Excerpt From: Made for Him

I’m not making a mistake. This is the chance of a lifetime. Everything will be fine.

Teri Choate locked her fingers together in her lap, watching through the helicopter window as the Friday afternoon sun lit the waters of the Atlantic Ocean below her. A representative of Micah Sheridan’s had arrived at her condo in San Antonio at noon to take her to the private airstrip where the Sheridan Worldwide helo awaited her. Now, as they got closer and closer to his private island off the coast of Maine, as the weekend loomed before her, she forced back the case of nerves that kept trying to take over her body. This weekend was a test, for both her and Micah Sheridan. He wanted to push her, to see if she could fully match his needs as a Dom. What would he ask her to do that would show him she trusted him completely?

She wanted desperately to unlock his heart, because she’d had the misfortune to fall in love with the man and that was a disaster in the making. Could she submit to him as completely as he demanded, no matter what level he took her to? And could he finally unlock the shackles he kept around his emotions to make their relationship emotional as well as physical? Commit to something long term?

She had struggled for so long with the clash between her submissive nature and her strong personality. It had been a big step for her, even before she’d met Micah, to blend those two parts of her. Two sides of the same coin. The result had been some less than satisfactory relationships, leaving her to constrain her sexual activities to impersonal sessions at The Castle, the private bondage club she belonged to. It never ceased to amaze her that while she ran an executive employment agency that served clients everywhere, making decisions that involved power and money, once she took off her clothes she turned into someone else. She was sure that was the reason she’d never been able to build a lasting relationship.

Until Micah Sheridan. The man she knew could take control without controlling her.

At thirty-eight he had amassed a global fortune and was both respected and feared in business communities all over the world. The world saw him as a man in elegantly tailored clothing with a sharp business mind and a ruthless attitude, yet still playing with all the toys a man of his wealth accumulated.

She’d done her homework on him. She was aware that this home she was on her way to was only one of many. He had a villa in Cannes, one in Acapulco, a condo in Hong Kong and a chalet in Switzerland. He raced cars for fun, skied both the Alps and the Andes, kept fully outfitted yachts at each of his villas, and never carried a suitcase because every one of his homes was outfitted with his needs.

But Teri knew he was also a man of wild, untamed sexual passion whose skills as a Dom were beyond anything she’d ever dreamed. He’d never been seen with the same woman twice. They were sleek and elegant and came from every country where he had offices or did business. Those who lived the BDSM lifestyle easily spotted the submissive nature of the women and secretly whispered about what went on behind Micah’s bedroom door.

Excerpt From: Mage Magic

Serena was in love. She had been from the moment she knew her child existed. Now, with the slight rise in her belly making her condition more noticeable, she was grateful for the long robes her station required. And yet she had never felt less worthy of being a priestess. She had fallen for the smooth words of a man and given him the life-changing gift of her virginity. He had used that gift to somehow pull a small portion of her power that had been bestowed from the goddess. Serena still didn’t know how he’d achieved that.

She did know that once she had fancied herself in love with him, and she had believed he was in love with her as well. But then she’d come across him with her friend, Lydia, and the steamy scene her gaze had taken in proved that he felt nothing for her. A few months later she’d discovered she was pregnant with Wilhelm’s child and knew that she must make plans to leave the castle and her friend, Queen Ona, before anyone else became aware. It was acceptable for a priestess to bring new life into the world, but not as an unmated woman.

She brushed her hands softly over the slight bulge of her growing child as she stood on the terrace of the Queen’s Temple and planned her journey to the Temple of the Goddess. Only by leaving could she ensure that her child would be safe. Serena could already feel the immense strength her nurturing babe held. This child would have more power than any priestess had ever known. The goddess had appeared to Serena in a vision and told her that she must journey by the next full moon, leaving her friends and the only home she’d ever known behind. And the moon would be full this night.

“Priestess.” Queen Ona’s voice pulled her from her thoughts as her friend joined her on the terrace. Ona was like a sister to her. They had been close since they were mere children and it broke Serena’s heart to realise she would never glance upon Ona’s face again.

“My Queen,” she said and gave a bow of her head in deference to the title her friend held. When she looked up and met Ona’s eyes, she saw the glisten of unshed tears there. “What is it? What has happened?”

“Everything changes this night,” Ona said as Serena grasped her hands and held tight. Rarely did they use the designations they were entitled to when alone. Here they were friends, sisters, and the Priestess and Queen just didn’t exist.

“What changes?” Serena asked and gasped when Ona slipped one of her hands down to cradle the bulge of Serena’s belly. “How did you know?”

“There is much I have been shown,” Ona answered. “And there is little time to see it all done.”

“What have you seen? What is it that comes our way?” Serena asked.

“The goddess has bestowed the gift of foresight on me for this event,” Ona said. “I know that with the dawn of tonight’s full moon you will begin your journey to her temple.”

Serena nodded, lost for words. Why would the goddess share this wisdom with another? Then she shook her head at the touch of jealousy and focused on speaking with Ona. Her friend was good and pure, and the queen they all loved and respected. Why not share it with her?

“Yes, I will travel at the first touch of the moon in the sky,” Serena told her.

“Yet, there is one more task I must ask of you before you leave,” Ona beseeched her. “One thing that you must do to ensure all is set for the future.”

“What is it?” Serena asked. “I will do whatever the goddess has bid you to ask of me.”

“I know you will, sister,” Ona said and hugged Serena close.

They stood that way for a long moment, just holding onto each other, both seeking and giving comfort to one another. Finally Ona pulled back and led Serena back into the heart of the Queen’s Temple. She stopped in front of the golden chest and, taking a chain from her neck, she bent to open it, revealing the Staff of Light.

It glowed, a mixture of the gold and pure white that formed it.

“What are you doing, Ona?” Serena gasped.

Never was the Staff to be removed from the protective case. If it fell into the wrong hands there was no limit to the destruction that could be caused.

“You must take this with you to the Temple of the Goddess,” Ona said. “It is the only thing you will carry on your journey. It will hide you so that no one will see you as you travel. It will protect you from the elements and see you safely to your destination. Once you reach the Temple you will be met by the keepers. One will show you another container much like this one that will be the new home for the Staff.”

“I don’t understand,” Serena said. “Is it no longer safe within these walls?”

“No,” Ona answered. “There is one that hunts for it even now. It must not fall into his hands.”

Excerpt From: Maggie's Ménage

“You want me to play the whore for you? For the good of the company?”

“Watch your mouth Margaret Rose. Twenty five is not too old for a spanking young lady.” She turned to look her father in the eye, saw the rising colour on his face and couldn’t resist.

“Oh. You think that will make the men you have waiting hot for me. Show them a little kink to get them revved up?”

“Damn it Margaret. That is enough.” That vein was really throbbing in his head now. And the colour was slowly going from red to purple.

“Does the business mean that much to you, Daddy? More than me?” She already knew the answer but some inner demon forced the question out of her mouth.

“I’ve spent my whole life building this company and I’ll be damned if it dies out after I’m gone. The name Houston will count for something long after I’m gone.”

That demon was still there whispering in her ear. “I could run it. I know the ins and outs of the business. I thought you were grooming me for just that.”

He laughed. Her father threw his head back and laughed and that last bit of the needy girl searching for the crumbs of her father’s love disappeared. In her place was a woman he would regret creating.

“Like I would ever leave my baby to a woman. Your mother proved to be one failure after another. Only one child and even that was second rate. The damn woman couldn’t even stay healthy. It was a blessing when she died.”

Yeah, it probably was. For her mother. But for the four year old girl left behind it had been hell. She had always known that her father only let her work for him because he didn’t know what else to do with her. But that tiny spot had remained, unwilling to give up hope that she was wrong.

There was a knock at the door and her father Dom Alexander Houston turned from her. Dismissing her without a second thought. And the anger began to grow inside her.

“The gentlemen that you’ve been expecting are here Mr. Houston.” Her father’s personal assistant said from the doorway. The woman was young, blonde and built. And most certainly sleeping with the boss. Maggie felt sorry for her. She wouldn’t last any longer than the rest and when her father was done that was it. The poor girl didn’t have a chance.

“Send them in.”

Maggie stayed her ground refusing to leave without him coming right out and telling her to. If he forgot she was still here long enough then she would stay. Appearances meant everything to him and he would do nothing to seem more than a doting father.

Two men stepped into the room. Both were tall with dark hair. One was maybe six feet even with broad shoulders and a stocky build. His body rippled with muscles beneath the suit that was obviously tailored just for him. His hair was clean cut, almost military short. What there was of it was a dark brown, almost a mocha shade. His eyes when he glanced her way were a dark chocolate brown with what looked like flecks of gold in them but she would have to get a closer look to be sure.

The other one was taller, maybe six-foot-two or so with a much slimmer build. His clothes were just as tapered but revealed longer, leaner muscles. His hair was longer touching the top of his collar in back and dark as night. His eyes were a startling shade of blue that made one think of a perfect sky.

Testosterone oozed from them and filled the room. A shiver went down Maggie’s spine and she wondered which one her father wanted her to marry. She had to think that they must want it as much as the old man did or they wouldn’t be here. Neither seemed like the type that would be easily manipulated. No these were definitely alpha males. What she was planning for them might be more fun than she anticipated. But best of all it would destroy her father’s plans to marry her off to the man of his choice. She couldn’t contain the grin of triumph that tugged at her lips.

Let the fun begin.

Excerpt From: Maggie's Solstice

Mr Gorgeous smiled at Maggie and murmured, "How long will it take?"

Startled out of the trance brought on by coming across the most handsome green-eyed man she had ever seen—standing by the one working photocopier currently in residence at Outland Electronics—Maggie responded without thought. "I’ll be about ten minutes."

She’d promised her team a copy each of the latest feedback from the Project Solstice beta testing before she went in to talk to Paul, the MD.

The lips of Mr Gorgeous tightened slightly as he glanced about the busy office.

"I’ll tell you what," he said, shuffling the pile of papers in his hand into a neat block of A4 sheets. "If you could run off three copies of the set for me I would be incredibly grateful."

Good Lord! Maggie blinked twice. Did he actually flutter those incredibly long eyelashes at me?

She felt her mouth drop open. This he appeared to take as a mark of acquiescence. Without further ado he dropped the pile into her arms and said, "Leave them in Paul Outland’s office when you’re done, sweetheart."

He focused on her mouth as he spoke to her.

As if he was thinking of kissing it.

It was incredibly sexy.

Unused to such intense male attention, Maggie felt herself gulp rather than swallow. The movement of her throat was enough to shake him out of his reverie.

"Thanks," he said.

Mr Gorgeous strode away, his lean muscular body showing the expensively cut suit off to perfection.

He could have been a model, Maggie observed, wistfully watching him. As she followed his progress across the office, Maggie ended up regarding her own reflection in the glass that formed the partition between the photocopier room and the rest of Outland Electronics.

Look at me, she thought.

Maggie Short, a computer geek with no chic, she reminded herself, tucking her short untidily bobbed hair behind her ears and rubbing her chin with the sleeve of her jacket.

He had actually been staring at a rather large smudge of toner on her chin.

****

Her arms full, Maggie pushed open the door to the meeting room with her hip, before moving quickly to take her seat. She thrust the pile of stapled documents onto the table.

They slid across the smooth top until they halted in front of her business partner Paul Outland and the rather too handsome visitor.

"Have you got something to tell me, Paul?" Maggie snapped, any previous

fascination for the visitor long gone.

Outland, a nattily dressed man with a penchant for expensive silk ties, eyed her uneasily.

Maggie knew exactly why Paul looked so uncomfortable, just as she knew his inside leg measurement and shoe size. They had been at university together. As two new computer science graduates, they had set up Outland Electronics together.

Just as they ran the company together—or so Maggie had thought.

"Er…Maggie," Paul’s eyes flicked from herself to the man beside him, "this is Jack Greenfellow."

Oh yes, Greenfellow…of DigitalGreen! Maggie gritted her teeth. She knew all about Jack Greenfellow. The man whose company had poached two of their largest clients in the past six months.

She’d heard of him, but had never actually met him in person before, not until just over ten minutes ago.

What the hell does Paul think he’s doing?

Greenfellow stood and extended his hand.

Excerpt From: Magical Ménage

For the residents of Grand Falls, Colorado, their town was a haven, a safe place to be themselves. A mixture of the supernatural world that can be found in one place. The sheriff was a werewolf, the town mayor was a vampire, and the fire chief a witch. All the creatures who call this place home had the protection of not only the town but of all of its residents.

Madison Montgomery watched as the first snowflakes of the year fell outside the door of her bookstore. She loved this time of year—when the end of fall came and the first days of winter were upon them.

The town sheriff drove by in his SUV, and Madison stepped away from the window. She’d been avoiding Sheriff Tom since last winter, when on New Year’s they’d shared a deep sensual kiss. It had heated her blood and body and left her aching for more. By the look on his face, he’d also been surprised by the kiss.

Normally this wouldn’t have a problem, but Madison had also shared a kiss with another man—Dante—and that had thrown her through a loop.

Dante was the Master Vampire to the others in the area. He was like a father to them, connected by the sharing of blood.

Madison’s best friend and business partner, Angie, was a shifter who was dating a vampire Chad. Madison had come to love Chad as a brother. It wasn’t the vampire thing throwing her off with Dante, or not all of it anyway. Madison couldn’t figure out how she could have such a strong reaction to two very different men.

The bell above the door sang out as Angie rushed inside. “Oh wow! It’s cold out there!” she exclaimed.

Madison laughed, stepping back behind the counter. “Well, it does have to be pretty cold for it to snow.”

“Ha! Ha! Comedian,” Angie said as she unwrapped the scarf from her neck. The small bite marks that covered her neck stood out as if screaming ‘taken’. Her red hair shone against her white sweater as she brushed snowflakes from it.

She and Angie had been best friends for years. After losing the last of her relatives in a tragic fire, Madison had come to think of Angie as family.

Madison’s power as a witch was pretty minor compared to others in the town, but she’d never had proper training. Her mother had married a mortal and moved away. After her mother’s death, when Madison was nine, her father had refused to let any magic take place in the house. She and her brother Matt had learned at an early age to hide their magic from him. Two years later, when they’d moved in with their grandparents back in Grand Falls, Madison hadn't been ready to go against her father’s wishes so soon after his death. Her brother, however, had jumped right in practicing spells with their grandmother.

Thinking about Matt brought back a sharp pain in her heart, and she quickly shook her head and thought about something else. “How’s the party planning going?”

Angie grinned and clapped her hands together. “It’s going to be great! Everyone in town is coming.”

Madison knew that. It was the reason she was dreading the party. Turning to the coffeepot, she poured them each a cup. “Sounds pretty big,” she commented.

“Well it’s not every day you turn a hundred.”

Madison smiled into her coffee. That was true. Chad would be turning one hundred, and Angie was throwing him a big party at the town centre. She’d been working on the preparations for months now.

“Dante’s going to stay with Chad until it’s time to bring him into town.”

At the mention of Dante’s name, Madison made sure not to have a reaction. Six months after the kisses, Madison had confided in Angie. Now, her best friend was convinced Madison needed to spend the night with Dante or Tom or both. Madison kept telling her friend she needed time to figure it out, but Angie was relentless in her pursuit to get Madison laid.

Excerpt From: Magnus

To observe a Marine is inspirational. To be a Marine is exceptional.

“Get the fuck outta my face, right now, maggot, before I skin you alive and wear your ass as a hat. What the fuck do you think you’re doin’?” Colonel Joe ‘Magnus’ Rivers yelled at the recruit and snatched the M4 out of her hands.

“Colonel.” Gunny Paul Roberts tried to calm him, but Magnus was furious.

Of all the fucking stupid things. Damn it.

“Fuck that shit. She got Stewart shot! This is why women shouldn’t be on the front fuckin’ line. Fuck!” Magnus ran a hand over his face and handed the gun to Corporal Moore. “No fuckin’ way is this going to work.” He turned to walk back to the barracks. He couldn’t stand to be around her for a second more. Fuck ups like her got people killed. Sloppy didn’t cut it in his unit.

“Mag, Private Stewart wasn’t really shot.” Roberts rushed to keep up.

“I know that, Gunny. It’s the principle of the matter.”

“Oh, he knows another word besides fuck.” The words were almost too faint to be heard, but they reached the Colonel’s ears.

Magnus whipped around and got up into the recruits’ face. In a quiet voice, he addressed the woman.

“What did you just say?” There was no need to speak louder, his voice seethed with anger and he was about to snap.

She stared straight ahead and didn’t look him in the eye.

The only smart thing she’s done so far. Take a deep breath, man. Calm down. No one was really hurt.

Reasoning with himself sucked, but luckily for the recruit, he was able to leash his anger or she’d be down for the count, woman or not.

“Not so tough now, huh, Patterson? Drop and give me twenty.”

Without hesitation, she dropped to the ground and started counting out her pushups. Magnus would expect no less and his team knew it. No one fucked with Mag, at least not to his face.

“Moore, take over PT.” He turned back to Roberts and gestured for him to follow. “Roberts, I don’t think I can keep this up. What was the General thinking? This woman doesn’t belong here. She’s some military brat trying to prove herself. How are we supposed to make her into a soldier?” Magnus said in frustration.

Roberts looked back at the woman doing pushups.

“I don’t know, sir. Looks like you’re doing a good job to me.”

Magnus glanced back as well and waved his hand. “Physical exercise does not a soldier make. You saw her at the range. How the fuck did she make it out of boot?”

“Mag, it’s only been a few weeks. Give her a break,” Roberts tried to soothe him.

It wasn’t taking. He was still too furious. What if they’d been on a live exercise?

“I can’t. I wouldn’t let the guys get away with that shit. No fucking way am I giving the wannabe warrior a break. She’ll do it my way or I’ll kick her ass back to Daddy’s. We’re supposed to take her on fucking missions for chrissake.” He shook his head. “She’s going to get someone killed.”

“We have a month before we hea—”

Mag glared at Roberts. Without another word he entered the building, trying to forget the woman doing pushups in the yard.

