the heart to deprive her of that desire so I never offered to help. My sister, who loved to seem more selfless than me, would rush into the kitchen in the morning and find out what was on the agenda. If it was blueberry pie, she would grab the basket that my mother usually used, throw on a smock and scurry down to the bushes to pick the berries. Her seeming servitude disgusted me. I knew that she did what she did so that my mother would call her a good little girl and ask her to sit on the kitchen counter while she rolled the pie shells. They would both cast knowing glances my way when the time came to eat pie, as though all along they had wanted my help and I had withheld it. I never deprived anyone of anything that they didn’t willingly give up.

But, in those days of summer, I had better things to do. Most of my day I spent on the swing my father had built, which my sister complained I greedily hoarded. At any time she could have claimed it as her own, but she never did. She preferred life in the kitchen, on my mother’s tail, to fending for herself outside with me.

The time alone served me well. Every summer, I made it my goal to collect as much money as I could into my hidden tin. Mostly, this meant keeping the little gifts given to me by the produce dealers who drove out to our farm to buy our famous fruits and vegetables. We had a stand out front that my father’s apprentices usually tended, but that I sometimes took care of. When I was there, the older men that pulled up would slow down before stopping and peer out of the window at me in my white summer dress. They always found something to give me and tried to win my favour with gifts.

My sister and the other girls from church were afraid of men, but I never understood their fear. I suppose it was my boldness that paid off in the end. It wasn’t their offering but my boldness to ask that filled my tin every summer with more and more money that I kept hidden from everyone.

Sometimes they would pay me just a tiny bit more than the total they owed, and would flash me a smile and tell me that they enjoyed my service more than my father’s or that of his hired help. I’d smile and nod and, when the truck pulled away on the old dirt road, I’d put the little token in my pocket and think about how much more my tin contained. It was amazing what men would do to make a little girl smile.

There are several types of men, and I learned to identify them and use their weaknesses against them. Some men responded to outright professionalism, like my father’s friend Frank. He had raised five boys, all long gone now, and with his wife gone too, he came out to our farm for my mom’s baking. I was straightforward with him. I’d walk right up to him and say, "Hello, Frank. Can I have a dollar?" The first time, it caught him off guard.

"What if I don’t have a dollar?" He patted the top of my head.

"Hmm, well, I know you have a bill clip in your pocket, because you leave a few dollars on my mom’s windowsill for the pies every week. So I know they’re in there and I’m just asking if I can have one." I was reasonable and forthright.

"And what if I ask you what you’re going to spend it on?"

"I’d say I’m saving it."

"For what?"

"For my future."

He laughed. "Oh, well, aren’t you clever?" he said, and patted my head once more. Then he handed over a faded-yet perfectly fine-dollar bill and shook my hand. He found me amusing and never denied me the dollar. Over the years it became our ritual. It was his toll fee, and I held out my hand and nodded my head with the kind of authority that I’d seen officials use on television. We both laughed, and I filled a whole tin with Frank’s crumpled dollar bills.

By the time I got a little older, I became obsessed with the idea of leaving Glendale to become a rich lady, like the kind they showed on daytime television. The women that lived dangerous lives in exciting cities. The women who woke up to vanities and dozens of the finest department store perfumes.

There was no such thing in Glendale. My mom had an old bottle of perfume that smelt of lily of the valley and an even older bottle of a musky perfume with the label worn off. She’d had these for as long as I could remember and, even though she never used them, they were prominently displayed on her bedside table, like coveted jewels.

I wanted nothing to do with my parents’ lives. My dad wanted to show me how to run the business. I was the daughter of choice to take over after him, and I was flattered. I didn’t know how I would tell him-but I knew I would eventually have to-that I was going to move to the coast, to San Francisco or Los Angeles or New York, and I was going to make it big. Of course, I said nothing.

On Sundays, my father would haul us off to church in his pickup. My parents sat in the front of the truck’s cabin, Faith and I sat in the back on the folding benches and the workers sat in the very back, outside the cabin. This order meant something to my dad. In my father’s household, everyone knew their place. The man was the head of the household and everyone passively accepted that, except me.

The church itself jutted out of the landscape in the most unnatural way, with an enormous cross that stretched up to the sky, serving to remind the parishioners of how small we ordinary people are compared to the greatness of the church. The minister disgusted me. He was an old, lecherous man who spat as he preached to his tiny congregation and seemed to feel superior to all of us. His favourite subject was greed, and he would go on and on about how content we should all be with little. How humble we should be. Of course this did not stop him from asking my mother, who could never say no to a minister, to supply baked goods every Sunday to the social that followed the sermon. There were only twenty or so women in the congregation and my mother was the best baker by far. Faith was happy with the arrangement because it meant that she could spend every Saturday with my mother. If she could, my sister would still have been nursing at my mother’s breast back then, when she was eleven and twelve and thirteen. And my mother, downtrodden by all her lost dreams and the life that surrounded her, was flattered by my sister’s supplication.

Excerpt From: Amuse Me

Wilmington, North Carolina

I sat at my computer stuck in a writing rut and listening to the Eagles on my iPod. My boyfriend had left me at the same time I was due to turn in my latest erotic romance to my editor—and I had nothing.

I massaged my temples hoping something would strike a chord in my brain. A mere spark of an idea that would be fun to write, fun to read and leaving my fans breathless and begging for more. The more I thought about it, the harder it was to convert my thoughts to the blank computer screen.

The blinking curser mocked me as I stared at the white page. Dammit, Rich may have fucked my life up but he wasn’t going to take a way my passion for writing. I wouldn’t let him, no matter what it cost.

In high school, young love blooms like tulips in the spring—sometimes developing into loving, lasting relationships and sometimes setting one up for heartache. Rich, I thought, would be the loving lasting relationship kind of guy but, boy, was I wrong. We’d dated throughout high school and college. I’d heard sex changed the relationship, but I was stupid and naive. Rich was a sexual being and aroused feelings within me no other man had. If only those feelings had been mutual.

I’m twenty-five years old and it took me seven years to discover the man I’d thought I loved—the mushy, gushy kind of love—had cheated on me. Not once or twice—no that was too easy. He’d fucked every girl he’d come in contact with.

For six months he’d been out of my life, yet he still haunted my dreams. I’d found out two days ago, from my best friend, that his latest conquest was having his baby. The more I thought about it, the more I hated him. I wanted payback. I needed it for some weird reason.

I started typing, letting my anger fuel the words on paper, my fingers flying across the keyboard as my thoughts sputtered from my brain. For once in my life,

I was taking all the writing advice I’d thought was crap and putting it to good use. I wrote what I knew.

I made my real life story an act of fiction.

A few hours later I’d plotted, planned and brainstormed about all the events I’d experienced and a few from my imagination as well. I had a five-page plan of events, a storyline and the perfect ending. Funny, how something so obvious was hidden right under my nose.

My side of the story mixed with a little imagination would be my vengeance. After all, paybacks always were hell…

Excerpt From: An Improbable Wolf

Jace speared a large piece of bacon with his fork and lifted it to his mouth. He was about to take a bite when the door to the mess hall burst open and Hal Peters, his second-in-command, rushed into the room. Hal was good at his job, but he could be over-excitable, like an enthusiastic puppy—highly strung and oh, so eager to please.

"Sir, we have a problem," Peters twittered.

Jace put down his fork and sighed. "What is it this time?"

"A report has just come in of another attack."

"So get a team assembled." Jace made a grab for his fork, but Peters didn't move from his position.

"Uh, that's not the problem," he said, shuffling nervously from foot to foot.

Jace drew his eyebrows together and waited. When Peters wasn't forthcoming with a reply, he asked, "Would you care to enlighten me?"

Hal's gaze darted around the room, purposely looking anywhere other than at Jace.

"I'm not a mind reader, Peters. Now would be good, before my breakfast gets cold, yeah?" Jace picked up his coffee and took a sip. It tasted like shit. Nothing unusual—he'd become used to drinking the garbage since he'd taken on the job in the desert sanctuary.

Hal chewed on his bottom lip. "The eyewitness report suggests the wolf was standing upright, sir."

Jace snorted coffee up his nose. When he'd finished coughing and spluttering, he glared at Hal. "Do I even need to tell you how ridiculous that sounds? You know as well as I do that 'wolf-men' are the stuff of fiction. Where did the reports come from?"

"Vegas, sir."

"Well, there you go. Probably some drunk who fell out of a casino or a junkie off his face on sludge."

"The doctor we spoke to said the witness is in pretty bad shape, sir. She said he was practically torn apart."

That got Jace's attention like nothing else. He might not give any credence to tales of werewolves that could walk around like humans, however if there was a wolf out there that was harming humans, let alone killing them, it was his job to bring them in. How they were punished wasn't up to him, but he'd yet to see anyone convicted of killing humans being allowed to live. Shifters that killed generally showed no remorse or had no regard for rules of any kind, and the sanctuary was all about the rules. The space inside the walls of the compound's prison was already limited so keeping prisoners was discouraged—a waste of time and resources.

"The witness is still alive then?"

Hal nodded. "He's being treated for lacerations at Sunrise Medical Centre. The doctor said he's not in a good way. They were able to question him when he arrived. However, he's lost a lot of blood and his injuries are bad. They don't know if he'll make it through the night, sir."

The metal legs of Jace's chair scraped across the concrete floor as he stood. "Get the men together—two teams. Be ready to leave in ten minutes."

"Yes, sir."

When Hal left the room, Jace carried his plate through to the kitchen and slammed it down on the counter top. "Goddamn it!"

Since the council elders had passed the vote three years ago for shifters to reveal themselves to humans, there had been more violent incidents than ever before. It seemed the humans would have been better off left in the dark, after all. They were scared, and scared humans were dangerous.

Vigilante groups had sought out packs and decimated them. Now it was the wolves that were running scared. Most packs had disbanded, but without the discipline of an alpha, the wolves were becoming dangerous—both to humans and to themselves. And that was just the wolves. The other supernatural species had never had the restraint of wolves because they'd never had an alpha to answer to and now they were even worse. Many saw humans as open targets. The world had changed so much in the past three years that it was practically unrecognisable—a war zone. Man against shifter…and anyone who got caught in the crossfire was just a casualty of that war.

As a result, the government had set up the shifter facility, deep in the heart of the Mojave Desert. The compound was huge, the size of a small town, and more shifters were arriving every day.

There were whispers that the base used to be what people referred to as Area 51. Naturally that was a rumour that would never be confirmed or denied by the government. If it was true, then they had decided to devote their time and manpower to species that were from closer to home. The government had named the facility the 'desert sanctuary'. Humans with a lot of anger and little imagination called the place 'hell'. To the many shifters who lived within its confines it was simply home.

The facility itself wasn't a prison, it was a safe haven—a place where shifters could live out their lives without looking over their shoulder every minute of the day. Jace was leader of the special ops task force that had been set up to capture shifters that had harmed humans and to clean up the mess they had left behind. Some of the shifters Jace brought back to the facility were punished. Some were able to be rehabilitated and integrated back into a pack, but the others…

Excerpt From: An Improper Wife

Newcastle, England, December 1798

Despite the crush of people that pressed into the intimate corner of the crowded ballroom, the din faded into the background when Lady Caroline Wilmont allowed the hooded blue domino to draw his cape close around them. She leant against the stone pillar and he rested a muscular arm above her head.

His costume wasn’t original-few at such masques were—but the piercing blue eyes staring back at her from behind the mask offered the hope she could forget the prison that awaited her tomorrow.