Trouble with a capital T is what that one is.

Mag led Roberts to his office. “We need to go over the training schedule. I want us tight before we head into Sri Lanka. We’ll have to compensate for Patterson.”

“I don’t think you’re giving her enough credit. She made it through boot camp. Not even her dad’s rank would get her through that.”

“So she has guts, but can she really cut it?” Mag worried his lip with his teeth.

These soldiers were his responsibility and their families trusted him to bring them home alive, if a little dinged up.

“We have training time. Push her to the limit. You know the General isn’t going to take her off the team. We work with what we’ve got. That’s all we can do. Remember, this is a peacekeeping mission. If we do it right, a shot won’t even be fired.”

“Well, listen to you, the voice of reason. Fuck, Roberts. When did you get so smart?” Mag asked with a smile, letting the other man know he was teasing. He was finally cooling down a little. That’s why Roberts was his right-hand man. He wouldn’t want to go into a fight without him.

“Never mind that, I thought you had a training schedule you wanted to go over.”

Mag pulled up the chart on his computer and got to work.

Excerpt From: Magnus

To observe a Marine is inspirational. To be a Marine is exceptional.

“Get the fuck outta my face, right now, maggot, before I skin you alive and wear your ass as a hat. What the fuck do you think you’re doin’?” Colonel Joe ‘Magnus’ Rivers yelled at the recruit and snatched the M4 out of her hands.

“Colonel.” Gunny Paul Roberts tried to calm him, but Magnus was furious.

Of all the fucking stupid things. Damn it.

“Fuck that shit. She got Stewart shot! This is why women shouldn’t be on the front fuckin’ line. Fuck!” Magnus ran a hand over his face and handed the gun to Corporal Moore. “No fuckin’ way is this going to work.” He turned to walk back to the barracks. He couldn’t stand to be around her for a second more. Fuck ups like her got people killed. Sloppy didn’t cut it in his unit.

“Mag, Private Stewart wasn’t really shot.” Roberts rushed to keep up.

“I know that, Gunny. It’s the principle of the matter.”

“Oh, he knows another word besides fuck.” The words were almost too faint to be heard, but they reached the Colonel’s ears.

Magnus whipped around and got up into the recruits’ face. In a quiet voice, he addressed the woman.

“What did you just say?” There was no need to speak louder, his voice seethed with anger and he was about to snap.

She stared straight ahead and didn’t look him in the eye.

The only smart thing she’s done so far. Take a deep breath, man. Calm down. No one was really hurt.

Reasoning with himself sucked, but luckily for the recruit, he was able to leash his anger or she’d be down for the count, woman or not.

“Not so tough now, huh, Patterson? Drop and give me twenty.”

Without hesitation, she dropped to the ground and started counting out her pushups. Magnus would expect no less and his team knew it. No one fucked with Mag, at least not to his face.

“Moore, take over PT.” He turned back to Roberts and gestured for him to follow. “Roberts, I don’t think I can keep this up. What was the General thinking? This woman doesn’t belong here. She’s some military brat trying to prove herself. How are we supposed to make her into a soldier?” Magnus said in frustration.

Roberts looked back at the woman doing pushups.

“I don’t know, sir. Looks like you’re doing a good job to me.”

Magnus glanced back as well and waved his hand. “Physical exercise does not a soldier make. You saw her at the range. How the fuck did she make it out of boot?”

“Mag, it’s only been a few weeks. Give her a break,” Roberts tried to soothe him.

It wasn’t taking. He was still too furious. What if they’d been on a live exercise?

“I can’t. I wouldn’t let the guys get away with that shit. No fucking way am I giving the wannabe warrior a break. She’ll do it my way or I’ll kick her ass back to Daddy’s. We’re supposed to take her on fucking missions for chrissake.” He shook his head. “She’s going to get someone killed.”

“We have a month before we hea—”

Mag glared at Roberts. Without another word he entered the building, trying to forget the woman doing pushups in the yard.

Trouble with a capital T is what that one is.

Mag led Roberts to his office. “We need to go over the training schedule. I want us tight before we head into Sri Lanka. We’ll have to compensate for Patterson.”

“I don’t think you’re giving her enough credit. She made it through boot camp. Not even her dad’s rank would get her through that.”

“So she has guts, but can she really cut it?” Mag worried his lip with his teeth.

These soldiers were his responsibility and their families trusted him to bring them home alive, if a little dinged up.

“We have training time. Push her to the limit. You know the General isn’t going to take her off the team. We work with what we’ve got. That’s all we can do. Remember, this is a peacekeeping mission. If we do it right, a shot won’t even be fired.”

“Well, listen to you, the voice of reason. Fuck, Roberts. When did you get so smart?” Mag asked with a smile, letting the other man know he was teasing. He was finally cooling down a little. That’s why Roberts was his right-hand man. He wouldn’t want to go into a fight without him.

“Never mind that, I thought you had a training schedule you wanted to go over.”

Mag pulled up the chart on his computer and got to work.

Excerpt From: Maiden and the Lion

The gunshot woke her up from her dream.

Beatrice Summer had been half asleep in the backseat of her ’96 Plymouth Voyager. She was startled, feeling groggy at first. When she realised where she was, her heart plummeted. Had she picked the wrong place to park for the night? She had chosen it because it was near the gym she had a membership with—where she took showers and did her bathroom business. She had been living in her minivan for the past two weeks, ever since she had left her drunken, abusive father’s house. She didn’t have enough money to rent an apartment, especially after her father had swindled her out of her savings. She only had forty-five bucks in her purse to tide her over until her next pay cheque. Then, maybe, she could afford a cheap motel room. But until then, the backseat of her car would have to do.

Bea sat up, peering into the rear-view mirror.

Nothing. Nothing but gloominess.

She had parked on a clearing at the base of the bridge, near a railroad track, where nobody—including police patrol—could harass her for illegal parking and sleeping in her own car. The Harlem River gleamed in the darkness beyond the windshield. A sliver of moonlight squeezed between the dark, cloudy sky, illuminating the surroundings. The scenery at this time of the year was quite picturesque. Leaves started to turn yellow in early fall. Temperatures cooled down. But having been homeless for the past two weeks, Bea found nothing thrilling about the outdoors. She would happily trade the uncomfortable seat of her car for a nice warm bed, if she could.

A second gunshot jolted her from the remnants of her sleepiness.

There it was again.

Bea cringed. She craned her neck past the driver’s seat. The sound had come from up front—the bridge.

Then, she saw it. A figure fell from the bridge and plunged into a river.

Sweet Jesus Cheese Crackers.

She’d just witnessed someone falling. Or an attempted suicide. Assault?

She caught herself when she slid open the van’s door. Did she really want to do this? Involve herself in something dangerous? She should call nine-one-one and let the police sort it out.

But that person could still be alive.

Shit. What should I do?

Bea decided to poke around a bit. If she was careful, nobody would see her. Yeah, Bea, you’re a big girl. You’re brave enough to walk out from that drunken monster of a father, so you can face this type of situation.

She tucked away her glasses in safety and slipped into her flip-flops. She climbed down from the van. After the gunshots and the big splash of water, all she could hear was near-silence. Not even a car passed by on the bridge. She crept towards a low-growing thicket and crouched. She eyed the bridge. Didn’t see anyone. Or a car. Or the person who had fired the gun.

Bea dared herself to crawl farther into the river bank. There was a gravely spot where she could get into the water without having to jump and make unnecessary noise. She squinted, trying to distinguish between the reflections from the water and if there was a body floating.

Nothing.

She looked up to the bridge again.

It was pretty damn high. If that person had survived the bullet, there was only a slim chance he or she would still be alive after diving from such a height. The impact alone would crush that person’s lungs the moment the body hit the water.

Did people float after they plunge into a river? Like dead bodies on TV?

Bea got restless.

She should call nine-one-one and report what she’d seen.

Like, now.

There was no way…

Her breath stalled in her throat.

Holy shit.

She narrowed her eyes. At first, it was rather hard to spot, but it was there. A body slowly drifted along the current. The man was wearing dark clothes. Suit. Dark hair. His face was obscured by the water. Would he still be alive? Or was he dead already?

Her stomach lurched at her thought of touching a dead body.

But there was a chance he could still be saved.

Shit. What the hell…

Bea ditched her flip-flops and tiptoed into the water. She shivered. It was freaking cold. She crushed the last wave of hesitance and finally decided to swim silently into the river. Luckily, she was a pretty decent swimmer. She’d been part of the swimming team when she was in high school. A few dozen strokes and Bea was able to snatch the man’s collar. She pedalled back towards the bank. The man weighed a ton. Chills seeped into her bones. By the time she had reached the river bank, she felt as if she had competed for a marathon. Her lungs were burning.

Bea panted. She inspected the man.

He wasn’t breathing.

Excerpt From: Maison Plaisir

“Oh, you’re a human.”

The elegant, mature hostess who introduced herself as Madame Chabert eyed her with sheer curiosity. Isabelle Beaumont stiffened, feeling uncomfortable from being scrutinised like a rare artefact by some nosy curator. And what the hell did she mean by ‘you’re a human’? Of course she was a human. Who did Chabert think she was?

The hostess chortled when she saw the expression on her face. Her mellifluous voice echoed through the deserted lobby of Maison Plaisir. “No need to frown. I’m just surprised you’ve made it here at all.”

“I’ve been here before.” Belle shifted from foot to foot while anxiety knifed her gut-deep. “A few months ago. But everything looks different now.”

“Oh?” Madame Chabert’s expression changed as if she’d just realised something. “I forgot tonight is a waning moon. But I still can’t figure out how you were able to walk past the barrier.”

Waning moon? Barrier? Belle shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Never mind, dearie.” Madame Chabert dismissed her lightly. “It’s fate that you’re here. Now, what can I do for you?” She motioned Belle to follow her into a private sitting area.

Belle sat on one of the fancy chairs, studying her surroundings. Mason Plaisir had gone through some drastic changes. The last time her best friend Lisa had dragged her here, this lobby looked like something that came from The Matrix movie set. Chromed walls plastered everywhere. LCD screens with flashing binary codes had graced every available space while deafening industrial music pounded from the speakers.

At that time, Belle had only stayed in the lobby for a few minutes before she’d decided to ditch Lisa. Belle had thought they were going to a nightclub or something, and she certainly hadn’t thought Maison Plaisir would turn out to be a sex club. Actually, it was more than just a sex club. Maison Plaisir was the best-kept secret S&M club in town, hosting the most beautiful and talented pro dommes and doms. At least, that was what Lisa had told her. Belle didn’t stick around long enough to find out if the rumours were true. The moment she found out what Maison Plaisir was all about Belle had chickened out and ran.

It felt like irony that months later she’d decided to come back here. She was desperate. She needed to rent a date and Maison Plaisir was the only risqué establishment she knew. She was green in the naughty department and couldn’t gather her courage to call a local escort agency. Especially when her situation demanded secrecy. If her date couldn’t keep his mouth shut, the charade she was about to perpetrate would doom her to a lifetime of hell.

Belle examined her surroundings with wonder. From the fancy wallpapers and painted ceilings, to the elaborate woodworks and trims that festooned all the walls, Maison Plaisir resembled a museum rather than an S&M club. Even the hostess herself looked like somebody from the cast of Pride and Prejudice. Madame Chabert was dressed in a black silk ruffle shirt adorned with a big ruby cameo on her neck. Her black hair was swept upward in a tight bun. Her tight bodice accentuated her impressive hourglass figure and her long skirt swept the floor when she walked. Elegant. Refined. Classy. Belle remembered Maison Plaisir’s last hostess wore a red latex catsuit and five-inch stilettos.

Madame Chabert settled herself in a wingback chair across from the coffee table. “What do you wish for pleasure tonight, Miss…?”

“Isabelle Beaumont. I need a date. Probably for several weeks. I heard you can help me with that kind of service.”

Chabert’s eyebrows shot up. “A semi-permanent engagement. That can certainly be arranged. What is your preference?”

“A man, of course.” Belle said it a little too quickly. A nervous laugh followed. “I don’t really care about the overall appearance. Actually, I need a fake boyfriend. Someone I can show to my family for a few weeks to get them off my back.”

“I see.” Madame Chabert didn’t look surprised that Belle wasn’t looking for a whipping master. “We can arrange that as well.”

“How much do you charge for that?”

“Now, now, dearie.” Chabert twirled a finger. “Since you’re interested in a long-term engagement, you should discuss the payment directly with your choice of associate. We’re only facilitating the match-making in this matter.”

Excerpt From: Mandy's He-Man

Mandy had not been expecting her ex-boyfriend to grab her by the throat, not in such a busy nightclub. When she’d noticed him heading her way, she had tried to hide her instant, mind-numbing terror by standing as tall as her short-statured body would allow. Though she’d had a little too much to drink, she’d tried not to sway as she’d planted her black boot-clad feet firmly on the ground. With her legs spread slightly apart, head up and chin stuck out defiantly, she’d done her best to portray the image of a strong woman, and not that of the vulnerable victim she had been. But the rough feel of his fingers as they’d wrapped around her throat had been something she could not have prepared herself for.

Mandy, shocked by the suddenness of his attack, feared for her life, believing that he was there to follow through on what had been a constant barrage of threats to kill her. He would do it there and then in this grungy, dark club. The sounds from the heavy metal band would be the last thing she would ever hear. The colours swirling in Mandy’s head were in synch with her terror—sable and claret, violent reds and angry yellows spinning into a kind of black, angry vortex in her mind, making it hard for her to react.

Mandy always saw colours in her mind, ones that matched her emotions. She had since she was very young, not just the typical 'black means sad' and 'red means mad', but combinations that could rival any home decorator’s paint charts. Depending on her mood, varying shades, tones and shimmering hues—too many to even describe—splashed and swirled throughout Mandy Magenta’s head. Her mind’s colours, usually a comfort to Mandy, were now doing nothing to help stabilise her emotions. She needed to get a grip on her fear, push through the angry vortex and find some shades of power to give her the courage to fight.

As Conx—her biggest mistake—started dragging her by her throat towards the exit of the club, Mandy used all the strength she could muster to try to slow him down. She dug her heels ineffectively into the club’s sticky carpet, hitting and scratching at the hands gripping her throat, which had delivered so much pain in the past. Her efforts brought no response from her vicious ex, so Mandy began flailing her arms wildly to try to get someone to notice what was happening and intervene.

Perhaps the doorman will help me? If I could just get his attention, she thought.

Con leaned towards her and whispered, "Amanda, you’re a bad girl, hiding from me. It has taken up a lot of my time and energy to track you down. I told you what I would do to you if you made me angry again, and you know how much I enjoy our little games. It’s time to play."

The familiar, threatening tone had an instant effect. A paralysing ripple of fear travelled through her body, leaving a cold fever in its wake. Mandy was unable to stop the rash of goosebumps from breaking over her skin as a heaviness formed in the pit of her stomach, accompanied by memories of pain and degradation.

Mandy was now way past frantic. She couldn’t let Con take her out of the building. She had to fight harder.

I may as well die here, instead of in some back lane, probably more painfully. Fight him—kick, scream! C’mon, girl! she told herself, trying desperately to inspire some extra burst of inner strength to overcome her terror. But as she found the courage to continue her struggle, her efforts were quickly defused.

Con spat in her face. The shock of this disgusting action and the feel of the sticky glob of wetness dripping down her cheek made her gag, and she stumbled. The pain in her shoulder as Con jerked her upright again was so severe that it was all Mandy could do to stay conscious. As all hope faded, Mandy simply prayed that she would survive another of Con’s brutal attacks.

Mandy wasn’t sure what happened next. One second she was being choked, terrified for her life, in pain and being dragged away. The next she was standing behind a behemoth of a man and Con was in a heap on the floor.

She was crying. Big, fat tears rolled uncontrollably down her cheeks. She could not believe she had escaped from Con again. Her throat was painful and sore, but she would live.

JT had saved her.

What is he doing here? How could I have missed him in the club earlier? The air around her usually seemed to spark when JT was near. Mandy hadn’t thought this club would be the type of place he frequented—not that she really had a clue what type of place JT did like. She loved it there though. Because of the loud music and grungy look and feel of the place, Mandy fitted in—or at least, didn’t stand out. She knew some of the regulars, fellow stallholders from the local flea markets around Sydney. Markets like Glebe and Paddington, with a trendy and slightly feral feel about them. Places Mandy could sell her art and handmade jewellery, or draw portraits.

Con had always hated these types of clubs. It was probably another positive in the club’s favour, in Mandy’s opinion. He had preferred chic, trendy clubs full of what she suspected were superficial people just wanting to be seen in the 'right crowd'. In fact, the more Mandy thought about her relationship with Con, the more she couldn’t understand why he had even been interested in her at all. Mandy was not the 'in crowd'.

None of this thinking answered her original question, though.

What was JT doing there? Should she check and make sure that he hadn’t killed Con?

Not that she was worried for her ex. It was more that Mandy knew that Brodie, her neighbour’s boyfriend, would be pretty pissed off at her if he lost his Sydney Jets teammate to a jail cell.

Everything was going to be okay!

Excerpt From: Mark

Montana, 1886

Mark Prescott sat before a campfire set in the middle of a small clearing, just off to the side of a road. Surrounded by darkness, the fire was a small comfort, considering the mess he’d made of his life recently. Watching the flames dance before him as he warmed his supper, he felt a little less alone in the world. He wished he’d handled things differently with Jay.

He thought back to the man he’d left behind at Buckshot Ranch. Well, he hadn’t really left him behind. Jay was more of a friend than anything, and a quick fuck when timing allowed for it. Still, he’d miss him, but wished him all the best for the future, even though Jay didn’t feel for him the way he’d felt for the man.

He opened the bag that he’d hastily packed back at the ranch before taking off. It contained all of his worldly possessions, and a couple of cans of beans he’d managed to plunder from the mess hall, along with a loaf of bread. Tonight he’d eat well, his mind swimming with the things he intended to do when he reached his destination, the big city.