Guilt niggled. If her presence at the soiree was discovered...she commanded her nerves into submission. Responsibility be damned. She would leave before the assigned hour of two a.m. when the masks were to be removed. No one would know the future Viscountess of Blackhall had attended a masque. Tonight, she was simply one of the many masked women bent on seduction-and being seduced.

Caroline ducked her head, allowing the locks of her long blonde wig to fall to the sides of her face. A crescendo of violins rose from the orchestra. The beat of her heart matched the trilling vibrato. She turned her face just enough to be able to study her admirer through her lashes. His gaze boldly met hers, then dropped to the draped bodice of her Aphrodite costume. Warmth spread through her limbs and brought a flush to her cheeks.

The rich purple of the long sash around her neck contrasted with the stark white of the plunging décolletage designed to accentuate full breasts, bared to a hint of nipple pink. Her pulse skipped a beat. If she leant forward a hair’s breadth...

The crowd pressed closer, up the two steps that separated them from the dance floor. The masked gentleman’s leg brushed her thigh, revealed by the slit in the costume’s long skirt. She could scarcely believe her luck. A second move, and one so bold this early in the evening. The hour was just before midnight and the more prominent guests had yet to appear. If she had captured his imagination to the extent he would forsake other possibilities, this last night of freedom might cost less than the allotted two hours.

"Your beauty makes me forget my manners," the domino murmured.

She gave a low laugh. "I daresay your manners are impeccable-outside of this room."

His gaze locked onto her mouth. "Do you prefer impeccable manners?"

She drew her bottom lip between her teeth. His eyes darkened, and her heart skittered as he leant into her. Caroline slid around the pillar towards the wall, intending to draw him into a more intimate semblance of privacy. Her hip collided with rounded buttocks. She twisted to the right. A masked joker grinned at her over the head of the lady she had bumped into. He reached out with the hand that was wrapped around the woman’s waist and nipped at the skin just below Caroline’s breast.

She turned back around and got a mouthful of her domino’s hard chest. She snapped her head up, and blue eyes stared down at her in a blaze of desire. She froze as his mouth descended. Soft as velvet, his lips slid languidly over hers. He flicked his tongue against her lips and she breathed in the heavy aroma of cigars, and recognised the pungent taste of brandy. Her uncle smelt of brandy and cigars.

Uncle? She tensed, eyes locked on the domino’s shadowed features. His seductive kiss played on her lips. An unpleasant tremor fluttered in her stomach. Damn her uncle. She closed her eyes tight and focused on the warmth of the domino’s lips. A low groan rumbled from him. Strong, solid arms banded around her and pulled her closer. Caroline concentrated on the feel of her breasts flattened against the hard muscles of his chest. Why didn’t her heart pound, her breath catch, her body yearn for his touch?

Fear surfaced. No. She refused to believe what her betrothed, John, had said only two months before his death. Despite the fact he had come from yet another night of drinking, gaming, and carousing, the accusation that she was a passionless husk had cut deep. The cloying scent of perfume and tobacco that clung to him had reminded her that he felt no regret about going from one woman’s bed to another. But doubt lingered.

She forced back the memory. It wasn’t lack of desire that kept her from enjoying the domino, but the dread of discovery. Once they were alone, she would discover the ecstasy of his lust. Her heart beat faster with the memory of overhearing John speak of how a woman had driven him mad by sucking and licking his cock. She planned to drive this man wild and discover the part of her that ached for a man’s touch.

The domino deepened the kiss and Caroline envisioned him braced over her, hands on her bared breasts, his hard length rubbing against her pussy. Darker features and black hair unexpectedly replaced the fair-haired domino in her mind. A flicker of pleasure tightened her nipples and the desire streaked to the heated petals of her pussy.

Caroline clutched the domino’s shirt. His grip tightened as his tongue curled around hers, tasting, stroking. She slipped her hands between their bodies and pressed against his sternum. The firm, contoured muscles of his chest quivered beneath her fingertips. She liked this, would gladly take him, and yet, she had expected something more.

He drew back and trailed fingers over the thin material of her costume, grazing the edge of her breast. From the corner of her eye, Caroline caught sight of lush, blonde hair piled atop the head of a woman wearing a Marie Antoinette costume. She froze. Only one woman between Newcastle and London had such luscious hair that she needed no wig to play Marie Antoinette. Lady Margaret.

What was Margaret doing here? Earlier that afternoon, when her mama had asked her if she planned to attend the ball, she had claimed to have a headache. She’d told Caroline privately that she found the ton even more tiresome in Newcastle than she did in London. Caroline would never have dared attend the masque in London, where she was sure to be recognised. But her uncle had insisted at nearly the last minute that they oblige her future father-in-law and hold the wedding in the chapel on his estate. So here in Newcastle, she had little fear of getting caught at the party. Her heart sank. Now Margaret had destroyed her last chance for seduction. There was nothing left but to flee.

The blue domino leant forward and whispered in her ear, "Aphrodite."

His breath, warm and eager, brushed the tiny hairs on her skin. A shiver raced along her spine and made her scalp tingle. Yes. This she craved. Damn. Too late, all too late.

The domino withdrew enough to be able to look upon her face. "Perhaps we should find somewhere more private?"

If he had suggested that but five minutes ago! She would throttle Margaret. Caroline lifted a corner of her mouth in a half-smile. "Pray, sir, fetch me a punch. This room is a veritable sweatbox." She ran fingers over the swell of her breasts, wiping a trail in the sheen of perspiration beaded across her skin.

His gaze followed the action, eyes darkening before he returned his gaze to her face and gave a slight bow. "At your service."

Excerpt From: An Improper Wife

Newcastle, England, December 1798

Despite the crush of people that pressed into the intimate corner of the crowded ballroom, the din faded into the background when Lady Caroline Wilmont allowed the hooded blue domino to draw his cape close around them. She leant against the stone pillar and he rested a muscular arm above her head.

His costume wasn’t original-few at such masques were—but the piercing blue eyes staring back at her from behind the mask offered the hope she could forget the prison that awaited her tomorrow.

Guilt niggled. If her presence at the soiree was discovered...she commanded her nerves into submission. Responsibility be damned. She would leave before the assigned hour of two a.m. when the masks were to be removed. No one would know the future Viscountess of Blackhall had attended a masque. Tonight, she was simply one of the many masked women bent on seduction-and being seduced.

Caroline ducked her head, allowing the locks of her long blonde wig to fall to the sides of her face. A crescendo of violins rose from the orchestra. The beat of her heart matched the trilling vibrato. She turned her face just enough to be able to study her admirer through her lashes. His gaze boldly met hers, then dropped to the draped bodice of her Aphrodite costume. Warmth spread through her limbs and brought a flush to her cheeks.

The rich purple of the long sash around her neck contrasted with the stark white of the plunging décolletage designed to accentuate full breasts, bared to a hint of nipple pink. Her pulse skipped a beat. If she leant forward a hair’s breadth...

The crowd pressed closer, up the two steps that separated them from the dance floor. The masked gentleman’s leg brushed her thigh, revealed by the slit in the costume’s long skirt. She could scarcely believe her luck. A second move, and one so bold this early in the evening. The hour was just before midnight and the more prominent guests had yet to appear. If she had captured his imagination to the extent he would forsake other possibilities, this last night of freedom might cost less than the allotted two hours.

"Your beauty makes me forget my manners," the domino murmured.

She gave a low laugh. "I daresay your manners are impeccable-outside of this room."

His gaze locked onto her mouth. "Do you prefer impeccable manners?"

She drew her bottom lip between her teeth. His eyes darkened, and her heart skittered as he leant into her. Caroline slid around the pillar towards the wall, intending to draw him into a more intimate semblance of privacy. Her hip collided with rounded buttocks. She twisted to the right. A masked joker grinned at her over the head of the lady she had bumped into. He reached out with the hand that was wrapped around the woman’s waist and nipped at the skin just below Caroline’s breast.

She turned back around and got a mouthful of her domino’s hard chest. She snapped her head up, and blue eyes stared down at her in a blaze of desire. She froze as his mouth descended. Soft as velvet, his lips slid languidly over hers. He flicked his tongue against her lips and she breathed in the heavy aroma of cigars, and recognised the pungent taste of brandy. Her uncle smelt of brandy and cigars.

Uncle? She tensed, eyes locked on the domino’s shadowed features. His seductive kiss played on her lips. An unpleasant tremor fluttered in her stomach. Damn her uncle. She closed her eyes tight and focused on the warmth of the domino’s lips. A low groan rumbled from him. Strong, solid arms banded around her and pulled her closer. Caroline concentrated on the feel of her breasts flattened against the hard muscles of his chest. Why didn’t her heart pound, her breath catch, her body yearn for his touch?

Fear surfaced. No. She refused to believe what her betrothed, John, had said only two months before his death. Despite the fact he had come from yet another night of drinking, gaming, and carousing, the accusation that she was a passionless husk had cut deep. The cloying scent of perfume and tobacco that clung to him had reminded her that he felt no regret about going from one woman’s bed to another. But doubt lingered.

She forced back the memory. It wasn’t lack of desire that kept her from enjoying the domino, but the dread of discovery. Once they were alone, she would discover the ecstasy of his lust. Her heart beat faster with the memory of overhearing John speak of how a woman had driven him mad by sucking and licking his cock. She planned to drive this man wild and discover the part of her that ached for a man’s touch.

The domino deepened the kiss and Caroline envisioned him braced over her, hands on her bared breasts, his hard length rubbing against her pussy. Darker features and black hair unexpectedly replaced the fair-haired domino in her mind. A flicker of pleasure tightened her nipples and the desire streaked to the heated petals of her pussy.

Caroline clutched the domino’s shirt. His grip tightened as his tongue curled around hers, tasting, stroking. She slipped her hands between their bodies and pressed against his sternum. The firm, contoured muscles of his chest quivered beneath her fingertips. She liked this, would gladly take him, and yet, she had expected something more.

He drew back and trailed fingers over the thin material of her costume, grazing the edge of her breast. From the corner of her eye, Caroline caught sight of lush, blonde hair piled atop the head of a woman wearing a Marie Antoinette costume. She froze. Only one woman between Newcastle and London had such luscious hair that she needed no wig to play Marie Antoinette. Lady Margaret.

What was Margaret doing here? Earlier that afternoon, when her mama had asked her if she planned to attend the ball, she had claimed to have a headache. She’d told Caroline privately that she found the ton even more tiresome in Newcastle than she did in London. Caroline would never have dared attend the masque in London, where she was sure to be recognised. But her uncle had insisted at nearly the last minute that they oblige her future father-in-law and hold the wedding in the chapel on his estate. So here in Newcastle, she had little fear of getting caught at the party. Her heart sank. Now Margaret had destroyed her last chance for seduction. There was nothing left but to flee.

The blue domino leant forward and whispered in her ear, "Aphrodite."

His breath, warm and eager, brushed the tiny hairs on her skin. A shiver raced along her spine and made her scalp tingle. Yes. This she craved. Damn. Too late, all too late.

The domino withdrew enough to be able to look upon her face. "Perhaps we should find somewhere more private?"

If he had suggested that but five minutes ago! She would throttle Margaret. Caroline lifted a corner of her mouth in a half-smile. "Pray, sir, fetch me a punch. This room is a veritable sweatbox." She ran fingers over the swell of her breasts, wiping a trail in the sheen of perspiration beaded across her skin.

His gaze followed the action, eyes darkening before he returned his gaze to her face and gave a slight bow. "At your service."

Excerpt From: Anarchy in Blood

Aaron Baker stood on the South Lawn, hands clasped in front of him. “Come on Dudley, do your business so I can get back to the game.”