The plan was to find a job there. According to the talk he’d heard off and on from the other hands at the ranch, it was easy enough to get one. And now, standing at the side of the fire tending the beans, and toasting thick-cut slices of bread on a stick, he pondered how he would go about this. One thing was for certain—he’d had more than enough of ranch work. Going back there wasn’t an option. He’d make his way in the world from now on without help from anyone.

“Hey,” called a voice from out of the darkness. The voice sounded distinctly male.

He stood and grabbed a stick near him and held it in front of him in case he had to use it as a weapon. A rifle would have been more to his liking, but he was plum out of luck.

From the edge of the small clearing emerged a man who looked to be about his age, give or take a few years.

The man paused mid-step, clearing his throat. “I saw the fire from the road. Is it all right if I stop for a bit to rest?”

Mark wasn’t the most trusting person, especially when it came to people he didn’t know. “Sure,” he said with a nod, debating if it was the right decision to make.

The man was cute. His black hair cascaded to his shoulders, and, dressed in a pair of tight-fitting trousers with a cotton shirt unbuttoned mid-chest, he painted a perfectly handsome picture. As the man moved towards him, Mark averted his eyes from the stranger’s attractive, rugged-hewn face.

“Thanks,” muttered the stranger, moving closer to the fire. “It sure gets cold at night around these parts, even during the summer.”

“Yes,” replied Mark. He sat on the woollen blanket he’d unrolled earlier, another ‘gift’ from Buckshot. “You’re welcome to sit here, if you like.” He patted the space next to him. “It’s better than planking your ass directly on the ground.”

“Great, and thanks again. My name’s Maxwell, but everyone calls me Max.” He extended his hand.

“Mark.”

“Great to meet you, Mark. I’ve been walking all darned day. My feet are killing me.” He pulled off his boots and heaved an exasperated sigh of relief. “That’s much better.”

Mark couldn’t help but drink him in. Max was damned handsome, and, being in this close proximity to him, Mark’s cock stirred slightly inside his trousers. “I hear ya. I was cooking dinner. It’s nothing special, just beans and toasted bread. But I’m willing to share, if you like.”

“Sure, man. I’m just about starved. That sounds great.”

Mark smiled. He liked this guy already. There was something about him that told him Max was all right.

Excerpt From: Masochist

La Ville des Dieux...

The city of the gods.

Selena knew better. It was a city full of demons, devils, evil that preyed upon the weak, the vulnerable, the pitiless and the poor.

Mortal men owned the city, controlling the lives of all who lived within its vast borders. They called themselves gods. They weren’t. They were just men, with the faces of angels, godlike bearings...but they shared the weaknesses of all men—their sins, their lusts, their desires.

Selena pulled her black silk shawl up higher around her face, slipping through the crowd of patrons who’d come to La Maison d’Adonis—the house of Adonis—for the grand opening of the opulent hotel that would bear the owner’s name. It was a place of decadence and finery, the gilded golden luxury of the establishment as perfectly and beautifully made as the man himself.

Adonis.

The proprietor of the western district of La Ville des Dieux—the most beautiful of the four gods...and the cruellest of them all.

She was dressed in a floor-length, black gown, the sequins twinkling beneath the warm glow of the crystal chandeliers. Her dress was subtle, understated, yet flattering as it raised her full breasts and flared at her rounded hips. The expensive attire had cost her two months’ salary, but it was worth it—the expense, the sacrifices would all be worth it, very soon. The dress was necessary. Its opulence gained her entrance—its modesty allowed her to pass through the crowd without notice.

And that was exactly what she wanted—to pass without notice. No one would expect a simple, diminutive beauty who wore the crucifix of His Saviour draped around her neck—the outward symbol of God’s handmaiden...a nun by any other name—to do harm to a single person. But her sole purpose for being there was to do harm and to reclaim that which had been cruelly taken from her sixteen years ago.

Selena left the crowded ballroom and glided beyond the guest bathrooms into the elevator and rode to the forty-second floor. She then got off, silently disarmed the lock and slipped into the stairwell to climb the last three floors to the penthouse level. A guard awaited her as soon as her heeled feet left the dull grey concrete of the stairwell and sank into the plush, burgundy carpet.

"Excuse me, Sister, but I cannot allow you back here. The chambers in this hallway are private."

The guard was young, handsome...beautiful, as all of the god’s men were. He favoured beautiful things and beautiful people to mirror the perfect beauty of his own flawless face. That was why he’d taken her, defiled her—her beauty had reputedly surpassed his. But not anymore. Outwardly, maybe, but deep inside she was ugly, the core of her vile and hideous.

She knew what the guard saw when he looked at her—an ethereal angel, a stunning being touched by the divine. She smiled, disarming him with her loveliness before disarming him with her weapon. She raised her hand, trained the gun on his neck and pulled the trigger.

His eyes widened as he clutched his throat and gasped then crumpled at her feet in a heap.

Every movement was muffled, almost silent.

She stepped over the beautiful man and turned the corner. His room, she could easily tell, for another two guards stood before the double oak doors.

Selena smiled as she approached and the two men fell under her spell.

Her smile mimicked the pure luminescence of warm sunshine peeking through the dull grey of winter clouds. Before either could react, she shot them both, also in the neck. The mild neurotonic venom seeping through their blood stream would cause immediate paralysis. Unconsciousness would follow in seconds. They would think they were dying. But all would awaken...long after she was gone.

Only one needed to die this night.

She stepped over the prostrate guards and knocked gently on the door. There was no need for pretence. He knew she would come, for she’d told him. Sixteen years ago he’d taken her innocence and destroyed every dream she’d ever had. And sixteen years ago she’d promised him she would do the same to him someday. When he was at the pinnacle of success, she’d promised, she would destroy him as cruelly and carelessly as he’d once destroyed her. She kept every single one of her promises. She’d warned him then. And with a letter just weeks ago, she’d warned him again.

There was no need for pretence for he knew she was there, knew why she was there, just as he knew nothing would stop her.

Adonis.

He bore the face of an angel, and, with a simple touch, a single look, he could inflame the passions of both women and men.

His beauty and the desire he ignited with his touch—some said it was his gift, others said it was his curse

As Adonis stood in the doorway to his suite, staring into the ravished eyes of his past, he knew that this woman who had found pleasure beneath his touch was equally cursed by it.

He stepped aside and let her in.

The cobra entering the lion’s den. She was small...delicate even. To be disarmed by her diminutive stature was to be foolish. She was dangerous, deadly, and she’d come there to kill.

He closed the door behind her with a soft, ominous thud—the locking of the door sealing his fate...and hers. Tonight would forever change their lives, just as that night sixteen years ago—on this very same date—had irreparably altered their destinies.

There was no turning back—no space for redemption, for forgiveness. v"Selena."

She turned at the deep, husky lilt of her name on his lips. His accent was rich and heady, like potent brandy. Her shawl slipped to her shoulders as she lifted her head and met his gaze.

Piercing amber eyes bore into her, seeing through her, inside her, searing her body, marking her very soul. She shuddered despite herself. He knew the effect he had on women, men...her.

Excerpt From: Masochist

La Ville des Dieux...

The city of the gods.

Selena knew better. It was a city full of demons, devils, evil that preyed upon the weak, the vulnerable, the pitiless and the poor.

Mortal men owned the city, controlling the lives of all who lived within its vast borders. They called themselves gods. They weren’t. They were just men, with the faces of angels, godlike bearings...but they shared the weaknesses of all men—their sins, their lusts, their desires.

Selena pulled her black silk shawl up higher around her face, slipping through the crowd of patrons who’d come to La Maison d’Adonis—the house of Adonis—for the grand opening of the opulent hotel that would bear the owner’s name. It was a place of decadence and finery, the gilded golden luxury of the establishment as perfectly and beautifully made as the man himself.

Adonis.

The proprietor of the western district of La Ville des Dieux—the most beautiful of the four gods...and the cruellest of them all.

She was dressed in a floor-length, black gown, the sequins twinkling beneath the warm glow of the crystal chandeliers. Her dress was subtle, understated, yet flattering as it raised her full breasts and flared at her rounded hips. The expensive attire had cost her two months’ salary, but it was worth it—the expense, the sacrifices would all be worth it, very soon. The dress was necessary. Its opulence gained her entrance—its modesty allowed her to pass through the crowd without notice.

And that was exactly what she wanted—to pass without notice. No one would expect a simple, diminutive beauty who wore the crucifix of His Saviour draped around her neck—the outward symbol of God’s handmaiden...a nun by any other name—to do harm to a single person. But her sole purpose for being there was to do harm and to reclaim that which had been cruelly taken from her sixteen years ago.

Selena left the crowded ballroom and glided beyond the guest bathrooms into the elevator and rode to the forty-second floor. She then got off, silently disarmed the lock and slipped into the stairwell to climb the last three floors to the penthouse level. A guard awaited her as soon as her heeled feet left the dull grey concrete of the stairwell and sank into the plush, burgundy carpet.

"Excuse me, Sister, but I cannot allow you back here. The chambers in this hallway are private."

The guard was young, handsome...beautiful, as all of the god’s men were. He favoured beautiful things and beautiful people to mirror the perfect beauty of his own flawless face. That was why he’d taken her, defiled her—her beauty had reputedly surpassed his. But not anymore. Outwardly, maybe, but deep inside she was ugly, the core of her vile and hideous.

She knew what the guard saw when he looked at her—an ethereal angel, a stunning being touched by the divine. She smiled, disarming him with her loveliness before disarming him with her weapon. She raised her hand, trained the gun on his neck and pulled the trigger.

His eyes widened as he clutched his throat and gasped then crumpled at her feet in a heap.

Every movement was muffled, almost silent.

She stepped over the beautiful man and turned the corner. His room, she could easily tell, for another two guards stood before the double oak doors.

Selena smiled as she approached and the two men fell under her spell.

Her smile mimicked the pure luminescence of warm sunshine peeking through the dull grey of winter clouds. Before either could react, she shot them both, also in the neck. The mild neurotonic venom seeping through their blood stream would cause immediate paralysis. Unconsciousness would follow in seconds. They would think they were dying. But all would awaken...long after she was gone.

Only one needed to die this night.

She stepped over the prostrate guards and knocked gently on the door. There was no need for pretence. He knew she would come, for she’d told him. Sixteen years ago he’d taken her innocence and destroyed every dream she’d ever had. And sixteen years ago she’d promised him she would do the same to him someday. When he was at the pinnacle of success, she’d promised, she would destroy him as cruelly and carelessly as he’d once destroyed her. She kept every single one of her promises. She’d warned him then. And with a letter just weeks ago, she’d warned him again.

There was no need for pretence for he knew she was there, knew why she was there, just as he knew nothing would stop her.

Adonis.

He bore the face of an angel, and, with a simple touch, a single look, he could inflame the passions of both women and men.

His beauty and the desire he ignited with his touch—some said it was his gift, others said it was his curse

As Adonis stood in the doorway to his suite, staring into the ravished eyes of his past, he knew that this woman who had found pleasure beneath his touch was equally cursed by it.

He stepped aside and let her in.

The cobra entering the lion’s den. She was small...delicate even. To be disarmed by her diminutive stature was to be foolish. She was dangerous, deadly, and she’d come there to kill.

He closed the door behind her with a soft, ominous thud—the locking of the door sealing his fate...and hers. Tonight would forever change their lives, just as that night sixteen years ago—on this very same date—had irreparably altered their destinies.

There was no turning back—no space for redemption, for forgiveness. v"Selena."

She turned at the deep, husky lilt of her name on his lips. His accent was rich and heady, like potent brandy. Her shawl slipped to her shoulders as she lifted her head and met his gaze.

Piercing amber eyes bore into her, seeing through her, inside her, searing her body, marking her very soul. She shuddered despite herself. He knew the effect he had on women, men...her.

Excerpt From: Master Me

The Understudy by Lisabet Sarai

“It’s him!” Adele tugged at my shirt, almost hard enough to tear it. “Look, Sarah!” She pointed to the shiny black Lincoln cruising around the corner. “I still can’t believe it! We’re really going to have a chance to work with Geoffrey Hart!” The wooden porch shook as my friend literally jumped up and down with excitement. Adele’s temperament matched her fiery hair.

Of course my own heart beat faster than normal as the town car approached the inn at a sedate pace. Geoffrey Hart was a legend in American theatre. Since his first appearance off-Broadway ten years earlier, he had won every award in the world of drama. He’d played every prestigious role from Oedipus to Willy Loman. One summer in Central Park I’d seen him as both Hamlet and King Lear. He was astonishing, equally convincing as the callow, indecisive university student and the bitter, world-weary old man. His magical voice, full of nuance and music, reached the back row without amplification. His body language was eloquent with emotion. In both plays, he’d made me cry. His performances were an inspiration, one of the things that finally made me settle on drama—much to my parents’ chagrin.

I’d been thrilled when the Berk Hills Playhouse offered me a place for the summer. I never in a million years expected that I’d meet the man who had been such a role model.

But why on earth was he coming here, to a little summer stock theatre in the rural hills of western Massachusetts? The last news I saw, he was lead actor and part owner of the Gotham Repertory Company. What could possibly have induced him to abandon the city for the sticks?

“I heard that he broke up with Anne Merrill,” said Adele, sotto voce, as if she’d read my mind. “She dumped him. He’s come out here to the country to lick his wounds.”

“What? Who told you that?” I recalled the actor’s handsome face and imposing presence. It was hard to believe someone would dump him—he seemed like the type to do the dumping.

“I can’t reveal my sources.” Adele’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “But the word is that his heart is broken.”

Paradise of Pleasure by Trina Lane

“You want me to do what?” Mike Wright exclaimed.

Elaina Roman lifted her chin, and looked straight into the shocked, pale blue eyes of the slack-jawed man across from her. “I want you to tie me up.”

“During sex?”

“Yes.”

“Why on earth would you want something like that? It’s silly and theatrical. What we have is more important than games in bed. At least I thought so.”

“It has nothing to do with games, Mike. A couple who dabbles in BDSM or chooses it as a lifestyle doesn’t have any less of a meaningful relationship. Some would argue that they have stronger base for success because they’re honest about what they need. I want to try, is that so bad?”

“It’s not bad, El. It’s just not us. Isn’t what we have enough? Don’t I satisfy you?”

“What we do is fine, but haven’t you ever wondered if it could be more? We’ve been dating for six months, and I can count the number of orgasms I’ve had on one hand.”

Elaina watched her current boyfriend’s—or imminent ex-boyfriend by the way things were looking—face go pale. His eyes darkened in embarrassment or maybe anger. She still couldn’t read his expressions very well because they surfaced so infrequently.

“So if you’ve had so few orgasms, what’s with all the moaning and gasping when we’re in bed? Are you telling me you’ve been faking this whole time?”

“It’s not that I fake enjoying sex with you. I do enjoy it. You make me feel good. I just rarely ‘get there.’ Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. It’s…”

“It’s what? You started this. Go ahead, spit it out.”

“I was reading this book the other day about female sexual fantasies. In it the woman was describing being tied up by her lover. Being controlled, not by force but quiet authoritative command, and I…god, Mike, it made me so hot I nearly had to run to the ladies’ room in the lounge. I figured if reading about it got me so turned on, maybe experiencing it would be even better. I want to experience that with you.” Elaina looked down at floor in her Miami Beach condo. The cool travertine tile beneath her bare feet did nothing to dispel the heat in her cheeks.

Neil and Obey by Elizabeth Coldwell

The envelope was lying on the mat when Liz came home from work, addressed to her in handwriting she didn’t recognise. Ripping open the heavy cream stationery, she found an invitation inside. It read… Mary and Don Burney request the presence of Miss Elizabeth Webster and guest at the marriage of their daughter, Jillian, to James Anthony Steele, on Saturday November 6th at three p.m. at St. Michael’s Church, Greater Endover. Reception to follow at the Endover House Hotel. RSVP.

She scanned the wording again, not quite able to believe it. James was getting married, less than eight months after the two of them had split up. She’d kept on friendly terms with him after they’d gone their separate ways, so she knew he was seeing some girl he had met at a conference, but he’d never given the impression the relationship was particularly serious. There had certainly never been any talk of engagement and wedding bells.

He’d always told her he didn’t want to settle down. Now she realised he just hadn’t wanted to settle down with her. And while she’d been sure, deep down, that James would find happiness with someone else, she hadn’t expected it to happen quite so quickly. For a moment, she considered dashing off a reply to tell the Burneys she was sorry, but she wouldn’t be able to attend. Thinking about it a little longer, she had to admit she was actually curious to see the woman who had captured James’ heart in a way she’d never managed.

Her eyes were drawn again to the word, “guest,” on the invitation. If only she had someone to accompany her. The truth was, she’d barely been on a date since her break-up with James. She had thrown herself into her demanding job as the press officer for a small charity, which helped London’s rough sleepers, telling herself that when the time was right she would start looking for love once more. Petty as it might be, she simply didn’t want James to feel he had succeeded in meeting someone else where she had failed.

Liz propped the invitation on the mantelpiece, in a spot that had once been occupied by a photo of herself and James on the beach at Brighton. It had been her favourite snap of the two of them, taken not long after they’d started dating. How long ago that seemed now. She had a week before she needed to send a reply. If only a hot, available man could wander into her life before then, everything would be perfect.

Ever Unknown by Charlotte Stein

The email looked like nothing at all, really. No fancy fonts, no exclamation points—red or otherwise—nothing with any urgency in the subject line. Just the words, ‘for your attention,’ without a capital letter amongst them. Followed by a few abrupt sentences about nothing in particular. Molly Hunt had read a thousand like it before, and never batted an eye. But she batted an eye for this one. Oh, she batted an eye, all right. Mainly because of the last line, which at first glance, didn’t seem like anything at all. I would be deliciously pleased if you could rectify this issue.

Until she looked back, and found that, yes, this person really had, in fact, included the word “deliciously,” right in front of “pleased.” And whoever it was had used the word “pleased,” too, instead of something far more innocuous, like grateful. As though the email sender derived the greatest possible satisfaction from the idea of her filing her forms in the exact precise place.