The white poodle/Maltese mix, didn’t seem to be in any hurry to relieve himself. Aaron glanced at his watch. Halftime had to be over by now. “I’ll give you some of my pizza crust if you just hurry up.”

Dudley glanced up at Aaron. If he didn’t know better, Aaron would swear the dog was telling him to fuck off. Of all the odd jobs he had as President Richard Douglas’ personal aide, this was the one he hated the most. It wasn’t that he didn’t like dogs, hell, he’d had two growing up, but Dudley wasn’t your average dog.

Nope, Dudley was the Mata Hari of dogs. In the President’s presence, Dudley was cute and cuddly, but Aaron knew the five pound ball of white hair was far from innocent.

“Pee or I’ll make Rick see the importance of having you neutered,” he growled.

Dudley didn’t even acknowledge the threat, intent on sniffing a patch of grass. How could a man’s man like President Douglas own such a pain in the ass dog? Aaron was moments away from picking Dudley up and taking him back inside when, low and behold, the dog finally peed.

“Shake it off. I don’t want your dribbles on the front of my shirt.” Aaron chuckled when a secret serviceman glanced at him like he was crazy. Yeah, he probably was. It wasn’t often you saw a man standing on the White House lawn arguing with a pooch.

Aaron did his normal scramble to catch Dudley and lift him into his arms. “My favourite time of the week, and I’ve missed half of it because of you,” he scolded Dudley as they entered the west wing.

As soon as they were inside, Aaron set the dog down, not surprised when Dudley shot in front of him towards the President’s study. He followed the dog like the obedient aide he was. He could hear the roar of the crowd coming from the television set before he even entered the room.

“What did I miss?” he asked, resuming his spot on the navy sofa.

“Packers fumbled. The Skins may just have a chance to pull this one off,” Rick Douglas announced, getting Dudley resettled in his lap.

Aaron took off his shoes and rested his feet on the footstool. “Maybe they’ll show a replay.”

“Sorry, already did.”

“Damn.” Aaron smiled as he picked up the bowl of popcorn beside him. If anyone had told him a few years earlier that he’d feel completely comfortable hanging out with the President of the United States, he would’ve told them they were crazy.

He glanced over at the handsome man. It was hard for him to think of Rick as anything other than a family friend, mentor and father figure. Aaron had first met the charismatic politician when he was barely five. He remembered Rick dropping by on special occasions, but Aaron didn’t really get to know him until he’d turned seventeen. Aaron needed a few volunteer activities to add to his college application. He had no idea that he would become completely enraptured with the Pennsylvanian state representative running for a national senate seat.

After his senate win, Richard Douglas had kept in close contact with Aaron, even asking him to intern during the summers. For a college student majoring in political science, it had been a dream come true. His mother’s family had wealth and clout but nothing compared to Rick’s family. Aaron enjoyed spending time with Rick, as he’d insisted Aaron address him.

Their relationship continued to grow, Rick eventually taking Aaron into his confidence one night while they were working late on the presidential campaign. “Have you talked to Cameron lately?”

Rick automatically glanced around to make sure no one else was within earshot. He grinned and pressed his finger to his lips. “Last night. I snuck out after Larissa retired for the evening. I had to use the passageway to get around the Secret Service, but it was worth it.”

Aaron shook his finger at his boss. “I know you don’t want anyone to know, but you’re not just a senator anymore. If the Secret Service finds out you’ve been using those tunnels, there’ll be hell to pay.”

Rick winked. “That’s why they can never find out.”

Excerpt From: Anarchy in Blood

Aaron Baker stood on the South Lawn, hands clasped in front of him. “Come on Dudley, do your business so I can get back to the game.”

The white poodle/Maltese mix, didn’t seem to be in any hurry to relieve himself. Aaron glanced at his watch. Halftime had to be over by now. “I’ll give you some of my pizza crust if you just hurry up.”

Dudley glanced up at Aaron. If he didn’t know better, Aaron would swear the dog was telling him to fuck off. Of all the odd jobs he had as President Richard Douglas’ personal aide, this was the one he hated the most. It wasn’t that he didn’t like dogs, hell, he’d had two growing up, but Dudley wasn’t your average dog.

Nope, Dudley was the Mata Hari of dogs. In the President’s presence, Dudley was cute and cuddly, but Aaron knew the five pound ball of white hair was far from innocent.

“Pee or I’ll make Rick see the importance of having you neutered,” he growled.

Dudley didn’t even acknowledge the threat, intent on sniffing a patch of grass. How could a man’s man like President Douglas own such a pain in the ass dog? Aaron was moments away from picking Dudley up and taking him back inside when, low and behold, the dog finally peed.

“Shake it off. I don’t want your dribbles on the front of my shirt.” Aaron chuckled when a secret serviceman glanced at him like he was crazy. Yeah, he probably was. It wasn’t often you saw a man standing on the White House lawn arguing with a pooch.

Aaron did his normal scramble to catch Dudley and lift him into his arms. “My favourite time of the week, and I’ve missed half of it because of you,” he scolded Dudley as they entered the west wing.

As soon as they were inside, Aaron set the dog down, not surprised when Dudley shot in front of him towards the President’s study. He followed the dog like the obedient aide he was. He could hear the roar of the crowd coming from the television set before he even entered the room.

“What did I miss?” he asked, resuming his spot on the navy sofa.

“Packers fumbled. The Skins may just have a chance to pull this one off,” Rick Douglas announced, getting Dudley resettled in his lap.

Aaron took off his shoes and rested his feet on the footstool. “Maybe they’ll show a replay.”

“Sorry, already did.”

“Damn.” Aaron smiled as he picked up the bowl of popcorn beside him. If anyone had told him a few years earlier that he’d feel completely comfortable hanging out with the President of the United States, he would’ve told them they were crazy.

He glanced over at the handsome man. It was hard for him to think of Rick as anything other than a family friend, mentor and father figure. Aaron had first met the charismatic politician when he was barely five. He remembered Rick dropping by on special occasions, but Aaron didn’t really get to know him until he’d turned seventeen. Aaron needed a few volunteer activities to add to his college application. He had no idea that he would become completely enraptured with the Pennsylvanian state representative running for a national senate seat.

After his senate win, Richard Douglas had kept in close contact with Aaron, even asking him to intern during the summers. For a college student majoring in political science, it had been a dream come true. His mother’s family had wealth and clout but nothing compared to Rick’s family. Aaron enjoyed spending time with Rick, as he’d insisted Aaron address him.

Their relationship continued to grow, Rick eventually taking Aaron into his confidence one night while they were working late on the presidential campaign. “Have you talked to Cameron lately?”

Rick automatically glanced around to make sure no one else was within earshot. He grinned and pressed his finger to his lips. “Last night. I snuck out after Larissa retired for the evening. I had to use the passageway to get around the Secret Service, but it was worth it.”

Aaron shook his finger at his boss. “I know you don’t want anyone to know, but you’re not just a senator anymore. If the Secret Service finds out you’ve been using those tunnels, there’ll be hell to pay.”

Rick winked. “That’s why they can never find out.”

Excerpt From: Animal Instincts

The white wolf ran as fast as she could, lungs burning with the effort, legs stretching out as far as they could. Thank god she was in wolf form, not human, but that brought other problems. She thought she’d scoped out the new territory thoroughly enough, but then she’d run into some other creatures when she was in wolf form who told her a horror story that made her blood freeze.

Trapped and captured, they told her. Their friends disappearing. Rumours of a big preserve on a ranch, land big enough to hide it all. Where the trapped animals were hunted and killed. Sometimes maimed first, then released to be hunted again.

Stay away, they’d told her.

Her brother, John, as usual, had been too curious. Now he’d been gone for two days, and she feared the absolute worst. She needed help, but where was she going to get it? She’d been so sure she’d find the peace she longed for in Texas. And she’d heard about a group of shifters trying to reform a pack. Now she needed to connect with them more than ever.

But her first priority was staying alive.

She heard the voices coming close punctuated by drunken laughter, and the increased thunder of hoof beats as she finally reached the huge oak tree where she’d left her clothes. Praying she had enough time, she paused, forced herself to shift, and scrambled up into the tree. She clung to the thick branch, naked and shivering, while the men passed beneath her. When she was sure it was safe, and movement couldn’t be detected, she pulled her clothes back on. But it was nearly dawn before she had the courage to climb down from the tree and stealthily make her way back to her campsite.

* * * *

Drew Noland sat on his back porch cradling a cold beer in his hands, watching the first edge of night creep over the Texas Hill Country. He loved this area of South Central Texas, the mixture of rolling pasture land with tree-dotted hills, copses of trees here and there in the vast areas of emptiness where civilisation had only bumped the edges. Ranch country. Cattle, goats, sheep, all being raised in what Drew considered the closest thing to heaven on earth. He drew in a deep breath, inhaling the mingled scents of nature that never failed to stir his senses.

He’d bought his small ranch ten years ago when he landed in the Hill Country and decided it was a safe place to stay. Running about a thousand head of cattle, he made enough to keep the ranch in the black, needing only a minimum of hands to help and still have time for his work with The Sentinels.

Now he was doing one of his favourite things—watching night lower its blanket over the countryside and the first appearance of the stars in the velvet sky. It gave him a feeling of peace he hadn’t known until he came here, peace that had been stolen from him, just like it had from his partners. A sliver of moon drifted into the sky. He heard the soft whinnying of horses in the barn, broken now and then by the distant wail of a coyote.

He’d heard other ranchers discussing the increasing presence of the predator, said there’d never been this many coyotes here before. But what bothered Drew was the talk in the feed store and the diner of the chance spying of other animals not indigenous to the area. Someone even mentioned wolves, which made Drew’s guts tie up in a knot. He knew there were no wolves around here except for himself, when he wasn’t in human form.

He knew what madness even the whisper of a wolf could do in a community, and a tiny thread of fear unravelled inside him. A human pack was far more dangerous than any group of animals. It was how his pack had been destroyed. How he, himself, had nearly been killed, hiding in the woods in the northern state where they’d lived, woods that he was so familiar with—shifting to his human shape during the day to avoid detection. Men determined to kill wolves at all costs were like rabid dogs, crazed and maniacal.

Few members of his pack had survived, and they’d scattered for safety. Some hand of fate must have led them all to Texas, where he ran into the Spencer brothers working at the Houston Stock Show. The three of them had managed to find the other five remaining members, all gravitating to a small town outside San Antonio.

Excerpt From: Annihilation

'I WANT YOU.'

The old vintage recruitment sign with the image of Uncle Sam on it mocked Ricardo Clark. The finger pointed in his direction. Someone had marked out the part that said 'for the U.S. Army' and written over it with 'for the Alliance', some new form of government that had taken over power when the old government had crumbled.

Not that he had to worry. He'd been discharged years ago because of some stupid asthma thing and now he was a hundred pounds overweight, give or take a few pounds. Who would really 'want' him? He should have been able to stay in, but the military was overcrowded. They'd stopped recruiting after they pulled out of the Middle East and were looking at reasons to let go soldiers. Hell, with all the advancements in medicine he could have had his asthma cleared up in no time, but he didn't fight it. Not like he should have done. He had a place to go, others didn't, and they needed the stability of working for the government.

Rico continued his walk to the bakery. The only thing he was good for was eating a few doughnuts before going to his boring data entry job. After the big flood in 2050 there were tons of data that needed re-entering and a lot more of it lost. With his military career he had the necessary clearances to process the sensitive data so he was pretty secure in his job, unlike some others. It sucked, but it paid the bills. The homeless population was bigger than ever. It also kept his mom off his back. She was always asking him when he was going to find a nice boy and settle down. She'd bring up the old 'I helped fight for your right to marry whoever you want, now do something about it and make me proud. I want grandkids!' Rico didn't even know if he liked kids, not that it was an option now anyway. He was single and barely making ends meet. The job might have been steady, but it wasn't high-paying.

Before he was born there had been a big fight over government involvement in same-sex marriage and his parents had been in the 'trenches' as it were, fighting to make changes. Finally the government had passed a bill stating that it would take no part in deciding who a person could or could not marry and that each state had to abide by this bill, allowing people to marry whoever they wanted to. Or something like that. Rico couldn't remember the exact wording, but the gist of it was that same-sex couples could get married and have that marriage recognised wherever they went.

There had been a big outcry and some churches had taken a big stand, but, all in all, after a few years, no one really cared and it was business as usual. Still, there were the hatemongers out there, but as time passed they faded away from the spotlight. When Rico had hit puberty it was all old news and there were different things to fight over. The churches prayed over the state of the world and blamed the rest of the nation for the coming apocalypse. Turned out it was a flood, not zombies taking over. The church still took credit saying their God was bringing down the sinners of the world. They never could come up with an explanation for how their congregations weren't spared.

Rico didn't really care because faith didn't really fit into what he wanted out of his life. He had big plans, like with his military career. It was supposed to be his ticket to law enforcement. He was thinking CIA or FBI. Now he was a glamorous clerk sitting behind a desk and clacking away at a keyboard all day.

He finally reached the shop and walked in.

"Rico! Your usual?" The owner winked at him.

Rico nodded and bellied up to the counter to wait for his order. It should've made him sad that the pastry people knew him, but he was hungry and running late. He didn't have time to be upset about a predicament of his own making. No one let him get so out of shape. That was all on him.

There was a new guy behind the counter and Rico couldn't stop staring. He was rugged and lean with short blond hair that stood on end and bright green eyes. He had scruff on his face and a shiner, like he'd gone a couple of rounds in a fight. But that wasn't what caught Rico's gaze. It was the black plugs in his ears and the tattoos running up and down each arm. They were colourful and he wanted a closer look, even leaned over the counter a bit before he caught himself. He could make out some sort of creature's head on his right shoulder in a dark red with black horns and it looked like wisps of smoke tied everything together. There were a few other things, but he couldn't make them out without getting closer. On the other arm were a koi fish and cherry blossoms and other small tattoos.

But a man like that wouldn't look twice at the fat blob he'd become. Maybe when he was still in the military Rico'd have had the balls to approach him. Now he just took his sweets and left the bakery.

The city looked better than it had in years and he enjoyed his walk, taking a big bite of the gooey confection. The weather was nice, the sun shining. He was actually sweating a bit, the hazard of his extra pounds. For the first time he thought maybe he should do something about it. He thought back to the blond with those tattoos and threw his doughnuts into the next trash bin he found, but that didn't stop him from licking his fingers.

The day was the same old, same old. The only exception was that his thoughts drifted back to the hot guy at the bakery. He knew what his spank fantasies would be about that night. It wasn't like his job forced him to think. He looked at papers and entered information into the central system that the Alliance had hooked back up after the flood. If it wasn't for them, the United States would probably still be in the dark.

Excerpt From: Another Cougar in Town

Renee Gafford tapped on the front door of her girlfriend’s house and sighed nervously. Whatever plans Jessie had cooked up would probably crash, knowing Renee’s recent luck, but it was the thought that counted. Besides, a few icy margaritas sounded pretty good.

She shoved a mint in her mouth. The porch light flashed her reflection on the glass storm door. She checked her perm for any strays, too much flatness, too much poofiness or foreign objects. Just a little on the flat side thanks to the Pensacola humidity, Renee’s hair needed fluffing. She also hung her sandy bangs over her left eye. She did look pretty damn good. Surely some guy out there would at least ogle her. In case that didn’t do the trick, she also adjusted her girls. Not many men could resist a peek at her cleavage, ready to burst out of the low-cut dress. At least until their eyes roved off to some stick-figure blonde.

The door creaked open and Jessie Valencia charged out to her and attacked with a larger than life hug. “Oh…I’ve missed you so much, girl!”

Jessie’s dark curls itched Renee’s nose as they embraced. Blowing them off of her cheek, Renee said, “It’s great to see you, too.”

“Get in here. We’ve got to get this party started.” Jessie locked fingers with her and tugged her through the entryway. Their high heels clicked across the tile. “What are you drinking?”

Renee failed to remember if Jessie could mix a good margarita. If the tequila overpowered the orange liqueur, it resulted in just a plain old horrible drink. She didn’t typically nitpick cocktails, but the margarita, in all its complexity, deserved a caring bartender—like a hot-blooded woman deserved a passionate lover. “I’ll have some white wine if you’ve got it.”

Air conditioning swept away the clammy feeling on Renee’s skin. A Lady Gaga video played on the big-screen HDTV that dominated one wall. The low volume provided a nice rhythm and ambience to chat. A glossy bar with lighted shelves greeted them as they cut around the corner into the living room. “Nice,” Renee commented, nodding with pronounced satisfaction.

“Thanks,” Jessie said, releasing her grasp. “When I started going out more, I thought I might like to have an appetiser in the quiet of my own place before I hit the scene. It’s been great for that and after the clubs close.” She whipped around the bar, stopped suddenly and checked out Renee from head to toe.

“You…look…so…hot.”

Excerpt From: Apollo's Choice

Apollo looked at his temple. Marble stone columns stood tall with a slight influence from Thrace architecture. He knew it was odd to mix cultures, but a party was a party. And Mother Nature shared her bounty with multiple species, right?

The mere splendour of his temple was a sight to behold. Ornate purple cloths hung on the walls, framing exquisite tapestries woven with the finest of silks. Gold adorned everything from goblets to his throne. A fountain stood in the middle of an open space. The statue of Apollo playing his lyre while surrounded by beautiful women reminded him of his love of music and sex. Many of his followers had worshipped at this temple, drinking from this very fountain. Hell, last night’s party with Dionysus had ended with an orgy of him and six beautiful women who’d had a little too much of the fountain’s gifts.

What a wonderful way to forget an affair that had gone awry.

Now, he lay across a chair, legs thrown over the sides with a drink in hand. His blond hair fell over his face, hiding his eyes and the smile he still wore from last night.

Sighing, he remembered this one buxom redhead who had offered herself completely to him. He took her in every imaginable position, let her do anything to him she wanted. They’d both come several times and still, after several hours, he wasn’t satisfied. She, of course, was out cold. Tired, being human and all.

Being the fertility god as well as god of wine had certain advantages. “Who wants to be god of war when we can drink and fuck for eternity?” Apollo laughed aloud.

He’d decided to send a message to his followers that another festival was to be held in his honour this evening. Zeus and the other gods be damned, but Apollo was really becoming accustomed to having the masses worship him. Apollo was the god of Nature, of wine. The two were related. From nature came grapes. From grapes came wine. From wine came indulgence.

He scoffed at the mere thought that Zeus had even the kindest thought for one of his sons, let alone one who actually served a purpose. It seemed that both humans and gods alike shared the problem of discarding unwanted children.

Those weren’t the worries of Apollo though. His biggest concern was trying to figure out just how many women he could fuck in one night. It didn’t matter to him who, as long as fun was had by all.

Hell, he even wondered if some of the other gods would show themselves tonight. To see Hera drunk and dancing could be a total mess, or it could be great fun. He was betting on the latter.

He knew his little redhead would be present tonight. She’d been so intoxicated from his love and wine that he sent her home with Hermes, the messenger god, just to make sure she arrived home safely.

He yawned. A nap was in order. Even the gods had to rest from time to time.

Excerpt From: Aria

Light as a whisper, the blood red fabric of the gown moulded to the curves of her breasts and hips, swirling out into a full, ankle-length skirt that brushed against her legs like a lover’s caress with every move she made. Hair the colour of obsidian, piled on top of her head and secured by a single feathered barrette, was a stark contrast to skin so pale as to be almost luminous. She lifted her eyes to meet their reflection in the mirror, grey as the sky before a storm, and dread slowly unfurled in her stomach, like a lazy snake unsure whether or not it could be bothered to strike.

“Aria.”

She turned at the sound of her name, a hitch in her breath as the snake’s forked tongue hissed a warning. “Michael.” Resentment at his presence tightened her chest; guilt turned the screw. She lowered her eyes, not quite able to meet his.

“I know you’ve been expecting me, Aria, and I know you don’t want me here.” Michael stepped out of the shadows. There was no rebuke in his voice, and his eyes—so like Aria’s own—held real regret.

“Michael…” It was a plea, an entreaty for understanding and compassion.

“It’s time to come home, Aria. I can’t go on covering for you.” His expression held the understanding she sought, but there was also resolve. Her time was running out fast.

“Has my absence been discovered?” Panic clutched at her and she laid a hand over her heart, as if to prevent it from breaking free of her chest.

Shaking his head, Michael stepped forward and laid a comforting hand on her arm. “Not yet, but you know that can’t last forever. Come with me now?”

Pain surged sharp and sudden through Aria. She turned away from her brother, arms wrapping tightly, protectively around herself. It was too soon, she wasn’t ready…

Excerpt From: Arousing Past

Today she would see him again…the first time in eight years.

Eight years. And yet she remembered the last time they were together as vividly as if it were yesterday.

"The new boss is here…" Nicole announced as she rushed into Melissa’s office, interrupting her thoughts. "Are you going to the welcome party?" Nicole asked, taking a chair across from Melissa’s desk.

What choice did she have? As department head she had an obligation towards her future boss. Besides, her absence would be noticed and excuses would have to be thought up. Such behaviour would be too unprofessional, and all for nothing. In the end, she’d still have to meet him.

After the initial shock that followed the announcement of Joe Bradley as the new CEO of her hotel, she’d considered quitting her job. Reason, pride and curiosity had stopped her from acting cowardly. She’d tackle this new challenge with the same professional finesse she’d used through every hurdle of her life.

Not every hurdle. Well, no, but she would overcome this new challenge just fine. Besides, Joe Bradley meant nothing to her anymore.

"Melissa?"

"Huh?"

"I asked if you’re going to the welcome party."

"Sorry… I’ve got too much on my mind. Yes, of course I’m going. Why do you ask?"

"I thought you had a date."

"Not until later." After I’ve met Joe Bradley.

"Good. We’ll go together. Two hot babes in a sea of suits and uniforms are bound to impress the hot, single and"—she wiggled her eyebrows humorously—"available new boss."

Melissa almost snorted. Impress Joe Bradley, indeed, fat chance of that happening. From what she’d heard, Joe Bradley didn’t get impressed easily these days. In or out of the boardroom… His reputation as a tough, demanding manager was only upstaged by the multitude of partners he dated—each new woman outdoing the previous one both in looks and glamour. Instinctively, she combed her fingers through her blonde hair. Stop! This wasn’t a date and she wasn’t going to the reception because of Joe Bradley.

Her college sweetheart.

My first love.

This was strictly business only. He was reputed to be a brilliant professional and she was looking forward to working with someone who she could admire, even if the admiration was limited to one level. Sure!

"Are you changing?"

Melissa examined her ash-grey pencil skirt and double-breasted short jacket, matched with a pair of pumps and a silk white top, and decided she had the precise appearance she wanted to portray—modern, elegant and professional. He surely couldn’t fault her clothes.