Because that’s what the rest of the email had been about. Filing. This person had noticed that she’d filed something in the red box, instead of the green box, and he’d be deliciously pleased if she managed to rectify said filing mishap, as soon as possible.

Then he’d signed it not with a name she could search out, or a company ID she could unearth, but his initials…E.U. Like the conglomeration of European countries, only smaller, and hopefully a person. Even his email address looked to be an outside one, and said little more than those two letters—EverUnknown@hotmail.co.uk.

He could have been anybody—maybe it wasn’t even a he she was dealing with. Maybe it was Louisa in accounting who had a fetish for the word deliciously and hated bad filing. Maybe it was all just a mistake, some overzealous punching at the keyboard and somehow the word deliciously just fumbled its way in there, elbowing past more sane word choices to sit proudly amidst an otherwise normal email.

She’d had similar brain farts herself, though usually they involved typing the word butt when she’d meant but, as in that notorious email to the head of marketing. The one that had somehow ended up suggesting he use his ass instead of premium stock white card.

These things happened. So she wasn’t sure, exactly, why she was still thinking about it hours later. The word grew huge and curling behind her eyes, like something enchanted out of a genie’s bottle. It danced, and wriggled its hips, and said disturbing things like, if you reply, use a similarly incongruous word. Make it really out there like, “I’m so glad you caught my sexy error. I’d be only too happy to stroke it to correction.”

Fresh Start by Jane Davitt

The carpet against her knees had always felt soft when she was walking on it barefoot, but after forty minutes of kneeling, Helen was convinced that it was made of sandpaper, not wool. She shifted position, just a little, just an inch, and Connor’s hand moved.

God, that hurt.

How many times had he tugged sharply on the chain? She’d lost count. She’d tried to stay completely, perfectly still, but it wasn’t easy and the blindfold wasn’t helping. She wasn’t disorientated, just distracted. Connor was sitting at his desk, writing, and the scratch of his pen, and the rustle of paper, told her exactly where he was.

If he’d taken that sense away from her, too, plugging her ears, it wouldn’t have mattered. She could still smell him, each breath she took leaving her more helplessly aroused than before. It was a subtle seduction of crisp cotton and clean skin, and she wanted to find the places on his body where that scent became earthier, richer, and nuzzle into them.

She inhaled deeply and regretted it when the clamps pinching her nipples gave her away, the small bells hanging from them chiming, a cool sound, like water over rocks. The echoes were drowned in her moan when Connor sighed and pulled again at the slender chains linked to the clamps. The end of each chain was held in his hand, warmed by his palm as she’d discovered when he’d needed both hands to refill his pen. He’d coiled the chains and pushed them inside her mouth to hold, the irregular bumps pressing into her tongue and palate. The taste of the metal had lingered after he’d taken the chains out and she’d licked at her lips, trying to take the metallic tang away.

He wrote in navy ink, always, with a fountain pen worn shiny where his fingers gripped it. The sound of the nib travelling over the paper was like a language she didn’t speak but could guess at in places. It didn’t matter. She’d be given the pages to read and she’d see for herself where he’d changed his mind and scratched out a sentence with an impatient click of his tongue and be able to guess at why he’d done it.

Connor leant over, his leather chair creaking, and let go of the chains. Helen felt them strike her thighs softly, the chains swaying with her quick, caught breath. Small though it was, the additional weight increased the pain in her tender, tortured nipples. The clamps weren’t overly tight because Connor had known that she’d be wearing them for a while, but they’d been on for almost too long to bear.

Connor capped the pen and put it down, two distinctly different clicks. Helen hadn’t reached the state where she was floating, anchored by her awareness of Connor and a quiet exultation in the perfection of her submission. Not today. Not for a long time, really, though that was a passing thought, no more than that.

A Very Personal Trainer by Justine Elyot

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.

Excerpt From: Master Me

The Understudy by Lisabet Sarai

“It’s him!” Adele tugged at my shirt, almost hard enough to tear it. “Look, Sarah!” She pointed to the shiny black Lincoln cruising around the corner. “I still can’t believe it! We’re really going to have a chance to work with Geoffrey Hart!” The wooden porch shook as my friend literally jumped up and down with excitement. Adele’s temperament matched her fiery hair.

Of course my own heart beat faster than normal as the town car approached the inn at a sedate pace. Geoffrey Hart was a legend in American theatre. Since his first appearance off-Broadway ten years earlier, he had won every award in the world of drama. He’d played every prestigious role from Oedipus to Willy Loman. One summer in Central Park I’d seen him as both Hamlet and King Lear. He was astonishing, equally convincing as the callow, indecisive university student and the bitter, world-weary old man. His magical voice, full of nuance and music, reached the back row without amplification. His body language was eloquent with emotion. In both plays, he’d made me cry. His performances were an inspiration, one of the things that finally made me settle on drama—much to my parents’ chagrin.

I’d been thrilled when the Berk Hills Playhouse offered me a place for the summer. I never in a million years expected that I’d meet the man who had been such a role model.

But why on earth was he coming here, to a little summer stock theatre in the rural hills of western Massachusetts? The last news I saw, he was lead actor and part owner of the Gotham Repertory Company. What could possibly have induced him to abandon the city for the sticks?

“I heard that he broke up with Anne Merrill,” said Adele, sotto voce, as if she’d read my mind. “She dumped him. He’s come out here to the country to lick his wounds.”

“What? Who told you that?” I recalled the actor’s handsome face and imposing presence. It was hard to believe someone would dump him—he seemed like the type to do the dumping.

“I can’t reveal my sources.” Adele’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “But the word is that his heart is broken.”

Paradise of Pleasure by Trina Lane

“You want me to do what?” Mike Wright exclaimed.

Elaina Roman lifted her chin, and looked straight into the shocked, pale blue eyes of the slack-jawed man across from her. “I want you to tie me up.”

“During sex?”

“Yes.”

“Why on earth would you want something like that? It’s silly and theatrical. What we have is more important than games in bed. At least I thought so.”

“It has nothing to do with games, Mike. A couple who dabbles in BDSM or chooses it as a lifestyle doesn’t have any less of a meaningful relationship. Some would argue that they have stronger base for success because they’re honest about what they need. I want to try, is that so bad?”

“It’s not bad, El. It’s just not us. Isn’t what we have enough? Don’t I satisfy you?”

“What we do is fine, but haven’t you ever wondered if it could be more? We’ve been dating for six months, and I can count the number of orgasms I’ve had on one hand.”

Elaina watched her current boyfriend’s—or imminent ex-boyfriend by the way things were looking—face go pale. His eyes darkened in embarrassment or maybe anger. She still couldn’t read his expressions very well because they surfaced so infrequently.

“So if you’ve had so few orgasms, what’s with all the moaning and gasping when we’re in bed? Are you telling me you’ve been faking this whole time?”

“It’s not that I fake enjoying sex with you. I do enjoy it. You make me feel good. I just rarely ‘get there.’ Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. It’s…”

“It’s what? You started this. Go ahead, spit it out.”

“I was reading this book the other day about female sexual fantasies. In it the woman was describing being tied up by her lover. Being controlled, not by force but quiet authoritative command, and I…god, Mike, it made me so hot I nearly had to run to the ladies’ room in the lounge. I figured if reading about it got me so turned on, maybe experiencing it would be even better. I want to experience that with you.” Elaina looked down at floor in her Miami Beach condo. The cool travertine tile beneath her bare feet did nothing to dispel the heat in her cheeks.

Neil and Obey by Elizabeth Coldwell

The envelope was lying on the mat when Liz came home from work, addressed to her in handwriting she didn’t recognise. Ripping open the heavy cream stationery, she found an invitation inside. It read… Mary and Don Burney request the presence of Miss Elizabeth Webster and guest at the marriage of their daughter, Jillian, to James Anthony Steele, on Saturday November 6th at three p.m. at St. Michael’s Church, Greater Endover. Reception to follow at the Endover House Hotel. RSVP.

She scanned the wording again, not quite able to believe it. James was getting married, less than eight months after the two of them had split up. She’d kept on friendly terms with him after they’d gone their separate ways, so she knew he was seeing some girl he had met at a conference, but he’d never given the impression the relationship was particularly serious. There had certainly never been any talk of engagement and wedding bells.

He’d always told her he didn’t want to settle down. Now she realised he just hadn’t wanted to settle down with her. And while she’d been sure, deep down, that James would find happiness with someone else, she hadn’t expected it to happen quite so quickly. For a moment, she considered dashing off a reply to tell the Burneys she was sorry, but she wouldn’t be able to attend. Thinking about it a little longer, she had to admit she was actually curious to see the woman who had captured James’ heart in a way she’d never managed.

Her eyes were drawn again to the word, “guest,” on the invitation. If only she had someone to accompany her. The truth was, she’d barely been on a date since her break-up with James. She had thrown herself into her demanding job as the press officer for a small charity, which helped London’s rough sleepers, telling herself that when the time was right she would start looking for love once more. Petty as it might be, she simply didn’t want James to feel he had succeeded in meeting someone else where she had failed.

Liz propped the invitation on the mantelpiece, in a spot that had once been occupied by a photo of herself and James on the beach at Brighton. It had been her favourite snap of the two of them, taken not long after they’d started dating. How long ago that seemed now. She had a week before she needed to send a reply. If only a hot, available man could wander into her life before then, everything would be perfect.

Ever Unknown by Charlotte Stein

The email looked like nothing at all, really. No fancy fonts, no exclamation points—red or otherwise—nothing with any urgency in the subject line. Just the words, ‘for your attention,’ without a capital letter amongst them. Followed by a few abrupt sentences about nothing in particular. Molly Hunt had read a thousand like it before, and never batted an eye. But she batted an eye for this one. Oh, she batted an eye, all right. Mainly because of the last line, which at first glance, didn’t seem like anything at all. I would be deliciously pleased if you could rectify this issue.

Until she looked back, and found that, yes, this person really had, in fact, included the word “deliciously,” right in front of “pleased.” And whoever it was had used the word “pleased,” too, instead of something far more innocuous, like grateful. As though the email sender derived the greatest possible satisfaction from the idea of her filing her forms in the exact precise place.

Because that’s what the rest of the email had been about. Filing. This person had noticed that she’d filed something in the red box, instead of the green box, and he’d be deliciously pleased if she managed to rectify said filing mishap, as soon as possible.

Then he’d signed it not with a name she could search out, or a company ID she could unearth, but his initials…E.U. Like the conglomeration of European countries, only smaller, and hopefully a person. Even his email address looked to be an outside one, and said little more than those two letters—EverUnknown@hotmail.co.uk.

He could have been anybody—maybe it wasn’t even a he she was dealing with. Maybe it was Louisa in accounting who had a fetish for the word deliciously and hated bad filing. Maybe it was all just a mistake, some overzealous punching at the keyboard and somehow the word deliciously just fumbled its way in there, elbowing past more sane word choices to sit proudly amidst an otherwise normal email.

She’d had similar brain farts herself, though usually they involved typing the word butt when she’d meant but, as in that notorious email to the head of marketing. The one that had somehow ended up suggesting he use his ass instead of premium stock white card.

These things happened. So she wasn’t sure, exactly, why she was still thinking about it hours later. The word grew huge and curling behind her eyes, like something enchanted out of a genie’s bottle. It danced, and wriggled its hips, and said disturbing things like, if you reply, use a similarly incongruous word. Make it really out there like, “I’m so glad you caught my sexy error. I’d be only too happy to stroke it to correction.”

Fresh Start by Jane Davitt

The carpet against her knees had always felt soft when she was walking on it barefoot, but after forty minutes of kneeling, Helen was convinced that it was made of sandpaper, not wool. She shifted position, just a little, just an inch, and Connor’s hand moved.

God, that hurt.

How many times had he tugged sharply on the chain? She’d lost count. She’d tried to stay completely, perfectly still, but it wasn’t easy and the blindfold wasn’t helping. She wasn’t disorientated, just distracted. Connor was sitting at his desk, writing, and the scratch of his pen, and the rustle of paper, told her exactly where he was.

If he’d taken that sense away from her, too, plugging her ears, it wouldn’t have mattered. She could still smell him, each breath she took leaving her more helplessly aroused than before. It was a subtle seduction of crisp cotton and clean skin, and she wanted to find the places on his body where that scent became earthier, richer, and nuzzle into them.

She inhaled deeply and regretted it when the clamps pinching her nipples gave her away, the small bells hanging from them chiming, a cool sound, like water over rocks. The echoes were drowned in her moan when Connor sighed and pulled again at the slender chains linked to the clamps. The end of each chain was held in his hand, warmed by his palm as she’d discovered when he’d needed both hands to refill his pen. He’d coiled the chains and pushed them inside her mouth to hold, the irregular bumps pressing into her tongue and palate. The taste of the metal had lingered after he’d taken the chains out and she’d licked at her lips, trying to take the metallic tang away.

He wrote in navy ink, always, with a fountain pen worn shiny where his fingers gripped it. The sound of the nib travelling over the paper was like a language she didn’t speak but could guess at in places. It didn’t matter. She’d be given the pages to read and she’d see for herself where he’d changed his mind and scratched out a sentence with an impatient click of his tongue and be able to guess at why he’d done it.

Connor leant over, his leather chair creaking, and let go of the chains. Helen felt them strike her thighs softly, the chains swaying with her quick, caught breath. Small though it was, the additional weight increased the pain in her tender, tortured nipples. The clamps weren’t overly tight because Connor had known that she’d be wearing them for a while, but they’d been on for almost too long to bear.

Connor capped the pen and put it down, two distinctly different clicks. Helen hadn’t reached the state where she was floating, anchored by her awareness of Connor and a quiet exultation in the perfection of her submission. Not today. Not for a long time, really, though that was a passing thought, no more than that.

A Very Personal Trainer by Justine Elyot

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.

Excerpt From: Master of Wrath

Loken plunged his blade into the Keeper’s gut and wrenched upwards until it found a new home in the man’s heart. Twisting savagely, he watched as the light died from dull eyes, then yanked the knife free and spun in a crouch. Unfortunately, the only assailants left standing were too preoccupied to meet the business end of his dagger. He relaxed his muscles and cleaned his blade on the jacket of his last kill. A nearby boulder—wide, flat and free of blood—made for a convenient perch on which to watch the remaining Keepers fight a losing battle.

As always, the woman’s fluid grace and technique was a marvel to watch. Her flowing, black hair followed the arc of her body through twists and flips like a live extension…as did the three-foot sword she used to dismember her opponents. There were only two left now and Loken grinned in amusement as their every attempt to turn and flee was disabled by the offensive attacks of the ruthless assassin.

Finally realising that escape was futile, the two came up with the brilliant idea to rush the female together with blunt knives in hand—their guns having been stripped away at the onset of the fight. The ensuing outcome of that tragic mistake was as predictable to him as the pathetic pleas of mercy that had spewed from the men’s mouths just moments ago. The woman feigned surprise by taking a step back and turning around to show them her vulnerable back, lining them up beautifully.

In one smooth move she made a full-body rotation, bringing the sword up so that exactly one inch of the tip kissed the tender skin below their jaws. Only when the thud of their bodies hitting the ground sounded did she turn back to wipe her blade on the shirt of one of the men before sheathing it in the scabbard strapped to her back.

With no surrounding cities or mountains to hinder the vast-reaching glow of the full moon, her flashing smile and exultant eyes were easily seen in the darkness of the night as she faced him. Loken raised one eyebrow and pointed to a previously fallen Keeper who was trying in vain to crawl away undetected some distance from them. The woman glanced in that direction and after drawing a throwing knife from her belt, effortlessly pegged the man in the back of the neck.

“That was your kill,” she said angrily.

Loken shrugged. “Apparently the stab wound in his shoulder wasn’t enough for him.”

“You’re getting sloppy.”

“Nope. Just keeping you on your toes.”

Kiress snorted and looked at the nine lifeless bodies littering the otherwise peaceful stretch of desert landscape. “Like this misguided bunch of freaks could give me a decent challenge. Did you hear the shit that sorry excuse for a Keeper was puking up? Knowing I have a genetic commonality with these losers makes me want to peel my own skin off.” She shivered dramatically to emphasise her revulsion.

The Keeper in question, also the leader of the ragtag band of recruiters for the son of Death, had gone through the same old tired spiel they’d heard from countless other followers. “Serve Mikel and the God of Death will grant you everlasting favour and power at his side!” As though empty promises could sway the minds of two people who had just run them off the road, taunted them from their vehicles then pulled out deadly weapons in an obvious bid to end their lives.

You had to admire that kind of stupidity. It took talent.

“Loki, we’ve been at this for a year,” she growled. “When the hell are we going to get a hold of this Mikel?”

Loken stood and sheathed his own blade. “As soon as you quit lopping off the heads of the leaders long enough for me to get some new information.”

The innocent batting of lashes and parting of heart-shaped lips in shock was adorable and completely false. Kiress matched him in nearly every aspect. From the striking features to the volatile attitude and predilection for combat—their only difference being his ruggedness and penchant for wrath compared to her angelic countenance and penchant for passion.

Excerpt From: Master of Wrath

Loken plunged his blade into the Keeper’s gut and wrenched upwards until it found a new home in the man’s heart. Twisting savagely, he watched as the light died from dull eyes, then yanked the knife free and spun in a crouch. Unfortunately, the only assailants left standing were too preoccupied to meet the business end of his dagger. He relaxed his muscles and cleaned his blade on the jacket of his last kill. A nearby boulder—wide, flat and free of blood—made for a convenient perch on which to watch the remaining Keepers fight a losing battle.

As always, the woman’s fluid grace and technique was a marvel to watch. Her flowing, black hair followed the arc of her body through twists and flips like a live extension…as did the three-foot sword she used to dismember her opponents. There were only two left now and Loken grinned in amusement as their every attempt to turn and flee was disabled by the offensive attacks of the ruthless assassin.