There had been a time when Joe Bradley had admired and complimented her choice of clothes and accessories. And there had also been a time when she’d dressed to please him. The thought of him admiring her physique brought on an old forgotten tightness in her chest. I must ignore him! He’s not important to me now. It doesn’t matter what he thinks of me. Right! If she kept telling herself that her agitation was nothing to concern herself with, she’d be okay. Joe Bradley is no longer important to me on a personal level. Good. All she had to do now was keep reminding herself of that and she’d be fine.

"These clothes will have to do. They’re all I’ve got with me."

Nicole eyed her with puckered lips and assertive eyes. "And as always, impeccable taste."

"Thank you. I’ll bear this compliment in mind when you next want me to try on leopard tights."

Nicole laughed, a rich, throaty gurgle that always made those listening smile. "Touché."

"Will you come by my office?"

"Of course! Wouldn’t miss our grand entrance for the world," Melissa teased, but the minute Nicole was out of sight her self-assurance crumbled and she slumped her shoulders.

Why did Joe Bradley have to come to her hotel and disturb her well-earned peace of mind? Why?

Chapter One: Arresting Behaviour by Morticia Knight

“Please…you don’t have to do this.”

John’s whimpering tone made the man sick. He wasn’t worth the air he was taking up on the earth. That was why he had to be the next one to die. He edged closer to the tanned and buff John who was tied spreadeagled to the small bed, bare-chested with just his tattered jeans left on in the stuffy and dirty motel room. The window cooler continued rattling and struggling to keep the air to a bearable temperature in the Arizona desert heat, and he was almost hypnotised by the look of abject terror on his victim’s face.

“Actually, John. Yes I do. You disgust me. Everything about you is revolting.”

“I don’t understand…”

It looked like the thirtyish John’s wide, green eyes were filling with water.

Tears. God, it gets worse.

John’s pleading tone snapped him out of his reverie.

“Of course you don’t, you miscreant. Somehow the inherent weakness that you envelop around you like a cloak of honour has softened your mind. I would have to say that the truly most revolting thing you’ve done today—and there are so many I could choose from—was your offer to suck my dick if I would just let you live. Really? That’s all you’ve got? How pathetic.”

John made a little choking sound and the man knew he was fighting back sobs. “Anything. I’ll do anything you want.”

“True. You will. And what I want for you to do right now is die.”

John’s eyes widened even farther in sheer panic and horror, and as he opened his mouth to yell, the killer plunged the large hunting knife right into it, pinning his head to the bed. His final expression—eyes bulging and mouth held in the last throes of a scream for his life—would send a message that not only would weakness not be tolerated, but that it was punishable by death.

* * * *

“I’m afraid we’ve got another one, Jake. Aren’t you glad you joined homicide this month?”

Jake gave Maggie, his partner, the lopsided grin that he knew made one dimple in his left cheek stand out, and typically prompted a tease out of her. But there were bigger issues at hand, and he waited for her to join him at his desk. She had just come from the lieutenant’s office with info on the latest murder. Jake had got her text whilst he was down the street at the roach coach that parked near the precinct. They had the best chorizo tacos known to mankind—but he would never let his nana know that—his grandma would smack him upside his head for suggesting that hers were anything less than the ultimate.

“That’s what I’m here for, right? I’d better not start complaining now. I’ll be back trolling the streets of Mesa.”

“I wasn’t talking about your nightlife mijo, just the job.”

Jake shook his head, chuckling a little. It always cracked him up when the five-foot-two Irish redhead used Spanish—her accent was more Brooklyn than Baja. They’d started at the academy together five years earlier, right after she’d moved to Arizona from New York. She said she’d had enough cold and snow to last her a lifetime, and he had teased her that with her pale skin, she’d never survive the first furnace-like summer. But she was a toughie, and she had a lot of smarts. Jake had learnt to not only like the fiery petite woman, but to respect her as well. The beginnings of their relationship had been awkward though when she had developed a serious crush on him. He’d had to gently explain to her that he loved her as a friend only, and that he was only interested in men. Once she’d got over her hurt and disappointment, they had become best buddies. She had actually made homicide a full year before him, and he had been excited for her. Once he’d moved up in the ranks, and been partnered with her, it had got even better.

They were both pretty young to have moved ahead, but the Mesa area had seen such a huge growth spurt in the last decade and a half, that the department had unfortunately needed to increase their homicide team sooner, rather than later. There had also been some serious juggling of positions after two senior investigators, Clark and Johnson, had botched up a recent arson investigation, casting aspersions on the city’s beloved fire chief. In addition, none of the current detectives in homicide had any long-term experience, their most seasoned veterans retiring or transferring out within the last six months—bad for Mesa, good for Jake’s rapid career advancement.

“So…” said Jake, still waiting as she gathered her things, “Are we getting a briefing?”

Maggie turned back into her serious mode. “Actually, the lieutenant needs us to head out there immediately, he already handed me what we know so far. Also, it’s about a half hour out of town—I’d say fifteen minutes past Gold Canyon on Highway 60, and with the September temps this bad—well—the body…”

“Huh, out in the middle of nowhere—I gotcha. Fill me in on the way over.”

They drove the police issue SUV out to the murder site, and Maggie gave him the few details she had at this stage on why the sheriffs in Gold Canyon—the closest location to the murder site—were convinced that this was another one of The Bondage Butcher’s killings. If so, it would be the third one.

“For starters, the killer left the hunting knife impaled in the victim—this time in his mouth—and the male victim was tied up. We don’t know for sure yet if he was homosexual, but he checked into an out of the way motel known for its gay hookups and hourly rates.”

Maggie paused as she pulled the SUV out into the afternoon traffic. Jake pondered the info he’d been given so far. It was a lot of pressure on him to be assigned to such a high-profile case, and he wanted to make sure he didn’t get lost in that. Other than the obvious shake-ups in the department, he wasn’t completely sure why they had been given such a monumental task that more seasoned investigators should have received. But he had also overheard the lieutenant commenting to the captain about Jake’s dark Hispanic looks and Maggie’s unassuming and non-threatening appearance. Was that supposed to encourage the local Native population to suddenly start telling law enforcement everything they knew about the main suspect—Quinn—who was from one of the main tribes of the area?

Yeah. Right. And Maggie is non-threatening only if you’ve never had to deal with her.

As if on cue, Maggie yelled out a colourful stream of obscenities directed at the traffic headed out of town.

“Isn’t it possible this is a copycat?” said Jake, “Some freaky sex game gone wrong, or some psycho taking advantage of the headlines from the other killings?”

“Yes. That’s possible. Except the motel owner told the sheriff that he’s seen this same dead guy with the one…the only…can you guess?”

“Quinn.”

“Yup. See? That’s why I wanted you as my partner. You’re not even a little bit stupid.”

“Uh-huh. Except that we can’t seem to find anything tying this Quinn guy to the killings, other than him knowing the victims. Well, maybe he slipped up this time.”

“I hope so. I’m dying to question this guy, and with him refusing to come in, avoiding us like the grim reaper, we can only hope we get some probable cause to arrest him. I’d take unpaid parking tickets at this point.”

“I’m with you on that one.”

After finally escaping the urban sprawl of Mesa, they settled into some theories as to why—or why not—Quinn might be their man. One of the greatest things about their partnership as investigators was the fact that they were such good friends. They could banter back and forth in jest, but they were also tuned into each other when it came to their police work. Like an old married couple that finished each other’s sentences, their brainstorming was a thing to behold. It was the main reason Jake was able to hang onto some semblance of confidence in his new position—he truly believed that he and Maggie had what it took to be great detectives one day.

Shortly after they passed through Gold Canyon, they took one of the exits, then veered off onto a side road. Within a few minutes, they turned up the dirt and gravel driveway of a fairly run-down motel consisting of just two rows in an L-shape. The office was at the end of the building closest to the driveway. Prickly pear cacti that looked as though they were once considered a form of landscaping were now pretty ratty and dried up. It was as though the motel and the surrounding land were part of some sort of vortex of decay.

It was obvious which room the body was located in—yellow crime scene tape, a sheriff and his car, as well as a scruffy, skinny looking guy in a wife-beater tank and ripped up jeans gathered at the room, farthest from the office. It made sense that the murderer would have wanted as much solitude as possible to carry out his gruesome deed.

“Who’s doing the forensics on this one?” asked Jake, as Maggie pulled the SUV next to the Sheriff’s cruiser.

“Barry. He should be right behind us. He was testifying downtown, but they sent someone to go grab him while you and I were getting ready to go.”

“Gotcha. That’s good. He’s been at every scene so things will remain consistent.”

“Did you hear that the new girl Alicia and him aren’t getting along?”

They both climbed out of the black Chevy Blazer.

“Really,” said Jake, a big lover of any juicy gossip—part of why he and Maggie got along so well—she always had the best stories about everyone at the station.

“Oh yeah,” she said. “She keeps throwing around her whole ‘I took summer classes at Quantico’ thing, and it’s driving him crazy. He’s started calling her ‘Clarice’ to get under her skin.”

Jake laughed softly to himself as the Sheriff approached them.

“You’ll have to give me more details later, Mags.”

Without even extending his hand, the no-nonsense, seasoned Sheriff started right in.

“I’m Sheriff Parsons. Glad you could make it before dark. We need to get the coroner in here as soon as possible, as I have a town to attend to.”

Jake cleared his throat. Although he was unhappy with the attitude the older man was taking with them, he realised that the Sheriff was probably not too thrilled that a potential serial killer had descended upon his small town.

“Yes, sir. We’re going to get the body removed as soon as possible, forensics is on their way. Once we get some information from you, I’m sure it won’t be a problem to go and handle whatever it is you need to take care of.”

Jake was working as hard as he could to try to keep his tone even and professional. During his performance reviews in the almost five years he’d been on the force, the one thing that came up repeatedly was his smart mouth. Sometimes that sarcasm would just creep into his sentences without him even noticing it. So it was an area he’d been working hard on to improve. Unfortunately, he wasn’t having much luck today it would seem.

“Excuse me? What do you mean by that? Are you inferring that the welfare of the town which has been entrusted to me is of little significance?”

Jake groaned inwardly. “No, sir, I…”

Maggie jumped in on top of him. “Sheriff. We’re here to do a job just as you are. No one’s making any judgements about anyone. We’re just as anxious as you are to get things underway here.”

The sheriff looked down at the tiny woman, and Jake noted that her stance projected that she was not intimidated in any way. Without commenting, the Sheriff handed her some notes on the crime scene he’d already taken. Jake held back a smile, only slightly miffed that she had jumped to his defence. He knew it came from a good place, and he didn’t want to be like the other guys at the station either. There were those who gave her a hard time not only for being a woman, but for being a small woman in law enforcement. It was in the same vein that the few who suspected that he was gay didn’t openly taunt him, but could be very cruel in other ways. Sometimes he would be walking by, and he could tell they were whispering about him, or they would deliberately clear the locker room when changing or showering. So any time someone stood up for him, he didn’t want to disregard it.

“Well then,” said Jake. “Shall we?”

The scruffy guy had been standing back this whole time, nervously smoking a cigarette and looking as though the next gust of hot desert wind would blow him down the gravel driveway as easily as a tumbleweed. Maggie handed Jake the information that the Sheriff had already gathered from what turned out to be the motel owner.

They approached him as he stood just outside the crime scene. He began to stutter and stammer at Maggie and Jake.

“I didn’t see n-nuthin’, I swear, nuthin’! I didn’t hear n-nuthin’ either, can I go now? I’m closing up for tonight, ain’t no one c-come by these last few hours anyway. I n-need a drink man, I ain’t seen nuthin’.”

Jake stopped in front of the guy he’d assumed was about fifty or sixty years old from far away. Up close, he realised he was actually probably still in his thirties.

“What’s your name, sir?” asked Jake.

“You ain’t no cop. You ain’t got no uniform on. I don’t have to tell you n-nuthin’.”

This guy sure knows a lot about nothing.

Jake pulled out his detective’s badge from his shirt pocket. With the desert heat still in the hundreds even in late September, he didn’t wear a blazer. Both he and Maggie typically wore polo shirts, or short sleeve dress shirts, and kept their badges either in their pants pocket or shirt pocket. Their guns, however, were right on their hips for easy access.

“Is this clear to you?” Jake asked the dishevelled motel owner, as he showed him the badge.

“Yeah, it’s clear. But I already told everything to the Sheriff which is…”

“Nuthin’?” Jake interjected.

Scruffy guy just growled under his breath. “My n-name’s Stevie. I run this place for m-my grampa cause he’s too old.”

“Where’s Grampa?”

“He’s in the home, and I’m stuck out here. It’s p-pretty much turned into a queer joint since it’s so far out of the way. They know I’ll rent it b-by the hour. Hell, I’ll take whatever I c-can get to make sure I got m-my smokes and beer. Ain’t n-never no tourists unless they’s lost.”

Jake didn’t react to the ‘queer’ remark, especially as he’d heard every type of slur there was—and not just the homosexual ones—since he’d been on the force.

“Okay, Stevie, and had you ever seen the victim before?”

“Yeah. That’s what I told Sheriff Parsons already. John’s b-been here before—he’s one…uh…those rent boys I think they call ‘em, you know, like a whore for g-guys.”

“I see. Are you sure he’s the same one?”

Stevie’s fingers started shaking nervously, and he struggled to light up another cigarette. “I ain’t n-never seen n-nuthin’ like that before. It’s l-like a horror m-movie in there. I’m scared to even c-come back here ever again. What if the killer c-comes after me?”

Jake took a deep breath. He could see the guy was starting to lose it. He was probably still in a bit of shock, and Jake had to be very careful not to push him too much, or he could become too emotional, then Jake would never get anything coherent out of him.

“I can assure you, Stevie,” Jake said calmly, “The man who did this was after a specific type of person. A queer, like you said. Now you’re not one of those are you?”

“Hell no!”

“Then you have nothing to worry about, but it never hurts to be cautious, and to call nine-one-one if you feel you need any help. But in the meantime, we need your help to get this guy off the streets as quickly as we can, so that you never have to worry about him ever again. Sound good?”

“Yeah, all right. But I just don’t know what else I c-can do.”

“Think real hard, Stevie, now I know you said you saw nothing last night, and you told Sheriff Parsons that he checked in alone at about”—Jake looked at the notes that Maggie had handed him—“eleven p.m., but can you think of another time when John came here with someone else, or you saw him with someone else?”

“Yeah. I saw him with that tall injun guy. His name is Quinn.”

“And how do you know his name?”

“Well, he used to always pay for the room, and it was on his card. But he wasn’t much of a talker. I guess he was saving his mouth for other things.” Stevie chuckled at his own clever joke.

Jake resisted rolling his eyes. “I see. Did you ever see them fight, or did John ever say anything about Quinn being abusive or that he was scared of him for any reason? Anything you can remember, no matter how small, could help.”

“Nah. I don’t think that guy was using his mouth for talking neither.”

“Okay, Stevie. Here’s my card, and you call if anything else comes to mind, okay?”

“Yeah. Sure. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got a date with a bottle.”

The scruffy guy shuffled away, leaving Jake and Maggie to go and take a look at the body. By this time, the window unit was off, and the flies were rampant in the room. A sickly sweet smell filled the air, and he sincerely hoped that Barry was hauling his ass out to the motel as quickly as possible.

The body was presumably exactly as it had been found. Stevie had sworn to the Sheriff he’d barely stepped into the room, let alone disturbed the body. It was dim inside—the only light was from the blazing sun pouring in about five feet into the room through the doorway. Jake tried the wall switch—after putting gloves on—but it didn’t work. He pulled out his flashlight, not advancing any farther inside to avoid contaminating the scene. Casting his flashlight beam about the room, it landed on the victim’s face. He started with a sudden jolt of adrenaline—John’s head looked more like a grisly Halloween prop than someone who had been vibrant and alive less than twenty-four hours before. A memory of John clutched at his heart.

About a year prior, Jake had picked up John on Main Street on the east side of Mesa. There were several low rent motels there, and it was easy to do a prostitution bust, especially in the summer and on weekend nights. Even though Mesa had swelled in population, and was considered part of the Phoenix sprawl, it was a solid family city, and the intention was to keep it that way.

Jake remembered the young man well. He was a stunning example of male hotness. Almost six feet tall, with longish blond hair and a tanned, built body, he looked like a surfer who had taken a wrong turn somewhere, and had found himself lost in the desert. His demeanour had been like that of a gentle giant, friendly and sweet, but maybe not the sharpest tool in the shed. Jake had tried counselling the man that night, had tried to reach him, but John had been tweaking on crystal, and it had been impossible to connect with him on any meaningful level. It was just so sad for Jake to see someone like that, and he always hoped that the work he did on the force would somehow break through and help at least a few people in a positive way.

They heard the crunch of tyres on the gravel, and turned to see Barry’s beat-up sedan pulling in. Jake had no idea why the forensics master insisted on driving the seventies Buick nightmare. He was always saying, ‘They don’t make ’em like this anymore’. It made him sound like an old man, but he was actually only in his mid-forties, a little thick around the middle and with prematurely white—but lush—hair. Still, he was just as grumpy as if he’d been a hundred and seven and denied a seat at bingo.

“Are you guys fucking up my crime scene? Get the hell out of there!”

“Nice to see you too,” said Maggie, completely unruffled by his growly manner. “We didn’t desecrate anything, your lordship. I promise you we know what we’re doing.”

Barry skidded to a stop and tried to hide a little smile forming at the corner of his lips. Jake imagined he didn’t dare have his reputation as an unmitigated bastard ruined.

“Oh yeah? Are you sure you young ‘uns have graduated from the Academy yet? Aah, never mind all that, what have we got?”

Maggie filled him in, whilst Jake began to look around the property. They had at least a good couple of hours light left, and he planned on scouring the entire area for tracks, dropped cigarette butts or anything else that might give him some clue as to who was perpetrating these killings. Over by the office door, he noticed what looked like a small crumpled piece of paper on the ground. Its orange hue had drawn his eye, so he picked it up and smoothed it out. It turned out to actually be a business card, and it looked as though it had been washed a few times—it was soft and faded.

Maybe it had been living in someone’s jeans for a while, got washed and then came out when a wallet or hand was pulled from a pocket.

Jake visualised everything when he was trying to piece together the puzzle of a crime, and he could imagine this exact scenario. But who had dropped it? He read the card. The front was the name of an establishment in Mesa he wasn’t familiar with. It was called the Lo-Fi Coffee House, and gave the impression of being a somewhat artsy place. Jake turned it over. It simply said, ‘Quinn. 8:00 Tuesday’. Had it belonged to John? There was no question that he had had some type of relationship with him. It didn’t seem likely it was Quinn’s, as it would be silly for him to write his own name on the card. Or did it belong to a third, yet unknown party?

It was time to go back and try to figure out how to corner his number one suspect—Quinn. Because as he stared at the room where John’s corpse lay, he realised something—the time between the murders was diminishing. If his calculations were correct, the next one would take place within a couple of weeks. They were going to need to get a lucky break in the case very soon.

Excerpt From: Art of the Written Word

His body glistened in the blazing sun, water dripping from his dark hair onto his muscular chest. She followed the route of the droplets as they rolled down his smooth brown skin, catching the light as they navigated his defined abs. Soon, she found her gaze directed at his crotch.

“You should go in, the water’s lovely and warm.”

Looking up at the fine specimen, she felt her face colour with embarrassment, offering a tight smile as he walked past where she sat on the warm sand. Turning to watch him walk up the beach, a shiver of excitement shot up her spine as she saw him turn back to look at her, holding her gaze for several long moments.

She knew it was definitely going to be the holiday of a lifetime.

Yvonne stood at the door of her small home office, considering the young man as he in turn considered the plain, white wall. Tensely awaiting his verdict, her nails skidding across the glossy paint on the doorjamb, she almost felt the need to hold her breath.

Since his arrival, the atmosphere in the house had been different, charged with an energy she wasn’t used to.

He looked much younger than she would have imagined, and the stirring thoughts that flooded her mind left her faintly self-conscious. He couldn’t be more than twenty-five years old.

He was her gift to herself—or rather his services were—after getting her first romance novel, Holiday Pursuits, published. She had sought to hire an artist who would paint the book’s cover as a mural on the wall of her study and, after a little internet research, she’d found Garvey. A man who, as it turned out, was over six feet of wiry muscle with slim dreadlocks hanging uniformly to his shoulder blades, the black interwoven with strands of sun-bleached brown.

Though it was overcast, he had chosen to cover his fit physique with only a T-shirt and long shorts, his dark skin on display beyond the thick khaki cotton. Yet it seemed appropriate, like he had brought the sun with him.

“I could do much more,” he confessed, looking at the cover of the book she had given him. “Don’t mistake me—this a nice picture, still—but I can do better.”

She was almost mesmerised by his deep voice, to the point where she only heard snippets of what he actually said as he spoke of colours, size and originality as an argument against someone else’s work.

His blended accent didn’t know what it wanted to be, seeming to have picked up qualities from a number of different lands. The underlying West Indian lilt was unmistakable, though, reminding her of a childhood of climbing mango trees, tending to chickens and running down the lane to get a pink snow ice from Miss Marcy when her mum gave her a few cents. Her own history was unrecognisable from her clipped English tones, the result of many years of teaching English literature.

Everything he uttered came with a cool confidence, easily convincing her to agree to give him free reign. Simply being held in his gaze made her very aware of her own body, every slight feeling magnified as if she was being studied. “What do you have in mind?” she asked, overcoming her sudden shyness enough to advance into the room, relinquishing the support offered by the doorjamb.

Her loose muslin trousers, designed for comfort, seemed to become tighter with every step she took, clinging to her body as if they were shrinking. Heading for her desk, aligned with the wall across from where Garvey stood, every step seemed like a loud thud when her bare feet were in reality silent against the wood.

Simply being close to the familiar spot gave her comfort, lessening the risk of her collapsing on legs that had turned to jelly, though her temperature remained high. Even at a distance from him, she still found that his height forced her to angle her face upwards to look him in the eyes.

“Something original, that won’t age—this image gon’ look old quick. Maybe something personal to you.”

Yvonne’s brow furrowed, the nape of her neck prickling as she predicted the direction the conversation would take.

Turning to face her fully, Garvey raised the copy of her book. “I can borrow dis?”

Yvonne nodded, hiding the nerves she felt at the prospect of him judging her words.

“If you have any memorable experiences, I can recreate them in picture form.”

“Memorable experiences?”

“You know, any special occasions between you and your partner.” He raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Don’t worry, I will keep your business private.”

The warmth of faint embarrassment quickly spread up her chest and neck to reach her face. Does he actually expect me to regale him with tales from my sex life? “No, nothing like that.”

There was something knowing about his easy smile, his high cheeks lifting further and accentuating the flash in his dark eyes. “That’s all right, I can still give you a nice result.”

“I’m glad.”

Yvonne felt her body relax, leaning against the rear of her swivel chair, filled with relief at his acceptance of the commission. Impressed with every one of the paintings displayed on his website, she had set her heart upon him because he stood out from the rest. She would have been disappointed if she had been forced to choose someone else because he didn’t want to do it.