Finally realising that escape was futile, the two came up with the brilliant idea to rush the female together with blunt knives in hand—their guns having been stripped away at the onset of the fight. The ensuing outcome of that tragic mistake was as predictable to him as the pathetic pleas of mercy that had spewed from the men’s mouths just moments ago. The woman feigned surprise by taking a step back and turning around to show them her vulnerable back, lining them up beautifully.

In one smooth move she made a full-body rotation, bringing the sword up so that exactly one inch of the tip kissed the tender skin below their jaws. Only when the thud of their bodies hitting the ground sounded did she turn back to wipe her blade on the shirt of one of the men before sheathing it in the scabbard strapped to her back.

With no surrounding cities or mountains to hinder the vast-reaching glow of the full moon, her flashing smile and exultant eyes were easily seen in the darkness of the night as she faced him. Loken raised one eyebrow and pointed to a previously fallen Keeper who was trying in vain to crawl away undetected some distance from them. The woman glanced in that direction and after drawing a throwing knife from her belt, effortlessly pegged the man in the back of the neck.

“That was your kill,” she said angrily.

Loken shrugged. “Apparently the stab wound in his shoulder wasn’t enough for him.”

“You’re getting sloppy.”

“Nope. Just keeping you on your toes.”

Kiress snorted and looked at the nine lifeless bodies littering the otherwise peaceful stretch of desert landscape. “Like this misguided bunch of freaks could give me a decent challenge. Did you hear the shit that sorry excuse for a Keeper was puking up? Knowing I have a genetic commonality with these losers makes me want to peel my own skin off.” She shivered dramatically to emphasise her revulsion.

The Keeper in question, also the leader of the ragtag band of recruiters for the son of Death, had gone through the same old tired spiel they’d heard from countless other followers. “Serve Mikel and the God of Death will grant you everlasting favour and power at his side!” As though empty promises could sway the minds of two people who had just run them off the road, taunted them from their vehicles then pulled out deadly weapons in an obvious bid to end their lives.

You had to admire that kind of stupidity. It took talent.

“Loki, we’ve been at this for a year,” she growled. “When the hell are we going to get a hold of this Mikel?”

Loken stood and sheathed his own blade. “As soon as you quit lopping off the heads of the leaders long enough for me to get some new information.”

The innocent batting of lashes and parting of heart-shaped lips in shock was adorable and completely false. Kiress matched him in nearly every aspect. From the striking features to the volatile attitude and predilection for combat—their only difference being his ruggedness and penchant for wrath compared to her angelic countenance and penchant for passion.

Excerpt From: Mastering Maya

"Who the hell is she?"

The crack of the Domme’s single-tail whip punctuated Stephen’s question. Raven hair cascaded to her waist, swinging in time with the steady strokes she layered on her bound victim’s naked back. She danced around the flogging bench like a ballerina, bringing the leather thong down on the still-unmarked areas of skin with astonishing grace and precision. The brawny blond man stretched lengthwise along the padded trestle jerked each time the whip found its mark. The sub’s gag effectively muffled any vocal reaction, but Stephen had a clear view of his engorged cock poking through the hole in the bench. Pre-cum slicked the shaft. Meanwhile, the blond’s buttocks clenched around the plug embedded in his anus each time the Domme’s lash struck. Obviously, the sub was enjoying the woman’s expert beating.

It was the woman who held Stephen’s attention, though. Her simple, severe outfit—a white crêpe blouse, narrow navy skirt and broad belt—highlighted her lush curves. The half-buttoned top revealed the shadowed valley between her breasts. As she travelled from one side of the bench to the other, seeking the optimal angle for her next stroke, he noticed the slit in her skirt, facilitating her movements but also offering glimpses of creamy thigh.

His own cock swelled in his tight leather trousers, but not because of her extraordinary body. Stephen-Master Shark, as he was called by others in the lifestyle-had known many beautiful women, in the most intimate of senses. No, her face—her expression—was what transfixed him, making his balls ache and his palms itch to stroke and slap that ripe flesh. She wore a look of utter calm and total concentration, even as she brought the lash down with increasing ferocity. Only her eyes betrayed her excitement. As she applied the whip to the submissive’s reddening backside, she did not smile. He saw none of the manic glee he felt when administering a flogging. Her self-control was absolute.

"The Ice Queen," his friend Tom-Master Thomas-replied to his almost-forgotten question. "Amazing, isn’t she?"

"The Ice Queen? That’s her scene name?"

The woman paused to murmur in the sub’s ear and gently knead his crimson butt. The blond shook his head, clearly indicating that he wanted more. For the first time, her lovely mouth curved into the ghost of a smile. Stationing herself where the sub could see her, she unfastened her blouse one slow button at a time and slipped it off her shoulders. Now Stephen could see the rise and fall of her breathing—so her exertion had taken some toll, at least—and the dark nipples peeking through her white lace bra. The Domme was aroused after all, despite her impassive demeanour.

Her mini-striptease had the desired effect. The naked yearning in the shackled man’s face made Stephen grin. His own imprisoned erection throbbed, mirroring the sub’s urgency.

"No, no, that’s just her nickname. No one would dare call Maya that to her face. But you can see where it comes from."

Stephen inclined his head in silent assent, watching as the kinky scene continued to unfold.

The black-maned beauty stepped closer to her bound victim and fondled his cock. The man writhed against the padded horse. "You’re such a pain slut, James. I imagine you want me to use the cane now, don’t you?" Her voice was a low alto, smooth and warm as single-malt Scotch.

The man’s straw-coloured locks fell into his eyes as he gave a vigorous nod. She swept them back from his brow and captured his gaze. "Are you certain you can take it?"

Another nod. Stephen realised he was holding his breath. He forced himself to exhale.

"Very well. You do know better than to come, correct? You wouldn’t want to make me angry."

Excerpt From: Masterpiece

Rome, Italy

1605

“But Signora Fontana—five thousand florins?” Gia Vessa asked, still unable to comprehend the substantial amount of money being offered for one of her paintings.

“I am getting the better part of the deal, signorina. The piece will have a place of prominence amongst the others in my collection.” At fifty-three years of age, Lavina Fontana was a master artist. She patted her young protégée on the hand as they sat on Lavina’s terrace, just outside the Vatican.

“But you already have three of my works.”

“Hush now, mia dolce. You have great potential as an artist. I wish to help you as I had help when I was first starting out. Now, no more talk of filthy money.” She leaned closer to Gia. “What of your mysterious new benefactor? Is he as handsome and sinister-looking as they say?”

Heat crept up Gia’s neck to enflame her face. She couldn’t have dreamt up a more darkly alluring man. She nibbled briefly on her lower lip and contemplated her answer. “He is terribly handsome, Signora Fontana,” she said in hushed tones. “Sometimes I think he is the devil himself come to tempt me!”

The two women giggled with girlish delight.

“My sources tell me he is quite wealthy.” Lavina looked at Gia from the corner of her eye. “Has he kissed you yet?” she inquired, a devious grin playing about her lips.

After this conversation, Gia was certain her cheeks would be forever stained crimson. “No, no, Signora Fontana—he doesn’t even know I exist! As an artist, perhaps, but certainly not as woman.”

“Ha! I do not believe he is that ignorant! Signorina, are you not aware of your beauty? Your violet eyes, your shimmering, burnt umber hair… No, I think that you deny what everyone else knows to be a fact.”

Gia focused her gaze on the toes of the soft, leather walking shoes that were peeking out from under her russet skirts as she re-adjusted the knot of the cream coloured kerchief behind her neck. There was nothing special about her. She was plain. Naught about her stood out—not like the other girls she’d grown up with in the little hill town of San Leo, with their wheat-gold hair and light coloured eyes in varying hues of ocean-greens and sky-blues. “Signora Fontana, you are too kind.”

Lavina stood and took Gia by the chin. “You mustn’t be so shy, mia dolce. You must taste the bread before you make an agreement with the baker.”

Gia looked at Signora Fontana, awaiting an explanation of the metaphor.

Lavina smiled. “Would you buy a cow without knowing how sweet the milk tasted?”

Gia leaned towards her mentor. Perhaps she wasn’t hearing her correctly.

“Let him taste your lips, mia dolce—there is no harm in that,” the older woman whispered.

Gia’s sharp intake of breath as understanding dawned made Lavina chuckle.

“There is nothing wrong with a little teasing now and again. Who invented kissing, do you suppose?”

Gia felt as if she were twelve years old again, sitting on her father’s knee, listening to him fumble through the answer to her question about boys and kissing. The girls in the village had told her about how a man takes the maidenhead of a woman with his prick, but their stories had lacked the precious details of what else happened between the sexes. Her father was all she’d had growing up, her mother having died when Gia was very young. Father had loved his wine. He’d evaded her question, answering her using words she did not understand—could not understand at that age. She had vowed never again to approach him with feminine, whimsical matters, and had kept her promise until he’d passed on two months ago. Now she gazed at her wonderful patroness, looking like a simpleton. She shrugged a shoulder in answer to Signora Fontana’s question.

“Why, God did, of course.” Lavina smiled.

Gia glanced down and attempted to relax the fists in her lap. “Signora, is it proper to think of such things?” she asked quietly.

Lavina laughed and returned to her seat across from Gia. “You have been sheltered for far too long by your father in that tiny village. You are twenty-five years old now and, by Venus, you should be thinking of such things, as you say! We are artists. Of all God’s creatures, we are the most passionate. And we draw our inspiration from many things, mia dolce.

“He does have the most beautiful hands I have ever seen.” Gia grinned as she revealed the dark secret to her best friend.

Lavina leaned towards Gia. “Let him kiss you. Let him touch you with those beautiful hands of his. You will know when to stop, but I warn you, he may not want to. You must be firm with him. Tell him…tell him you need some time. This is a good way to make a man come back for more, eh?”

Gia swallowed. “I see him again tomorrow, Signora Fontana.”

“Buono. See how the mood takes you. Let him set the pace.” She winked.

While Lavina called to her servants to set out an early supper on the terrace, Gia’s thoughts drifted to tomorrow. Now she anticipated the meeting with Signore Scarabassi even more than before. Her dreams were already so vivid she sometimes couldn’t tell them from reality. The union of Gia’s fertile imagination and Lavina’s encouragement had imprinted visions of detailed illumination in the young woman’s mind that were sure to haunt her mind during waking as well as sleeping hours.

Excerpt From: Matchmaker, Matchmaker

I’m going to kill him. It’s the only way to get out of this matchmaking contract, and I’m willing to do the jail time over it. Granted, I’m also betting I won’t be sent to jail. After all, I’ve matched most of the judges in the city and they adore me.

"I don’t approve of your choices." The tall werecougar loomed over me as if my picks would change if he growled a little more.

"You haven’t even met them." I held on to my temper...barely. I really longed to take my solid steel owl statue and smash it over his head.

"I will know my mate," he insisted.

"Great. Then go and meet these three women and let me know how it goes. Now, get out of my office."

A low growl rolled from his impressive chest. It was an unfair fact of life that all shifters were gorgeous. It didn’t matter what kind of animal—wolves, cats, or even the occasional rat...all gorgeous.

"No one talks to me like that." He stood over my desk, trying to intimidate me with his size and power.

I rolled my eyes and stood up. I barely came to his shoulder.

"Listen, sugar, I’m sure everyone in your clan thinks you’re the best thing since warmed milk, but I don’t take intimidation well. I gave you the names and pictures of three potential mates—go meet them. If none of them are your match then come back."

My patience, never very long to start with, vanished completely beneath his incredulous stare.

"I thought you were supposed to make me the perfect match."

"Making the perfect match is all about lining up the right people. The three women I’m setting up for you are potential mates, which means any one of them could be the right one, but it will need a combination of how far each of you are along on your personal evolution to determine a mate."

"You can’t just look at them and know?" His examined me closely with his feral gaze.

Actually, I could point out which one would be his perfect match, but people often fought against their instincts. If I pointed out girl number two, he’d go with number one or three then come back and yell at me about how they didn’t work out. It was best to let the man or woman pick. Once they met—and chose—the one I knew they would pick in the beginning, they settled down to domestic bliss.

Excerpt From: Mated

“I want to thank all of you for showing up here for me.”

Regan Matthews Spencer stood at the head of the table in the conference room at The Sentinels. On either side of her were the eight Sentinels, including her husband, Brian, and the newest additions. Ann Marie Knight, Drew Noland’s wife. Sierra Hart, married to Brian’s brother, Luke. And Mack Renfield, recently wed to Sentinel Kelsey Bryant. Like the eight original members of the protection agency, Ann Marie and Mack were also shifters. This meant that when they were needed in their wolf form, the team had additional help.

Now Regan, an assistant prosecuting attorney who had met Brian when she herself hired The Sentinels, was asking their help with a very personal problem.

“No problem, Regan.” Drew Noland smiled at her. “We’re all here for each other.”

“Well, I know you and Ann Marie…” she looked around the table, “and you, Cale, drove in from your ranches because I asked for the full team, and I really appreciate it.”

“You’re one of us,” her sister-in-law, Sierra, Luke’s wife, pointed out. “You ask, we’re here.”

Regan smiled, although it was a strained expression. “Well, thanks, anyway. This is very important to me. I may not need all of you but I wanted everyone’s input.”

“When did your friend disappear?” This from Cale Martin. Lean and dark, with thick black hair, he looked every bit the rancher he was. His ranch in the Hill Country was near Drew and Ann Marie’s and they’d driven in to the meeting caravan fashion.

“It’s actually my friend’s sister. Linnea Porter and I started in the prosecutor’s office together and we’ve always been very close. Some of you met her at our wedding.” She looked around the table again.

“Sorry,” he apologised. “My mistake. But if she’s that close to you then her sister’s disappearance has to have hit you hard, too.”

“Yes, it has. I met Cathy a number of times and I agree with Linnea. This isn’t someone who would just walk away from her friends and family without a word.”

Brian uncurled himself from his relaxed pose. “She’s been a great friend to Regan and me, so I’d really like it if we helped out with this. Linnea’s really distraught over her sister’s disappearance. Cathy Porter isn’t an irresponsible person, so you can bet something’s wrong here.”

“Especially since the police haven’t been able to find any trace of Cathy Porter in almost a month,” Regan added.

“Linnea’s at the end of her rope,” Brian told them. “Like Regan said, the investigation’s going nowhere and I think the cops are getting ready to stick it in the cold case files.”

“When was the last time someone saw her?” Mack Renfrew asked. When he and Kelsey Bryant had gotten married The Sentinels had added him to their group. Now he, Kelsey, and Luke and Sierra Spencer ran a northeast office of the agency in Maine where they all lived.

Regan took a deep breath and looked at her notes, although she knew the story by heart. “According to both Linnea and Cathy’s boyfriend, the last anyone saw her was when she left for work on a Thursday morning. She works for The Gage Foundation, one of the biggest philanthropic foundations in the city. She had some calls to make out of the office, checking on fund recipients. She was getting ready to do the monthly reports to donors and she had some questions she wanted answers to first. No biggie. She did that a lot.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Talking about this always upset her. “Anyway, she never showed up at the office and no one’s seen her since then.”

“I’m sure the cops checked with everyone she saw that day,” Mack commented.

Regan nodded. “Yes. More than once. But it’s like she just disappeared into thin air.”

Excerpt From: Mating Season

“I need you and Roarke to mate with me.”

Detective Gabriel Alekseev had just taken a sip of his morning coffee only to have it come spewing back up to stain the papers across his desk.

He stared at his partner and friend of almost two years, as if he was seeing her for the first time.

“What the hell did you just say?”

“You heard me, Gabriel. I need you and Roarke to mate with me,” Collette Talbot repeated as she folded her arms across her chest.

He stared at her in shock, unable to believe how calm she appeared, as if what she was suggesting wasn’t the least bit bizarre.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long breath. Where did he even begin?

“Okay, putting your statement aside for just a moment, can I ask you why you require the services of me and my best friend?”

For the first time since she’d barged into his office, she actually looked distressed. Well good, because that made two of them. She flopped down in the leather chair on the other side of his desk and released a sigh, her lovely cinnamon face glowing red as if she could barely contain a fury that simmered just beneath the surface.

“I’m in heat, or at least I will be in a week.”

Seconds ticked by in silence before he realised she wasn’t going to elaborate. “Okay, and?” He hedged.

“And, this will be my tenth cycle in heat.”

Gabriel felt all the blood he’d consumed that morning drain from his face. He wasn’t privy to all of the rituals that went with each supranatural species, but he knew enough about lycans to know mating season only came around once a decade, and it was a time of intense physical and sexual urges for lycan females, so intense that one man wasn’t always enough to satisfy her.

“You want Roarke and me to mate with you, during your mating season?” He frowned at the high pitch of his voice, shocked that he sounded like a teenage boy, but still more shocked by what she’d said.

“Yep, pretty much.” She shrugged, seemingly unfazed by any of this, and that made him all the more nervous.

“Pretty much? Damn it Collette, are you insane?”

Detective Collette Talbot cringed as her partner let loose a string of curses, his rising temper infusing his cheeks with crimson heat.

“You march in here, with this half-baked plan, and you haven’t even worked out all the details in your head, especially the part about how we’re partners and something like this could pose a problem. I can tell by how flippant you’re being that you haven’t even thought this through. When did you come up with this idea? Last night?”

This morning. “I don’t see why you’re so upset. And being partners really has nothing to do with this.” She wisely chose not to address the half-baked plan part. He was already mad enough.

Excerpt From: Maximum Exposure

Rob Jenkins climbed into the back seat of the yellow cab and took the first deep, calming breath since he’d gotten off the plane in Chicago. Collecting his suitcase had been a nightmare, as the crowd of meandering travellers at Midway Airport seemed determined to get in his way at every turn.

All the time he’d been dodging kids and dazed adults hurrying from one place to the next, he’d had Max on his mind. Their fights, the lack of intimacy plaguing them of late and his own refusal to play naughty with the man he loved. He shifted uncomfortably, remembering the last time Max had tried to get him to ‘show off his goods’. They’d been at one of the local clubs, drinking and partying it up after a long week of work, when Max slid a hand into Rob’s pants, giving his cock a stealthy squeeze. Of course, Rob had gotten an erection. But fear of discovery and ridicule had cooled his ardour almost immediately. Max had been upset, and the evening had ended with them in silent accusatorial anger and frustration.