Relief turned into a faint empty sensation as a sense of finality marred the meeting.

“Garvey, can I offer you a drink?”

Excerpt From: Art of the Written Word

His body glistened in the blazing sun, water dripping from his dark hair onto his muscular chest. She followed the route of the droplets as they rolled down his smooth brown skin, catching the light as they navigated his defined abs. Soon, she found her gaze directed at his crotch.

“You should go in, the water’s lovely and warm.”

Looking up at the fine specimen, she felt her face colour with embarrassment, offering a tight smile as he walked past where she sat on the warm sand. Turning to watch him walk up the beach, a shiver of excitement shot up her spine as she saw him turn back to look at her, holding her gaze for several long moments.

She knew it was definitely going to be the holiday of a lifetime.

Yvonne stood at the door of her small home office, considering the young man as he in turn considered the plain, white wall. Tensely awaiting his verdict, her nails skidding across the glossy paint on the doorjamb, she almost felt the need to hold her breath.

Since his arrival, the atmosphere in the house had been different, charged with an energy she wasn’t used to.

He looked much younger than she would have imagined, and the stirring thoughts that flooded her mind left her faintly self-conscious. He couldn’t be more than twenty-five years old.

He was her gift to herself—or rather his services were—after getting her first romance novel, Holiday Pursuits, published. She had sought to hire an artist who would paint the book’s cover as a mural on the wall of her study and, after a little internet research, she’d found Garvey. A man who, as it turned out, was over six feet of wiry muscle with slim dreadlocks hanging uniformly to his shoulder blades, the black interwoven with strands of sun-bleached brown.

Though it was overcast, he had chosen to cover his fit physique with only a T-shirt and long shorts, his dark skin on display beyond the thick khaki cotton. Yet it seemed appropriate, like he had brought the sun with him.

“I could do much more,” he confessed, looking at the cover of the book she had given him. “Don’t mistake me—this a nice picture, still—but I can do better.”

She was almost mesmerised by his deep voice, to the point where she only heard snippets of what he actually said as he spoke of colours, size and originality as an argument against someone else’s work.

His blended accent didn’t know what it wanted to be, seeming to have picked up qualities from a number of different lands. The underlying West Indian lilt was unmistakable, though, reminding her of a childhood of climbing mango trees, tending to chickens and running down the lane to get a pink snow ice from Miss Marcy when her mum gave her a few cents. Her own history was unrecognisable from her clipped English tones, the result of many years of teaching English literature.

Everything he uttered came with a cool confidence, easily convincing her to agree to give him free reign. Simply being held in his gaze made her very aware of her own body, every slight feeling magnified as if she was being studied. “What do you have in mind?” she asked, overcoming her sudden shyness enough to advance into the room, relinquishing the support offered by the doorjamb.

Her loose muslin trousers, designed for comfort, seemed to become tighter with every step she took, clinging to her body as if they were shrinking. Heading for her desk, aligned with the wall across from where Garvey stood, every step seemed like a loud thud when her bare feet were in reality silent against the wood.

Simply being close to the familiar spot gave her comfort, lessening the risk of her collapsing on legs that had turned to jelly, though her temperature remained high. Even at a distance from him, she still found that his height forced her to angle her face upwards to look him in the eyes.

“Something original, that won’t age—this image gon’ look old quick. Maybe something personal to you.”

Yvonne’s brow furrowed, the nape of her neck prickling as she predicted the direction the conversation would take.

Turning to face her fully, Garvey raised the copy of her book. “I can borrow dis?”

Yvonne nodded, hiding the nerves she felt at the prospect of him judging her words.

“If you have any memorable experiences, I can recreate them in picture form.”

“Memorable experiences?”

“You know, any special occasions between you and your partner.” He raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Don’t worry, I will keep your business private.”

The warmth of faint embarrassment quickly spread up her chest and neck to reach her face. Does he actually expect me to regale him with tales from my sex life? “No, nothing like that.”

There was something knowing about his easy smile, his high cheeks lifting further and accentuating the flash in his dark eyes. “That’s all right, I can still give you a nice result.”

“I’m glad.”

Yvonne felt her body relax, leaning against the rear of her swivel chair, filled with relief at his acceptance of the commission. Impressed with every one of the paintings displayed on his website, she had set her heart upon him because he stood out from the rest. She would have been disappointed if she had been forced to choose someone else because he didn’t want to do it.

Relief turned into a faint empty sensation as a sense of finality marred the meeting.

“Garvey, can I offer you a drink?”

Excerpt From: Artistic Sights, Heavenly Delights

As she bashed back whipping tree branches and picked carefully through thorns Hermione wondered why she had said yes to this posh young man. She’d like to have said it was merely for Philip’s good looks and charm but she had to face up to the fact it was the money involved that had motivated her the most.

“We’re nearly there.” His upper-class accent seemed out of place in that jungle of branches and mulch. “I told you it was a bit overgrown. It’s worth it though.”

“I’m sure it is,” Hermione replied as she dragged her bags and canvas case through the dense thicket and glared at the back of his soil-brown wind cheater. She knew the reason she’d done this and was grumpy at herself for it. Money should not dictate art but if some rich guy wanted to offer her an obscene amount just to paint his portrait in a certain place—what else could she do?

However, when she’d agreed she hadn’t realised she'd be pushing her way through overgrowth as thick and thorny as that in the fabled Sleeping Beauty story. She’d thought he was talking about a neatly manicured corner of the manor's gardens. It wasn't until he headed into an enclave of shady, newly-leafed trees that she began to suspect otherwise.

Philip couldn’t be completely unaware of her worries. Every tut and gasp and long exhalation had to show her less than complete enjoyment of the day so far.

“Here we are,” Philip said as suddenly the mess of twigs gave way and an obvious clearing came to light.

“Wow.” Hermione took in the vast array of different greens and was awed by the majesty of nature. Across one side was a small pond, mingled grey and green reflected in the water. At the other end a host of bright bluebells shone between the blades of vibrant grass.

“You didn’t lie, did you?” She smiled at him.

He grinned back. “This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever been.” He sighed and stared into the vast yet stark blue sky.

“It’s very well hidden away, isn’t it?”

Excerpt From: As You Desire

Rafi bit back a curse as he waited for his current master, Lacey, to make her final wish. He heard her stunned gasp from her bedroom and stifled a yawn as she rushed back into the living room dressed in a denim mini-skirt and a tight pink T-shirt that clung to her breasts.

She swivelled in the mirror, admiring her new slim, stacked body. "Look at me! I haven’t had this skirt on since...well, never. I can’t believe it-I’m freaking hawt now!"

Rafi cringed as she let out another squeal of delight.

"Omigoodness...look at my butt. Do you see it?"

He didn’t bother responding as Lacey continued to gush over her new curves.

"You still have one wish left to use."

Lacey giggled with excitement, twirling like a ballerina in front of the mirror.

"It’s so hard to decide. I still can’t believe this happened to me!"

These were the moments he hated being a Djinn. He was so tired of fulfilling empty, mundane, utterly typical wishes.

C’mon, lady, I don’t have all day.

He blew out a breath, frustrated with everything. It would be so easy to help her make a decision. All he’d have to do was give her a gentle mental push and use the unique ability he’d been born with to project his thought into Lacey’s mind.

Too bad it was strictly forbidden behaviour for any Djinn capable of the gift within the Brotherhood.

Wishes were to be made freely. The reality was he actually did have all day, all month...hell, all year if that was how long Lacey decided to take to utter her last request.

Lacey glanced away from her reflection to cast a quick look at him through the mirror. "What’s the matter, gorgeous? Am I taking too long for you?"

The smile he gave her spiked the intensity of the headache thumping against his skull.

"Time is of no consequence for me."

Rafi crossed his arms, wishing Lacey lived in the tropics instead of this godforsaken frozen farmhouse located in the middle of nowhere.

"Maybe that’s it...I could wish to live forever, like you."

"Trust me-living forever isn’t as great as it sounds."

A stab of pain hit his heart and Rafi steeled himself as it travelled down the length of his body.

How long had it been since he’d allowed himself to feel that heartache?

He blinked, trying to erase images of smiling grey eyes, silky chestnut hair and-

"I can come to you later. Give you some time to make your final decision."

Excerpt From: As You Wish

She was running. Her bare feet crushed the dry, cracked earth. A branch scratched her face and knocked her off balance. She pushed her body to move faster. The unforgiving terrain tore at the soles of her feet. Blood seeped from the dozen of cuts caused by tiny sharp rocks.

He…or it was gaining on her. The gruesome, guttural panting of the creature boomed in her ears. The animal was only a few paces behind her. A taunting laugh filled the night air.

She stifled a desperate scream. Escape. She had to escape, but it was nearly impossible to see anything in the pitch-black nightscape.

Up ahead, her mother’s voice guided her towards safety.

Another hideous howl pierced the eerie silence.

She was so close. Just a few more feet…

Karis was jarred awake by her own desperate screams. She sat up, sweaty and shaking. Her heart pounded furiously in her chest. Goose bumps swept over every inch of her skin. Still shuddering, she scanned the room. She was alone, safe at home in her own bed. She glanced at her small alarm clock, dismayed to see it was two-thirty in the morning. She had only slept for a few hours.

She took several deep breaths and lifted her hand to her face. The skin still throbbed where the branch scratched her.

“It was just another nightmare,” she whispered.

With the agitated rhythm of her heartbeat still thudding in her ears, she flipped the switch of her lamp on her nightstand. Nothing was out of place. No one was hiding in the dimly lit corners of her room.

“You’re losing it, Karis,” she said, hating the quiet serenity of her bedroom. It mocked the icy cold dread wrapping around her.

Her hands trembled as she reached for a pill and her water bottle. She swallowed down a Xanax and sighed. She hated her weakness, the fear seizing her even now when she knew she was safe.

Karis swung her legs out of bed and pulled on a silk robe. She shivered as her bare feet touched the cool wood floors. She padded into the bathroom and flipped on the light. Her eyes drifted to her reflection in the mirror and she gasped.

There was a thin line of blood on her cheek! She reached for a tissue and wiped at the red streak. There was no blood on the tissue and no sign of injury on her face when she looked back in the mirror.

What the hell was going on?

She turned on the faucet and splashed water on her cheeks. With a frustrated curse, she shut the water off and roughly patted her face dry. Tears threatened to fall, but she swallowed them down. Her mother was alive somewhere. She had to be.

Her doctor was convinced the nightmares were caused by the stress of her mother’s disappearance and Karis wanted to believe in the diagnosis, but she sensed the dark dreams were something more. The nightmares were always the same, but now they were increasing in frequency and becoming more vivid. Bedtime had become a battleground. Five months of interrupted sleep and worry was beginning to take a toll on her mentally and physically.

Her mother’s old cuckoo clock chimed downstairs, reminding her of all the boxes she had in her living room since her mom’s house had foreclosed. Restless and unwilling to climb back into bed, she walked out of the bedroom and headed for the stairs leading to her living room.

She switched on the light, struggling not to succumb to the tears still filling her eyes. Everything her mom had ever cared about was now in storage or stacked on her living room floor.

One box marked Rare Finds & Books caught her eye on the coffee table. She walked across the carpet to the box, thinking about her mother who loved travelling the globe to meet other gifted people. She had acquired trinkets and artefacts she believed held some kind of magical powers along with loads of literature about magical realms and physic phenomena from all over the world.