The cabbie interrupted his thoughts. “Where to?” he asked in a heavily accented voice.

Rob looked up and saw the man’s dark eyes in the rear view mirror. “The Mason Arms on Michigan Avenue.”

He knew the ride would take about twenty minutes in good traffic. He’d thought about the flight from Indiana, the taxi ride and his other plans a million times before finally deciding to join his lover. Being away from him for the whole two weeks of Max’s conference seemed like a bad idea right now.

“You attending that big software convention at the Arms?” The cabbie made small talk as he pulled into traffic, smoothly accelerating.

“Meeting a friend.” Rob wasn’t in a talkative mood and hoped his clipped reply would shut the guy up. It did, and Rob fell back into his thoughts about Max and the argument they’d had before Max had left—another misfired sexual episode, another denial on Rob’s part—a fiasco extraordinaire.

He shuddered. He knew something had to change. Max needed those risqué moments Rob kept denying him.

They’d been together for six years, long enough for things to become a little dull sometimes, but they could get through it. Spontaneity wasn’t always an option when they both worked long hours, Max on computer software development and Rob on photo shoots. He also knew the roadblocks he’d tossed in the way added to the tension, and he regretted each and every one.

I’ll do better.

The cab jerked to a stop then lurched ahead, dragging him back to the present. Rob glared out the window just as the cab pulled into the long, curved driveway leading up to the front of the Mason Arms. His stomach clenched.

Max.

Excerpt From: Max's Italian Romance

“You know that I can’t afford a vacation.” Max Travis barely managed to suppress the sigh that wanted to follow. It was nice that his older brother called him every week, and Max knew he meant well. But being a partner in a huge public relations company meant living such a different life that sometimes Derek just didn’t get it.

Max desperately needed some time off, and was certainly entitled to the days after almost two years driving buses around New York City for the MTA. But he never seemed to have much money left over after paying for rent, groceries, and the occasional movie rental. What little there remained at the end of the month went into a savings account from which he hoped to buy a really decent camera one day. Like a Nikon D7000 with a few lenses, or maybe a Canon EOS. He mentally snorted. Yeah, right. Neither of them was even within a few miles of his budget right now, maybe ever.

“I don’t care if you can’t afford it. You need some time off and I’m going to make sure you get it.” Derek’s voice had taken on its ‘I’m your older brother and I know what’s best for you’ tone. “You’ve been miserable long enough, and your birthday is coming up, so there’s no way you can stop me.”

“It’s not like it was my choice to become miserable, you know?” Max pinched the top of his nose, trying to stave off the tears.

Being reminded of Steve’s fatal car accident on Valentine’s Day almost two years ago did that to him. He hated feeling weak like that, but damn it, he’d loved the guy. He’d been Max’s first real boyfriend. They’d met during orientation week at Eugene Lang College and had been inseparable for over three years. Then—in an instant— Steve’s life and promising future were taken away by the inattention of some drunken idiot who had decided he was still fit to drive.

“I know, Max.” Derek’s voice had gone soft, all traces of pushiness gone. “But you’re still alive and I think it’s time you remembered that. Steve wouldn’t have wanted you to be so unhappy. He would have wanted you to move on, find someone to love and become the photographer you’ve always dreamed of being.”

Excerpt From: Mayze

From the final pirouette to the grand jeté, Magda's attention never wavered from the scene in front of her eyes. It had been like watching a child surrounded by treats in a candy store. It was all so good that in the end you never really end up choosing.

Jas placed an arm around his older sister as they exited the theatre and walked out onto Sixty-Third Street. Columbus Avenue was bustling tonight, the weather glorious—warm with a subtle, soft breeze that prevented the heat from being oppressive.

The home of the New York City Ballet, the David H. Koch Theater, was one of three theatres located on the over-sixteen-acre Lincoln Center Campus in the city's west end. Magda had always loved ballet but had never before had the chance to actually see one.

* * * *

In the early nineties, when the war over independence had erupted in Bosnia, Jas was only twelve years old. Magda had been sixteen. Given that Bosnia's male children seemed to be more of a target than females, his parents feared for Jas' safety. At the age of thirteen, his parents sent him to New York City to live with his father's cousin, Adel, and her family.

It had been a tough decision for the family. The decision had not been made in haste, and his parents had changed their minds several times about sending him to New York. Jas remembered how angry he'd been at being sent away. He hadn't wanted to leave his family. The night before he'd actually left, his sister had sat up all night, quietly talking to him. She'd convinced him that it was the right thing to do and that soon they'd all be together again.

A few years later, eight thousand boys had been murdered by Serbs, helping to turn the tide of the war...and convincing his parents they had made the right choice in sending him to America.

Adel had always felt badly that she couldn't take in the entire family, but Jas' father had truly felt he had a duty to stay and help defend his homeland and wouldn't have left anyway.

His father had died in the conflict just before it was all over, and his sister—who wrote to him constantly, longing to come to America—had stayed behind to look after their mother, whose health declined rapidly after their father was killed.

Finally, two years ago, his sister had arrived in America. After their mother had passed away, they'd talked about it while Jas was home for the service. Magda was so excited. She'd been learning English for a few years in preparation and they always spoke English on the phone and exchanged emails in that language.

But when they saw each other at the airport five years later, Magda spoke to him in Bosnian, "Jasminko, zdravo, ja sam sretan sada."

"English, English, sister. You are in America now...and I am happy too." They'd held on to each other for a long time—all of the memories and loss filling them both for a few minutes—before they broke apart.

Jas had known things would be different now. Finally, Magda could leave the past behind her, too—as he'd already done.

It had taken a while for his sister to be able to address him as Jas. He didn't use Jasminko anymore. It was too long a name and people had problems pronouncing it. Not to mention, they always wanted to know what kind of a name that was. He'd have to explain where he was from, and that brought up a past that he didn't like talking about.

"You are so American," his sister had laughed at him as he'd driven her home from the airport that day.

She was right, of course. He'd been in the US now for almost eighteen years. Many things had changed in his life since he'd left Bosnia. His mother's cousin had been an Adem. Her father had been the oldest in the family, and he'd always wanted Jas' father to come with him to America. His father, however, had been very proud of his homeland, always believing he could make it better. Jas couldn't help thinking how different everything would have been if his parents had taken Magda and came to America before he was born. Maybe his parents would be alive today.

Excerpt From: Melting Melinda

“What can I do to make you come?” Ethan asked, his voice low and teasing.

Melinda George rolled the stemmed water glass between her fingers. Moisture glistened like tempting diamonds on crystal. One clear drop slipped down and splattered on the web of skin between her finger and thumb.

She stared at it intently. So much easier than meeting Ethan’s gaze across the linen-laid table. She licked her lips, wishing she could twist his words into a flirtatious come-on, but she couldn’t. Not with Ethan Thompson. Not with her best friend’s son.

“Nothing,” she answered, finally. “Your mom already tried to talk me into going, but I just can’t.”

“You love the beach house.”

Melinda glanced around the restaurant, begging Karen to hurry up and get there. Waiting in the romantic setting, across from Ethan, tempted every womanly cell in her body.

Off limits, Mel. Way off limits. Hurry up, Karen, before I eat your boy alive.

She chanced a look at him and nearly groaned. “Uh, stuff. Just, you know, stuff to do and things.”

Ethan’s slow smile melted her insides. “Stuff and things? Sounds really important.”

“Ma’am? Are you and your son ready to order?”

Melinda tensed. Of course, the waitress thought Ethan was her son. She popped her mouth open to tell the blonde that they were waiting for someone when Ethan’s warm hand covered hers, his thumb swiping at the moisture on her skin.

“Melinda? Honey? You have a son?” he asked in mock surprise.

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” the blonde said.

Honey?

“Sweetheart?” he asked again. Ethan gently pried her fingers off the water glass. Cupping her hand in his, his traced her palm with the fingers on his free hand.

She stared at it, sandwiched between his larger tanned fingers, in confusion. God, the ticklish strokes felt amazing. Each feather-light stroke coaxed an answering pull between her legs.

“I can come back later,” the waitress said uncertainly.

“You do that. We’re busy,” Ethan told her.

“Uh.” Melinda’s belated filler whimpered between her still-parted lips.

“Honey, I’m home—whoa—am I interrupting something here?” Larry dropped a negligent kiss on her crown.

She had a moment of recognition, instantly followed by dread, as Ethan slowly drew back his hands.

“Teaching the waitress about making assumptions,” Melinda hurried to explain. Her palm still tingled and she closed her fingers around the sensation before dropping her hand to her lap. “Ethan, this is Larry. Larry, Ethan is Karen’s son.”

Excerpt From: Melting the Minerals

Devin Wallace checked the map for the third time. She was surely on the right road, but the time she’d wasted getting here could cost her. She tried the engine again, but the ten-year-old pickup truck wasn’t going anywhere. She looked out the windshield, saw snow falling even harder than it had been ten minutes earlier and smacked the steering wheel with the palms of both hands.

“Son-of-a-bitch!” she muttered, then struck the dash with her balled fist.

She contemplated walking, but leaving the safety of her truck would be fifty times more stupid than the decision to drive north in front of a blizzard. If she stayed, someone might find her.

She hoped she wouldn’t freeze to death if she kept her head. But the decision to come north so suddenly was almost obsessive. She'd had to take the chance.

After grabbing her overnight bag from the seat beside her, Devin began to search through the contents. One bottle of water, a chocolate bar, two apples and a small bag of peanuts were her only food. Her nightgown, one pair of jeans, one pair of socks and one pair of underwear were the only other contents aside from her small makeup bag. Everything warmer was locked in the back of the truck along with her equipment. She’d have to get out of the truck to get to it, and that would let the cold in and the warmth out.

The clothing she wore was warm, so far. She thanked God for the hundredth time that she’d hastily invested in good winter gear for the trip. But there wasn’t anything on Earth that could fight off the low temperatures promised by the weather forecasters.

“What was I thinking?” she uttered, and stared at the thickening wall of white in front of the truck.

There was nothing to do but wait, hope someone would check the road for travellers, and pray. But the highway into Cedar Ridge, Saskatchewan, wasn’t a major route and she was pretty sure no one else was foolish enough to be driving around under these conditions.

She took off her wire-rimmed glasses, rubbed her eyes and quickly laid the glasses on the dash. There was no sense wearing something to help her see better when the world presented nothing but blinding snow. As the snow fell harder, waiting proved to be a test of her patience.

The temperatures plummeted and the long minutes sitting left her time to reflect on the foolishness of her actions. She had known better. It wasn’t in her nature to take chances, but this time she had. Her friends called her “Deliberate Devin” for a reason. She based all her actions on rational thought processes honed from years of scientific study. But all that intelligent reasoning seemed to have fled in the face of the obsession she felt to get north.

One hour and twenty minutes later, Devin was on the verge of panic. The inside temperature of the truck had dropped considerably, the snow quickly piled up, and she was fairly certain it had reached the bottom of the driver’s side running board.

She considered getting out after all and looking at the engine, but even if she could figure out what was wrong she’d lose what little heat her body provided in the cab. She pulled her knitted cap lower, lifted the hood of her parka, and wrapped her gloved hands around her shoulders.

Along with the other stupid acts she had mentally listed was precipitously cutting off her cell phone provider. She planned on getting a new one once she arrived in Cedar Ridge, one that wasn’t quite so expensive. Now, she’d give that chocolate bar in her overnight bag for phone service.

But that could be carved into her tombstone along with the dozen or so other mistakes she’d made.

No extra food, no warmer clothing readily available, failing to have her truck checked, neglecting her cell phone capabilities…the list went on.

Given her uncharacteristic lack of common sense, she found it incredible that she’d been awarded a Ph.D. But the chance to come north and make a new life for herself had clouded her senses. Now, she’d pay for not thinking.

And there was only one person on Earth who would care.

Uncle Ron.

Too late, she remembered that her uncle didn’t even know where she was.

Excerpt From: Men of Phuket: Tongue Thai'd

Tokyo, Japan

“Ryu, come. It’s time.” Kiku held open the door, revealing the black sedan, windows tinted, idling in the back alley.

“This sucks.” Ryu narrowed his eyes at the only man he’d ever loved. His hand tightened around the handles of his duffel bag.

Pain flashed across Kiku’s dark eyes. “I know.”

Ryu took a last look at his fellow White Tigers, his brothers on the path. They’d already said their goodbyes, but Ryu scanned their eyes. His gaze locked with Yuzo on the end.

Don’t worry, Yuzo, I won’t seduce your lover on the way to the airport. Ryu watched the thought rise in his mind and then let it pass. Pettiness was below a White Tiger, a trait completely lacking honour. As much as Ryu wanted to blame him, it wasn’t Yuzo’s fault that Kiku had fallen in love with him.

And it wasn’t really Yuzo’s fault that Ryu had to leave his home. Again.

He bowed to his brothers. “Sayonara.” There wasn’t time to embrace them all a second time.

“Now, Ryu.”

Ryu forced himself to turn and walk out. A guy in a dark suit and sunglasses opened the car door for him and Ryu had to remind himself he was being protected, not arrested. He felt like a criminal, stealing out in the still, humid air of dawn, rather than someone taking refuge from a criminal.

Kiku settled into the seat beside him and Ryu breathed a sigh of relief. At least he’d have this last car ride with him. The agent closed the door behind them, settled into the passenger seat and the driver started.

Ryu tried not to look through the dark tinting as Ni-Chome passed by him. At this hour, the bars and clubs lining their street were now closed, the neon signs dark, the sidewalks empty of the crowds who flocked Tokyo’s hottest gay nightspots after sunset. He’d grown up in this neighbourhood. Twenty-seven years was a long time to be in one place. He sighed and looked down at his hand still gripping the handles of his duffel.

The car stopped at the intersection, a little too hard. The jarring motion almost threw him against Kiku. He clutched the hand rest in the door with his other hand, pulling himself in the opposite direction.

Not that it would matter. Kiku didn’t love him that way. Life could really be cruel, making a person fall in love with someone who didn’t fall in love with you back.

The car resumed and Ryu continued to stare down at his jeans.

“Ryu, please, look at me.”

Ryu obeyed even though the other man’s dark gaze captured his, as usual. There wasn’t a time it hadn’t, even when Ryu was thirteen and Kiku was a wakashu, coming to his house to bring Ryu’s father his cut of the weekly earnings from his casino. Even then, Ryu had known Kikuchiya was different, not a true yakuza, not in his heart.

“I didn’t have any choice. I pray you don’t hate me.”

Ryu stared at the face he’d always thought as beautiful as a golden Buddha, smooth skin, wide set eyes, high cheekbones and sensuous lips. Hate him? Hate the one man who’d cared about him, saw something special in him when no one gave a shit, not even his own mother? “I could never hate you. Ever.”

Relief flitted through Kiku’s features, though his look remained solemn. “This is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”

Ryu’s heart sped up a bit. “Really?”

The other man bowed his clean–shaven head. “Of course it is. Don’t you understand? You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

Now his jaw nearly dropped. Ridiculous pleasure flushed through his chest. Could it possibly be true? Kiku was a man who expressed his emotions, but he’d never said anything like this, not even when they were lovers. “What about Yuzo?”

Kiku looked up. “Yuzo is sincere…I hope. He has stood by me through…this.” Kiku held up his left hand. The second finger-cutting he’d been forced to commit to appease Taro Suzuki had finally healed over. “But you’ve stayed by me even though…” His gaze shifted toward the window.

The rest of the sentence they both knew.

“Don’t make me go.” Without thinking, Ryu grasped the other man’s forearm. The muscle was hard under the thin sleeve of his shirt. “I’m older now. I box. I can face Suzuki. He won’t ever be able to—”

“Don’t say that word.” Kiku’s face darkened. “I won’t let that psychopathic yak take you in trade for Yuzo and I won’t ever let him touch you again. He’s filth.

You’re…precious.” His full lips pressed together and a muscle twitched in his jaw.

A memory flitted through Ryu’s mind. ‘Get the hell off him. He’s a kid.’ Kiku had stalked into the dark bedroom and loomed over Suzuki and his goon. Suzuki had rolled right off Ryu and did up his pants. Everyone knew Kiku was fierce and one of Naboru Miyazaki’s favourite ‘sons.’

Suzuki had also been a wakashu at the time, a bitter one who resented being an underling with Kiku when his own father was the oyabun of the Suzuki-gumi. If the elderly man learned of this intended insult to Ryu’s father, his chances of advancement would have completely vanished. However, that hadn’t stopped Taro from making

Kiku’s life a constant hell, either. Which included his current demand for Ryu.

Ryu’s hand still rested on Kiku’s arm. Their gazes locked. Ryu kept his hand where it was. He never wanted to let go.

Through the car window, he caught a glance of the Sumida River as they crossed over. There was still a chunk of time left until they reached the airport, but the urgency Ryu felt only intensified.

He dared to inch closer.

Kiku didn’t object. He reached up and fingered Ryu’s spiky hair, as if testing the shocking pink dye. “You should cut these tips. You’ll stand out.”

Cut his hair? Hell no. “I’ll be in fucking Thailand,” he said using that popular English swear word he knew. “What difference does it make?” He didn’t care that he sounded like the hoodlums he’d resisted becoming. “I want you to always be able to find me.” He waited for Kiku to scold his language.

Instead, Kiku’s touch slid down his cheek and he brushed one fingertip over the nose ring in Ryu’s left nostril. “Not fucking Thailand, Ryu. Phuket.” Brief humour sparkled in Kiku’s velvety eyes. “And I’ll always come and find you if you need me.” He tapped the nose ring. “This. Also too conspicuous.”

Heat tingled in Ryu’s cheeks. He’d never told Kiku his reason for getting the nose ring. No one knew. The others would tease him mercilessly for being a sap. At least, he believed they would. It didn’t matter anyway. Kiku was psychic, practically a mind reader, and very likely had already guessed. Which was probably why he hadn’t pushed Ryu to take it out before leaving.

Kiku’s touch on his skin made his heartbeat rise. Without meaning to, he tilted his face upward. Just one kiss, he thought. Just to say good-bye.

Kiku’s fingertips slid from his cheek. “It wouldn’t be fair to you,” he said softly.

Ryu’s breath caught. “What wouldn’t be fair?”

“What you were thinking.”

Kuso! “Why don’t you let me decide that? It seems to be the only thing I have any freaking control over in this situation.”

The sorrow in Kiku’s eyes shamed him. Kiku was the same man who’d taught him the path of the White Tiger, who’d showed him how to use sexual energy to heal his emotions. Just as sacred as their friendship was the relationship of teacher to student. He looked down. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you that—”

“Shh.” Kiku’s fingertips under his chin made him look up. Soft warm lips closed over his. Kiku’s hand cupped his cheek again. Ryu’s eyelids fluttered as he sank into the kiss. A thumb brushed his cheekbone, back and forth. Just like the first time Kiku had ever kissed him. Kiku’s kiss. The one tender thing Ryu had ever experienced in his life, that showed him there was more to the world than yakuza, than organized crime and rape.

Ryu’s arms and legs tingled. The gentle fire spread through his gut and made his dragon harden. He dared to let his hand wander under Kiku’s loose fitting shirt and sweep his fingertips across one side of the other man’s tight waist.

Kiku started slightly but remained in place, his hand caressing Ryu’s cheek.

Ryu moaned through their kiss, uncaring about the men in the front seat who no doubt could hear every breath and sound. It had been so long since he’d felt Kiku’s warm skin, the tight hard muscles underneath. So smooth and beautiful. He could imagine the white tigers inked onto Kiku’s chest as his fingers passed over it, the tattoos that had once marked him as a yakuza but had come to symbolize his commitment to his faith.

The pad of his thumb brushed over Kiku’s nipple. The larger man pulled in a tight breath and broke the kiss. “Ryu,” he whispered, breathing heavily. His dark eyes had a hungry edge now and the skin of his face had darkened.

Ryu suppressed a grin. So, Kiku wasn’t as immune to him as he came off. Just as soon, the shadow settled over his heart again. The message was clear. He pulled his hand out and rested it in his lap.

“It’s my failing,” Kiku said.

For a moment, the spike of hurt made Ryu want to agree. However, just looking into Kiku’s eyes made his heart melt all over again. “It’s no one’s fault.” His words were true, though he’d never stopped wishing things were like they’d been before Yuzo came along, when Kiku had shared his bed with him, taught him that sex could be beautiful, full of pleasure and not fear…

Kiku closed his hand over Ryu’s and held it, resting their interlaced fingers on one hard thigh. Ryu sighed, grateful for the contact, which, to his relief, lasted the rest of the way to the airport.

Once there, Kiku accompanied him through the terminal building, flanked by the plainclothes agents who made their little group appear more as a collection of friends come to see him off.

Ryu’s heartbeat increased the closer they drew to the security checkpoint. At the small gate, he dropped his bag to the floor and threw his arms around Kiku. In a moment like this, he didn’t give a shit about anything else, not even the tears that slipped from his eyes. Kiku and the others were going under heavy protection now. The Temple, their home and sanctuary would crawl with guards keeping an eye out for Suzuki and his goons. When the hell would he see Kiku again?

Thankfully, Kiku squeezed him back just as hard before pulling away. His dark eyes too, were misted over, as if he were holding back his emotions. “Don’t neglect your meditation,” he said softly, “partner or no partner.”

Ryu swallowed hard. “I won’t. But I’m coming back to you when this is over.”

To his surprise, a tiny smile teased the corners of Kiku’s lips. “I hope that you won’t want to.” Ryu stared at him. The words spiralled strangely through him and if Kiku hadn’t been so damn weirdly psychic, he wouldn’t have thought much of them. But before he could ask Kiku what he’d meant, the agent pressed the handle of his bag into his hand and steered him toward security.

Excerpt From: Men of Phuket: Tongue Thai'd

Tokyo, Japan

“Ryu, come. It’s time.” Kiku held open the door, revealing the black sedan, windows tinted, idling in the back alley.

“This sucks.” Ryu narrowed his eyes at the only man he’d ever loved. His hand tightened around the handles of his duffel bag.

Pain flashed across Kiku’s dark eyes. “I know.”

Ryu took a last look at his fellow White Tigers, his brothers on the path. They’d already said their goodbyes, but Ryu scanned their eyes. His gaze locked with Yuzo on the end.

Don’t worry, Yuzo, I won’t seduce your lover on the way to the airport. Ryu watched the thought rise in his mind and then let it pass. Pettiness was below a White Tiger, a trait completely lacking honour. As much as Ryu wanted to blame him, it wasn’t Yuzo’s fault that Kiku had fallen in love with him.

And it wasn’t really Yuzo’s fault that Ryu had to leave his home. Again.

He bowed to his brothers. “Sayonara.” There wasn’t time to embrace them all a second time.

“Now, Ryu.”

Ryu forced himself to turn and walk out. A guy in a dark suit and sunglasses opened the car door for him and Ryu had to remind himself he was being protected, not arrested. He felt like a criminal, stealing out in the still, humid air of dawn, rather than someone taking refuge from a criminal.

Kiku settled into the seat beside him and Ryu breathed a sigh of relief. At least he’d have this last car ride with him. The agent closed the door behind them, settled into the passenger seat and the driver started.

Ryu tried not to look through the dark tinting as Ni-Chome passed by him. At this hour, the bars and clubs lining their street were now closed, the neon signs dark, the sidewalks empty of the crowds who flocked Tokyo’s hottest gay nightspots after sunset. He’d grown up in this neighbourhood. Twenty-seven years was a long time to be in one place. He sighed and looked down at his hand still gripping the handles of his duffel.

The car stopped at the intersection, a little too hard. The jarring motion almost threw him against Kiku. He clutched the hand rest in the door with his other hand, pulling himself in the opposite direction.

Not that it would matter. Kiku didn’t love him that way. Life could really be cruel, making a person fall in love with someone who didn’t fall in love with you back.

The car resumed and Ryu continued to stare down at his jeans.

“Ryu, please, look at me.”

Ryu obeyed even though the other man’s dark gaze captured his, as usual. There wasn’t a time it hadn’t, even when Ryu was thirteen and Kiku was a wakashu, coming to his house to bring Ryu’s father his cut of the weekly earnings from his casino. Even then, Ryu had known Kikuchiya was different, not a true yakuza, not in his heart.

“I didn’t have any choice. I pray you don’t hate me.”

Ryu stared at the face he’d always thought as beautiful as a golden Buddha, smooth skin, wide set eyes, high cheekbones and sensuous lips. Hate him? Hate the one man who’d cared about him, saw something special in him when no one gave a shit, not even his own mother? “I could never hate you. Ever.”

Relief flitted through Kiku’s features, though his look remained solemn. “This is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”

Ryu’s heart sped up a bit. “Really?”

The other man bowed his clean–shaven head. “Of course it is. Don’t you understand? You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

Now his jaw nearly dropped. Ridiculous pleasure flushed through his chest. Could it possibly be true? Kiku was a man who expressed his emotions, but he’d never said anything like this, not even when they were lovers. “What about Yuzo?”

Kiku looked up. “Yuzo is sincere…I hope. He has stood by me through…this.” Kiku held up his left hand. The second finger-cutting he’d been forced to commit to appease Taro Suzuki had finally healed over. “But you’ve stayed by me even though…” His gaze shifted toward the window.

The rest of the sentence they both knew.

“Don’t make me go.” Without thinking, Ryu grasped the other man’s forearm. The muscle was hard under the thin sleeve of his shirt. “I’m older now. I box. I can face Suzuki. He won’t ever be able to—”

“Don’t say that word.” Kiku’s face darkened. “I won’t let that psychopathic yak take you in trade for Yuzo and I won’t ever let him touch you again. He’s filth.

You’re…precious.” His full lips pressed together and a muscle twitched in his jaw.

A memory flitted through Ryu’s mind. ‘Get the hell off him. He’s a kid.’ Kiku had stalked into the dark bedroom and loomed over Suzuki and his goon. Suzuki had rolled right off Ryu and did up his pants. Everyone knew Kiku was fierce and one of Naboru Miyazaki’s favourite ‘sons.’

Suzuki had also been a wakashu at the time, a bitter one who resented being an underling with Kiku when his own father was the oyabun of the Suzuki-gumi. If the elderly man learned of this intended insult to Ryu’s father, his chances of advancement would have completely vanished. However, that hadn’t stopped Taro from making

Kiku’s life a constant hell, either. Which included his current demand for Ryu.

Ryu’s hand still rested on Kiku’s arm. Their gazes locked. Ryu kept his hand where it was. He never wanted to let go.

Through the car window, he caught a glance of the Sumida River as they crossed over. There was still a chunk of time left until they reached the airport, but the urgency Ryu felt only intensified.

He dared to inch closer.

Kiku didn’t object. He reached up and fingered Ryu’s spiky hair, as if testing the shocking pink dye. “You should cut these tips. You’ll stand out.”

Cut his hair? Hell no. “I’ll be in fucking Thailand,” he said using that popular English swear word he knew. “What difference does it make?” He didn’t care that he sounded like the hoodlums he’d resisted becoming. “I want you to always be able to find me.” He waited for Kiku to scold his language.

Instead, Kiku’s touch slid down his cheek and he brushed one fingertip over the nose ring in Ryu’s left nostril. “Not fucking Thailand, Ryu. Phuket.” Brief humour sparkled in Kiku’s velvety eyes. “And I’ll always come and find you if you need me.” He tapped the nose ring. “This. Also too conspicuous.”

Heat tingled in Ryu’s cheeks. He’d never told Kiku his reason for getting the nose ring. No one knew. The others would tease him mercilessly for being a sap. At least, he believed they would. It didn’t matter anyway. Kiku was psychic, practically a mind reader, and very likely had already guessed. Which was probably why he hadn’t pushed Ryu to take it out before leaving.

Kiku’s touch on his skin made his heartbeat rise. Without meaning to, he tilted his face upward. Just one kiss, he thought. Just to say good-bye.

Kiku’s fingertips slid from his cheek. “It wouldn’t be fair to you,” he said softly.

Ryu’s breath caught. “What wouldn’t be fair?”

“What you were thinking.”

Kuso! “Why don’t you let me decide that? It seems to be the only thing I have any freaking control over in this situation.”

The sorrow in Kiku’s eyes shamed him. Kiku was the same man who’d taught him the path of the White Tiger, who’d showed him how to use sexual energy to heal his emotions. Just as sacred as their friendship was the relationship of teacher to student. He looked down. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you that—”

“Shh.” Kiku’s fingertips under his chin made him look up. Soft warm lips closed over his. Kiku’s hand cupped his cheek again. Ryu’s eyelids fluttered as he sank into the kiss. A thumb brushed his cheekbone, back and forth. Just like the first time Kiku had ever kissed him. Kiku’s kiss. The one tender thing Ryu had ever experienced in his life, that showed him there was more to the world than yakuza, than organized crime and rape.

Ryu’s arms and legs tingled. The gentle fire spread through his gut and made his dragon harden. He dared to let his hand wander under Kiku’s loose fitting shirt and sweep his fingertips across one side of the other man’s tight waist.

Kiku started slightly but remained in place, his hand caressing Ryu’s cheek.

Ryu moaned through their kiss, uncaring about the men in the front seat who no doubt could hear every breath and sound. It had been so long since he’d felt Kiku’s warm skin, the tight hard muscles underneath. So smooth and beautiful. He could imagine the white tigers inked onto Kiku’s chest as his fingers passed over it, the tattoos that had once marked him as a yakuza but had come to symbolize his commitment to his faith.

The pad of his thumb brushed over Kiku’s nipple. The larger man pulled in a tight breath and broke the kiss. “Ryu,” he whispered, breathing heavily. His dark eyes had a hungry edge now and the skin of his face had darkened.

Ryu suppressed a grin. So, Kiku wasn’t as immune to him as he came off. Just as soon, the shadow settled over his heart again. The message was clear. He pulled his hand out and rested it in his lap.

“It’s my failing,” Kiku said.

For a moment, the spike of hurt made Ryu want to agree. However, just looking into Kiku’s eyes made his heart melt all over again. “It’s no one’s fault.” His words were true, though he’d never stopped wishing things were like they’d been before Yuzo came along, when Kiku had shared his bed with him, taught him that sex could be beautiful, full of pleasure and not fear…

Kiku closed his hand over Ryu’s and held it, resting their interlaced fingers on one hard thigh. Ryu sighed, grateful for the contact, which, to his relief, lasted the rest of the way to the airport.

Once there, Kiku accompanied him through the terminal building, flanked by the plainclothes agents who made their little group appear more as a collection of friends come to see him off.

Ryu’s heartbeat increased the closer they drew to the security checkpoint. At the small gate, he dropped his bag to the floor and threw his arms around Kiku. In a moment like this, he didn’t give a shit about anything else, not even the tears that slipped from his eyes. Kiku and the others were going under heavy protection now. The Temple, their home and sanctuary would crawl with guards keeping an eye out for Suzuki and his goons. When the hell would he see Kiku again?

Thankfully, Kiku squeezed him back just as hard before pulling away. His dark eyes too, were misted over, as if he were holding back his emotions. “Don’t neglect your meditation,” he said softly, “partner or no partner.”

Ryu swallowed hard. “I won’t. But I’m coming back to you when this is over.”

To his surprise, a tiny smile teased the corners of Kiku’s lips. “I hope that you won’t want to.” Ryu stared at him. The words spiralled strangely through him and if Kiku hadn’t been so damn weirdly psychic, he wouldn’t have thought much of them. But before he could ask Kiku what he’d meant, the agent pressed the handle of his bag into his hand and steered him toward security.

Excerpt From: Finding Elliot

Riverside, Texas

Tuesday January 1, 2008

“Elliot!” David pushed one last time and shuddered as he came into the condom in short bursts. The relief was as explosive as it was short lived.

“What the fuck?”

The stranger’s voice brought David back to reality. Shit, this wasn’t Elliot, the man he still loved. This was some stranger he’d picked up at the Riverside New Year’s party. They’d had a good time, but now he couldn’t even remember the guy’s name. He closed his eyes for a moment. The situation was too embarrassing for words.

“I’m sorry.” David pulled out, dealt with the condom and donned his clothes as quickly as possible. Thank God it was mostly dark so he didn’t have to look the stranger in the eye. “I’m really, really sorry. I shouldn’t have agreed to this.”

“I’ll say!” The stranger switched on a bedside lamp, trying to cover himself with the sheet at the same time.

The light made David look up. The only similarities with Elliot were the man’s dark curly hair and his deep blue eyes. Nothing else about him looked right, and David couldn’t for the life of him explain why he’d gone with the guy. Trying to forget Elliot was as close to an answer as he could come. Considering he’d been doing that for years, without even a trace of success, only made the situation even more pathetic.

“I’m really sorry.” David cringed at his inability to say anything more sensible. He’d had his share of encounters in clubs, even the occasional visit to a stranger’s apartment, but he’d never actually said Elliot’s name when he was with another man.

“Look, I know this is only a one-night stand. But we did exchange names and I sort of expected you to at least remember that.” The stranger sat up and raked a hand through his short curls. “It’s not a real problem for me, but I think you need help. You’re still hung up on this Elliot guy.”

David nodded. He’d gotten the message loud and clear this time. He couldn't say or do anything to make this situation better so he left the bedroom, grabbed his coat from the back of the sofa in the living room and hurried out.

What had he been thinking? He closed the door of the stranger’s apartment behind him, made his way down the stairs and got into his car. The new year had started only hours ago. It was still dark and he was still alone. He shook his head as he drove along the deserted streets of his hometown. At twenty-two he should have known better than to expect another one-night stand to be the solution to his problem, no matter how attractive the guy had seemed.

He was still hung up on Elliot, even five years after they’d been forcibly separated when Elliot’s parents had moved away from Riverside. He’d never heard from Elliot again and hated to admit how much that still hurt. He hit the steering wheel with an open hand and the pain was almost a relief. He wasn’t one to make New Year’s resolutions, but this was different. There wasn’t anything he could do on New Year’s Day, but as soon as it was over, he was going to get help.

* * * *

The next morning, David stood in front of the office of Russiter Investigations, his woollen coat pulled tightly around himself. He hoped that his friend Peter would arrive soon so he could step inside the office building. The cold January air was crisp enough to make him shiver, even though there wasn’t much wind.

“David Lear, what a surprise to see you here this bright and early.” Peter’s voice came from behind him. “Must be urgent or else you’d have come at a more civilised hour.”

“You’re right, it's urgent.” David shook hands with his former high school classmate and college buddy. He watched him unlock the office door and switch on the lights before following him inside, carefully closing the outside door behind him. “You may not agree, but please hear me out. And don’t laugh.”

Excerpt From: Rediscovering Adrian

Riverside, Texas

Saturday April 26, 2003

“Adrian?” Peter Adams stared at his best friend whose eyes were luminous in the shadows of the backyard. “What are you doing out here?”

It was too chilly to be sitting on the swings, and anyway, the birthday party was inside the house. Rick was the third of their close group of friends to turn eighteen and he was celebrating in style, having invited everyone in their high school year. They’d had fun in the basement-turned-disco earlier, the whole group dancing as if there was no tomorrow. Peter had lost track of Adrian while he and Rick tried to cheer up David who was the fourth member of their group.

Adrian dropped his gaze and shrugged his shoulders, looking dejected.

“What’s going on buddy?” Peter sat on his haunches, resting his arms on his thighs as he tried to get Adrian to look at him again.