With the box in her hands, she moved to the couch. She lifted the cardboard flaps and casually shifted through books apparently from Egypt—the last place her mother had visited before disappearing. Her fingers touched something hard and cool and she wrapped her hand around the slender neck of the object. She pulled up, surprised by the weight of the intricately painted, cylindrical-looking bottle.

Excerpt From: Ascension

"Hey, Ro, can you get the oven mitts for me?" Severo asked as he opened the oven door.

Rogelio Martinez plucked the mitts from the counter top and handed them to his uncle Sev. The heat from the oven wafted out and Ro stepped back, swiping at his brow. "Are they ready?"

"I think so." Sev pulled out the bubbling enchiladas. The spicy scent of them filled the kitchen and Ro’s stomach gurgled with anticipation. Between the enchiladas and the tortillas, both homemade, he was about to drown himself in drool. He swallowed and greeted his uncle Laine as he came into the kitchen. "Hey, Uncle Laine, how was work?"

Laine took off his Stetson and held it in one hand as he walked over to Sev. The kiss they shared was brief but the love between the two men was evident in the way they leaned towards each other, and in their expressions.

Rogelio’s heart pinched with something uncomfortably like jealousy. He didn’t want to be ugly, and he didn’t begrudge his uncles their love. He just… He wanted a love like that for himself. Well, and another man, duh. As he watched Sev and Laine, Ro’s mind wandered to his fantasy man. Ro had pictured him so many times since he’d realised he was gay. Thick blond hair, stocky, muscular build, and a smile that promised all kinds of mischief.

Ro blinked and shook his head. The image forming in his mind wasn’t one of a man he’d ever had. It was of a picture he’d seen years ago when, as a teen, he’d gone snooping into Sev’s past. It had twined with Laine’s, and Ro had been a naïve and romantic young fool, so entranced by Sev and Laine’s love story that he hadn’t been able to think of much else.

"You gonna help set the table, kid?"

Laine’s deep rumbling voice snapped Ro out of his thoughts. "Yeah, sure."

Ro took the plain blue plates down from the shelf and placed them on the table. It didn’t take him long to lay out silverware and glasses of sweet tea. Laine made up a batch of guacamole while Sev finished up the salsa. They sat down at the table once everything was in place.

Laine arched a brow at him and pointed at the enchiladas. "Two or three?"

"Three." Ro was thin as a whip but he could and did eat anything he wanted.

Sev sniffed at him. "I used to have that kind of metabolism. It’ll catch up to you, trust me."

"I doubt that," Ro said as he scooped some guacamole onto his plate. He was starving, but he could spare a moment to pick on his uncle. "You’re still in shape, and you’re getting old."

Sev hissed and kicked him under the table. "I am not old, smart ass. And Laine’s older than me, anyway!"

Ro nodded and managed not to grimace as his shin took another kick. "Yeah, but Laine has always looked…" Ro waited for Laine to glare at him, then he sent Laine his sweetest smile. "Dignified."

Laine snorted and muttered, "Dignified, my ass. Sayin’ I always looked old is what you’re sayin’."

Ro hitched up a shoulder and shovelled a forkful of enchiladas into his mouth. He closed his eyes and moaned appreciatively as the hot cheese almost burnt his tongue. He wasn’t the only one enjoying the meal, either. The three men quit picking on each other and settled in to eat.

A prickling sensation caused the hairs on the back of Ro’s neck to stand up. His skin flushed with an awareness that he’d come to recognise. Sev cocked his head, but Laine kept eating, right up until the time that his plate scooted away from him.

Laine grabbed his plate and glared around the room. "Aw, damn it, Conner! You’re just jealous because you can’t have any!"

Sev shook his head. "He can have yours," he said just as Laine’s plate was lifted off the table.

Laine leapt up from his seat but the plate spun up until its contents almost touched the ceiling.

"Conner…" Laine growled.

Ro’s pulse raced and he grew warm in places he just shouldn’t while sitting at his uncles’ table. Ro set his fork down and pressed his hands to his thighs, digging his fingertips hard against his legs to distract himself from the wave of arousal washing over him. Only someone like him would have a crush on a dead guy with a love for pranks.

Excerpt From: Ashia

There she was again.

This time she was alone.

Reid Jacobs’s pulse pounded faster, which had nothing to do with his running but everything to do with the sexy specimen of womanhood running in front of him. He’d been running in this park for a long time. It wasn’t until a few months ago he noticed the woman. She’d joined another lady—whom he’d nicknamed Ponytail—and a man who came frequently to the park. He’d seen each of them alone at first then they had started to run together. Usually when he and the male passed each other they nodded. Ponytail, on the other hand, kept her head straight and was focused on nothing but her run. At least until she ran with the man.

Then came the day she came with puppies along with the other people. Everything about the woman in white had caught his attention. She was feminine, regal in bearing and all-out sexy. The others with her had faded from his attention and all he saw was her. She moved with confidence, looking so very delectable, despite holding the leashes of four puppies. He wouldn’t even think of approaching her in the group of people with her. Heck, with his shyness he wouldn’t even if she was alone. Most times she was with them.

Reid focused back on the woman running a little ahead of him on the trail. Her long, dark brown hair with blonde highlights was pulled back into a ponytail, which bounced behind her with each step. He heard the puppies barking, which meant they were probably running before her. He missed Liv, his German Shepherd who usually joined him, with him. He’d left her home to rest since she had seemed to not be feeling too well.

Reid studied the back of the lady before him. The woman’s red—instead this of white this time—running outfit was beautiful against her ebony skin. Reid zeroed his gaze to the shorts, which hugged her firm butt and showed off toned legs. He jerked his gaze up to her back. He was acting pervy, ogling her ass. That wasn’t like him at all. The nerd in him enjoyed speaking with a woman more than gawking at their physical form. Yet since the first day he had seen this woman, he’d been drawn to her. It baffled him. He’d never been led by baser urges.

Maybe you can just say hi. What’s the harm in that?

He snorted in disgust at himself. No, that’s a bad idea. I’ll come across as a babbling idiot. Or worse, one of those men who cases the running trails, desperate to hook up with women.

You’re just chickenshit, he countered.

Cluck, cluck.

Reid chuckled. Arguing with himself—yep, he was a little weird. He was so much better with Liv or his computers. Building, then programming a computer was easier than trying to approach a woman. Reid took a fortifying breath. His footfalls hit the ground as he continued to decide if he was actually brave enough to approach the ebony-skinned goddess.

Be brave. You can do this. Reid increased his speed to get closer to the woman.

She turned a corner on the trail. Reid kicked faster to keep her in his sight. Shock then dismay filled him when the trail loomed empty before him. Where did she go? Reid slowed, keeping an eye out for a flash of red, but by the end of his run, he still hadn’t seen her. She must have taken a shortcut. Reid cooled down walking back to his jeep. He grabbed a water bottle from inside, leaned against it and drank. Reid absently nodded to the others going and coming from the trails. Knowing what car she drove, he glanced around and noted her vehicle was gone.

"Way to go, you missed your chance to talk to her." He got in his vehicle and started it. "Oh well, it wasn’t meant to be." He already knew he wouldn’t have the guts to even try to talk to her again.

Excerpt From: Assassin's Heart

The neighbourhood wasn't that different from most in the city. The streets filled early each morning with men and women trying to sell their goods or services. Women walked in groups, chattering about the latest church gossip as they made their way to the sanctuary to pray. Children ran, weaving their way through the numerous adults, joyous laughter following wherever they went. Men stood on the kerbs, calling out to the people walking by in an attempt to garner some business and, in turn, money for the day.

This was the place Rhys Metzger called home. His family had emigrated to the States from Italy, after his Italian mother had disgraced her family by getting pregnant and marrying a German man, when Rhys was still in his mother's womb. The tenement they lived in wasn't in the best shape, but his parents had figured their stay there would be temporary. It would serve its purpose of keeping them dry when it rained, warm in the winter and relatively cool in the summer months. Within three years of moving into the small, two-bedroom apartment, the family of three had grown to five with the births of a brother and a sister. Rhys hadn't minded living in close quarters until he had turned sixteen, when it had become his goal to find a home of his own and a place in the grand scheme of the things called life. That was five years ago. He was now twenty-one and still living in the same cramped apartment with his family.

While his neighbourhood was extremely segregated, with most households refusing to speak to anyone not of Italian heritage, Rhys had become good friends with a man who had come to court his sister. The man, a Greek by the name of Theo Kostas, worked in his family's fish market and had put in a good word for Rhys when he had asked about a job. It wasn't the most glamorous of occupations, but it allowed Rhys to pay for the things he wanted, put a little away for his own place and help his parents out when food became somewhat scarce in their home.

Rhys always enjoyed the walk to work, the sounds and smells of pastries and bread being made were always more of a comfort than a distraction. On this particular morning, Mother Nature had seen fit to put a chill into the air, even though it was the middle of April. Rhys pulled the old grey wool coat he wore tighter around him to protect against the breeze as he strode down the street, careful to avoid the children running in the opposite direction, laughs leaving their mouths. His eyes moved from the kids to the buildings looming ahead of him as he wove his way through the throng of people, mumbling ‘Excuse me' and ‘Pardon' as he slipped between them, gleaning a little of the neighbourhood gossip as he continued forward until the fish market came into sight.

Mornings at the market were always the same. Rhys and Theo would spend a couple of hours in the ice house breaking large blocks of ice into small enough pieces for the fish to be placed on to keep it fresh and chilled. The two had it down to a fine art. Theo would break the ice up and toss it into wooden buckets for Rhys to take to the three large wooden carts in front of the store. The process hadn't changed at all in the year in which Rhys had been working there.

Rhys walked into the small store, smiling as he greeted Theo's sister, making his way to the back room and removing his coat. He reached for his apron, which was hanging on one of the many brass hooks attached to the wall. He wrapped the starched and slightly blood-stained garment around his waist, tying the strings securely. The sound of footsteps drew his attention from what he was doing to the old man walking into the room. He smiled at Theo's father when the man looked up and acknowledged him.

"Good morning, Mr Kostas," Rhys said, greeting the older man.

Mr Kostas smiled and nodded. "Rhys. Dominic's going to be helping you with the ice this morning."

Rhys groaned inwardly at the news. "Yes, sir." He nodded, trying to hide his distaste for the man Mr Kostas had spoken of. Hanging his coat on the hook where his apron had been, Rhys exhaled deeply and walked out of the room and into the store. His green eyes focused on the tall, dark-haired Greek man he would be working with that day.

It was no secret that Dominic and Rhys didn't get along, but so long as the two didn't have to work together, everything usually went smoothly during the day. Rhys watched as Dominic grabbed a large hook, gave him a roll of the eyes and made his way out the back of the store. Sighing softly, Rhys followed him out to the ice house.

"How did I get stuck working with you?" Dominic asked as he slammed the hook into the first block of ice he saw, no doubt pretending it was Rhys' head.

Rhys went to the corner to retrieve the buckets used to carry the ice from the room. "I was just thinking the same thing," he replied with a smirk. "Look, let's just get this done so we can go back to avoiding each other, all right?"

Without another word spoken, Dominic continued to hack at a block of ice, grabbing the smaller pieces and tossing them into one of two buckets resting on one of the frost-covered tables in the room, while Rhys stood by and watched.

"And why is it you don't grab a hook and start in on the ice?" Dominic asked suddenly, between blows.

Rhys shrugged as he stepped to the table, checking to see how much ice was in each bucket. "Because every time Theo has me do it, he says the chunks are too big for the wagon and takes the hook from me. He says I should just wait for him to do it and then take the buckets to the carts."

"Figures," Dominic mumbled as he continued with his work.