Adrian shook his head, his slightly too long brown hair covering his forehead and hiding his dark-copper eyes. Peter fisted his hands in an effort to stop himself from touching Adrian. They were best friends and that was all there was to it. If anyone found out how attracted he was to Adrian, including Adrian, bad things might happen. He didn’t want them to get separated like David and Elliot. Granted, those two had been caught kissing, not just touching, but knowing how traditional his mother and Adrian’s parents were, Peter wasn’t going to risk it.

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” Peter was determined to find out what was going on. He couldn’t stand seeing Adrian this depressed.

“Just the usual.” Adrian raked his hair before dropping his hand back onto his thigh and looking up. “Don’t worry about it. There’s nothing you can do about it, anyway.”

“The usual?” Peter took a deep breath. “Have they been harassing you about your height again?”

“Just teasing. You know what they’re like. I’m not a jock and never will be. Being called a baby, though, only because I’m small and just turned eighteen, got to me.” Adrian shrugged and dropped his head. “I just needed a moment alone. Didn’t want to drag you out here.”

“You didn’t drag me out here. I missed you and wanted to check what was going on with you.” Shit, that was way too close to the truth. Why could Peter never switch on his brain before opening his mouth? He’d have to learn someday soon or he’d never become a good PI.

“You missed me?” Adrian looked back up, something like hope in his eyes.

“Yeah, well…” How was he going to get out of this one?

“Oh, you mean…” Adrian looked hurt and Peter couldn’t stand it.

“I mean I missed you.” Peter was going to get into all kinds of trouble for this, but he couldn’t let Adrian believe he was all alone. Adrian was having enough trouble because his father didn’t like him or his hobby very much. Baking the most wonderful creations with his mother wasn’t 'manly' enough for his father. And most of their classmates made fun of Adrian because he was small and wiry, making him look much younger than he actually was.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Adrian sat up straight, making the swing move and his knee brush against Peter’s thigh.

“Well, yes, I mean we’re best friends, aren’t we?” There, that was safe enough. Peter could only hope that Adrian would drop it now.

“Yes, of course we are. But…” Adrian swallowed.

“What?” Peter’s heart started beating faster, partly hoping that Adrian was going to return his feelings and partly fearing that he would. “What are you trying to say?”

“I-I don’t know.” Adrian looked flustered and confused.

Excerpt From: Understanding Mark

Riverside, Texas

Friday, July 6, 2007

Rick Dealy needed a break. His muscles were stiff from sitting still all morning, his eyes hurt from staring at the computer screen, and his stomach was rumbling because he’d overslept and hadn’t had time for breakfast. This whole thing of having a job was nice for the bank account balance, but he didn’t enjoy the side effects. He’d never been this uncomfortable when he was still a student, even though he’d worked harder than most of his peers.

He looked up from his cluttered desk in the office Uncle Kaden had assigned him when he’d started working for the law firm of Dealy, Nichols & Warden almost a week ago. The clock indicated it was only lunchtime but he was already exhausted. Working twelve hour days to make a good first impression might be helpful to get a promotion. Unfortunately, it wasn’t doing anything for his stress level or general health.

“Go have some lunch, son.” Uncle Kaden had quietly appeared in his office door. He never seemed to make any sounds, just appeared in people’s offices or in meeting rooms without warning. “I’m impressed with your work ethic, but I don’t want you to kill yourself the first week here. My brother would never forgive me.”

“I just want to make sure I do a good job.” Rick stretched, his muscles screaming and joints popping. If he was this stiff after a few hours, he had to find the time to start going to the gym again.

“You don’t need to convince me.” Uncle Kaden grinned. “Over the past four years, you were the most dedicated intern we had. I can see that you’ll be one of our most diligent college graduates, too.”

“I’ll do my best.” He grinned back.

“I want you to take at least an hour off for lunch.” Uncle Kaden lifted his right index finger. “And no tagging it on at the end of the day. It’s Friday, so if anything, you should be going home early. And no taking work home for the weekend, either.”

Rick nodded. It was good advice. The weekend might be a good time to check out a couple of gyms, maybe find out how Peter Adams was doing. He’d been one of his three closest friends since high school and had obtained his criminal justice degree from a specialised college in Dallas at the same time as Rick had graduated from Riverside College. It had been good to reconnect with him when he returned.

Peter had joined Rossiter Investigations as a PI in June. It was great to have his friend back, just to hang out with. Thinking about it now, Peter might be in a similar situation and could become a valuable ally in Rick’s battle to stay fit.

Rick followed his uncle as far as the elevators. He waved goodbye when he entered and pressed the button for the ground floor. Once he’d bought a sandwich at the deli around the corner, he made his way to the little plaza with the fountain two blocks farther east. It was a beautiful day, if a little hot, and the cast iron benches near the fountain had the advantage of being under some old trees producing shade.

As he approached, he could hear a violin playing one of his favourite Mozart concertos. He smiled, realising that it had been much too long since his last live music performance. Another thing he needed to fix now that he had a job and was starting a new phase of his life. He followed the sound, curious as to who was the source.

The young man sitting on the wide stone border of the fountain, cradling his violin and playing with closed eyes, was stunning. His shoulder length dark brown hair fell in loose waves, framing his firm features. His sensuous lips were turned up in a small smile, an intriguing contrast to the frown of concentration on his forehead. His body looked toned and was clad in well-worn but clean jeans and a white T-shirt.

The realisation of who this was hit Rick like a ton of bricks.

Excerpt From: Saving Zeke

Riverside, Texas

Friday, June 20, 2008 By reading any further, you are stating that you are 18 years of age, or over.
If you are under the age of 18, it is necessary to exit this site.
Copyright © Serena Yates, 2011
All Rights Reserved, Total-E-Ntwined Limited, T/A Total-E-Bound.

Excerpt From: Saving Zeke

“Lacking emotional stability!” Ben Dealy sniggered as he repeated the summary of his evaluation aloud to no one in particular. He closed the front door of his house on the outside world and tossed his keys onto the little table in the entrance hall before going to lock his gun in the downstairs office safe. “What kind of a dumb-ass reason for not getting a well-deserved promotion is that anyway?”

He stomped to the kitchen to get himself a beer, which he intended to drink out on the deck. His house wasn’t big, but the back yard was nice and private. He loved sitting in his comfortable Adirondack chair, doing nothing more exciting than listening to the birds, breathing the fresh air, and watching the grass grow. As far as he was concerned, living just outside the city limits of Riverside was well worth the additional driving time.

He got a beer from the fridge, opened the bottle and gulped down half its contents before coming up for air. He wiped his mouth with his hand and walked towards the back of the house. Unlocking and opening the door that led out to the deck, he muttered about the injustice of a police chief who seemed more concerned about his employee’s emotional stability than his ability to catch criminals. How the hell was he supposed to fix something intangible like that? He was a police detective, for fuck’s sake. He dealt in facts, not in emotions.

He sat down with a moan and stretched his long legs across the footrest. Leaning his head back against the cushion his mother had made for him, he took a deep breath of the warm summer evening air and closed his eyes to examine his emotional state. Maybe he could find some kind of argument or angle that would help him convince his boss that all his concern was superfluous.

Yes, he was lonely. He’d been accused of being married to his job by most of the women he’d dated over the years. What was wrong with that? Becoming a cop when he graduated from high school eight years ago then making detective five years later had been a dream come true. It was also a hell of a lot more fulfilling than a relationship with some woman he was unable to connect with. None of them could even come close to the friendship he had with his best mate, Zeke. And he was another man. Shouldn’t a relationship with a female partner be a lot more meaningful than one he had with a long-time buddy? Even if he’d met that buddy in primary school and they’d been inseparable ever since?

A stab of pain went through his heart. Not quite inseparable. Four years ago, once Zeke had received his business degree from Riverside College, he’d suddenly become engaged to Claudia, a fellow student. Ben hadn’t seen that one coming at all. The woman had made Zeke move to Austin so she could be closer to her parents and family. Ben still missed Zeke like crazy. Not that he’d ever admit that out loud.

He sighed. It was Zeke’s birthday today and he’d better call him before the big party started—the first one Zeke had invited him to in four whole years. He’d wanted to go and spend the entire weekend to try and reconnect, but bloody Claudia had nixed that idea when she’d found out. He hated to see Zeke under her thumb like that, but Zeke had made his choice and there was nothing Ben could do about it.

“Hello?” Zeke’s voice was barely audible above the din in the background.

“Hey buddy. Happy birthday!” Ben swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. God, he suddenly hated being alone with an intensity that almost took his breath away. “Sounds like you’re having a great time.”

“Ben! Thanks for calling. It’s so good to hear from you.” Zeke sounded breathless. “Hold on, let me go upstairs so I can actually hear what you’re saying. It’s a madhouse down here.”

“So the barbeque is going well?” Ben closed his eyes, wishing he could be there.

“Yeah, I guess. Claudia’s in charge and she loves these things.” There was the sound of a door closing and Zeke exhaled. “I think she went totally overboard, but what can I do? She tells me it’s good for business to invite all these people. I guess she’s right. I just wish she hadn’t been so nasty about you coming over. I was looking forward to seeing you.”

“Same here.” What was he supposed to say to that? Zeke didn’t seem to be able—or willing—to stand up to his fiancée at all. Maybe it was a selfish thought, but every time Ben thought about those two, he was doubly glad he didn’t have some woman in his life to tell him what was what.

Excerpt From: Forgiving Jason

Riverside, Texas

Saturday August 16, 2008

Shit, there were a lot of cars on display at his brother’s dealership. Steve Jacobi walked around in a daze. The sun beat down on the asphalt under his feet in the relentless way it had during summer. He was already thirstier than he wanted to think about, but this was an important day for him and he wasn’t going to interrupt his information-gathering because it was almost too hot to breathe.

He’d wanted his own car for so long, and now that his savings finally covered something less than a decade old, he was spoilt for choice. Carefully working his way along the lot’s perimeter, he made detailed notes.

He needed a practical, reliable sedan or hatchback that would get him to and from work, and maybe the occasional weekend fishing trip to Moon Lake, an hour or so south of Riverside. What he really wanted was one of the flashier, slightly newer sports cars that would probably break down at the first opportunity and saddle him with a lot of maintenance and repair costs to boot. But, oh, it would be such fun driving it along the highway.

He snorted at the thought. His co-workers would probably laugh their asses off, asking whom he was trying to impress. Since there was no fiancée, not even a girlfriend, he’d be wondering the same thing. Not that he was going to change his secret preferences just because he had a new car or anything.

“May I help you, sir?” The smooth male voice came from straight behind him

“Um…” Steve turned around, startled by the interruption.

The salesman who stood before him, wearing a friendly smile and a charcoal grey suit that made him look like a model fresh off the runway, was a good six inches shorter than Steve’s own six feet. He was slim, but had a strong upper body that filled the suit jacket well. His face was delicate, almost elfin in its beauty, topped off by short, blond hair with a nice wave. But the best part was his grey-green eyes. They peered at him with an intensity that made his cock stir in his suddenly tight pants.

The man looked awfully familiar. His head tilted as his gorgeous eyes crinkled at the corners and the smile gained in depth, now reflecting real emotion.

“Steve?” The salesman’s grin grew wider. “Is that really you?”

“Jason?” He had a hard time keeping his mouth from falling open. “Jason Fortin?”

God, the kid who’d been two years behind him in high school had sure grown up. Jason had always been good-looking, very popular and had gone out with every single cheerleader during Steve’s senior year. But he’d filled out some since then, and the interest now reflected in his gaze was more than disconcerting. What was up with that? Jason had always been straight. Surely it was too much to hope for him to have changed that much.

“Man, it’s good to see you.” Jason stuck out a hand. “What have you been up to?”

“Not much.” Steve shrugged as they shook hands, not wanting to go into his lack of professional success.

It was a sore point at the best of times, and he had no intention of sharing his lack of accomplishments with Jason, who had obviously done very well for himself. Shit, the man was a salesman at one of the largest car dealers in Riverside just over two years out of high school. Steve’s older brother, Tim, had taken over the car dealership from their parents last year when they’d retired to Arizona, and had made it a huge success by reaching out to younger customers. What was his job as a mere window washer compared to that?

“I don’t believe that.” Jason let go of his hand much more slowly than expected. “Right now’s not the time to get into that, but I’d love to find out what you’ve been up to. Maybe we can go for a drink or something later tonight?”

“Sure.” Was Jason asking him out? Shit, he had to get his libido under control. He was too much of a coward to do anything about the attraction he felt, and nothing about Jason indicated that he was even remotely interested in him other than as a potential buddy.

“Okay, we can agree the details later.” Jason looked around the lot, waving his hand in a circular motion. “See anything you like?”

“It’s more about finding what I need.” He hated admitting it, but it was the sad truth.

Jason frowned for a second, but his smile quickly returned.

“I’m sure I can help you with that as well.” Jason pointed at a group of vehicles in the eastern corner of the lot. “We’ve got several of what you might call the more practical makes over there. A lot of people are looking for more reliable, lower cost and fuel models these days, so we’ve created an area for the cars fulfilling that demand. Would they be closer to what you’re looking for?”

“Yes, they would be.” He followed Jason to the indicated corner, carefully wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead as they walked. He was relieved to see that the price tags matched his budget much better that those of the cars he’d been looking at so far. “That’s pretty clever.”

“Well, yes, my boss has this knack of finding out what his customers want then making it happen. Many of the older salesmen attacked him for ruining a system that’s always worked, but you can’t really argue with success, can you? We sell a lot more cars now than we used to, even if a lot of them are the cheaper models.” Jason grinned. “Apparently a lot has changed since Tim took over, but, since I started working here about the same time that his parents left, I never noticed the difference.”

“Yeah, my brother is pretty clever like that.” And I’m not.

They looked at the different models for a while, Jason being pretty helpful about the details and any questions Steve came up with. When he narrowed it down to about three choices, another salesman suddenly approached them. He was about Steve’s height, probably mid-thirties and with the air of the much maligned used-car salesman from comedy shows and commercials. He wore the same charcoal suit that Jason did, but it didn’t look half as good on him as it did on Jason’s trim physique. His dark hair was combed back and held in place with some sort of gel, and his brown eyes sparkled with artificial helpfulness.

Excerpt From: Loving Vicente

Riverside, Texas

Saturday, June 3, 2006

"Shit!" Vicente Vasquez hated golf with a vengeance.

Trying to mutter the curses under his breath so his father wouldn’t hear, he followed the damn ball into the small wooded area to the right of the seventh hole. He’d never understand why the hell they made golf courses so huge and the stupid balls so tiny. Why grown men wasted their weekends playing the game, calling it a good business networking opportunity, also eluded him. And the worst thing? The fact they’d been here this morning for a seven-thirty tee-off. Sleeping in hadn’t even been an option.

"You got it?" His father sounded impatient as he threw anxious glances at the two older business contacts he was trying to impress.

"Yes, Papá." Vicente bit his tongue to stop the anger from spilling over.

"About time. You’re holding everyone up." His father glared at him, trying to look imposing.

At five-feet-eight, that wasn’t an easy job. But old habits, based on years of verbal abuse, died hard. Even though Vicente had been a good two inches taller than his father ever since he turned seventeen two years ago, his first instinct was still to give in. So he ducked his head and walked back to the group. He’d already been three over par when the stupid ball went wide, so he was just going to take the quadruple bogey and deal with it. He almost felt sorry for his father for having to play the game with him as a partner, but, then again, this nonsense was his father’s choice of how to spend a Saturday morning, not his.

He’d never been good enough for his father, and probably never would be. Even going to college to study business, rather than becoming a car mechanic like he’d wanted, hadn’t helped. His father still thought he was useless, telling him at every conceivable occasion how much better he could do if he really applied himself, and what a great example his elder brother, Felipe, was. Vicente snorted. If his dad knew how Felipe came by his money, he’d have a heart attack.

"Sorry about that." His father shook his head and refocused on picking the perfect club for his next turn.

The embarrassed apology to the two idiots playing with them increased Vicente’s anger further. It made him feel as if his father was sorry for Vicente’s entire existence. He wasn’t even sure the two men cared about the status of their game that much. They were deep into discussing some new commercial venture involving some real estate deals in the area just south of the Riverside inner city.

When the game was finally over almost three hours later, Vicente heaved a sigh of relief. Without asking or waiting for his father’s approval, he made his excuses and left. He’d pay for it later, he was sure, but staying for an exceedingly boring lunch wouldn’t make a difference. His father would just find some other excuse for dressing him down.

Getting into his car and making it to his friend’s house so they could go fishing this afternoon was the only thing on his mind. It was the one time this week he’d have to himself, and he wanted to share it with Steve Jacobi. He’d been his best friend all the way through high school, and even though Steve had decided to be a window washer rather than attempting college after graduation, they’d managed to stay in touch. Friday nights were usually theirs to go and have a beer, but last night hadn’t worked out because Vicente’s mother had required him to attend his uncle’s birthday party.

Steve’s apartment was west of downtown in an area just this side of acceptable. His friend had only moved here last month, after finally saving enough money to be able to afford a place of his own. Vicente parked his pretentious car, the BMW 328i his father had insisted he drive, hoping it would still be there when he returned. He rang the bell and waited for Steve’s tinny voice to ask who was there. The loudspeaker system was in urgent need of an overhaul, but Vicente wasn’t going to hold his breath.

Excerpt From: Convincing Landon

Riverside, Texas

Thursday, June 6, 1991

"No!" The ragged scream tore into the mid-afternoon silence, brutally ending the peaceful quiet time just before the day’s chores were done.

Landon’s head jerked up, his eyes rising from the dusty ground he’d mindlessly been staring at as he was walking towards the very building that the pain-filled sound had come from. The barn they kept the horses in was just as ramshackle as most of the other buildings on their run-down farm, but it pretty much served its purpose most of the time.

Who was even in there right now? Most of the hands hadn’t returned from the fields yet, wouldn’t be expected back for at least another hour. Hell, he wasn’t supposed to be here, either. But the dress rehearsal for tomorrow’s graduation ceremony at Riverside High had gone so well, they’d all been sent home early.

Another scream, more muffled than the first one, spurred him into action. He ran the rest of the way, pushing the heavy wooden doors open with enough force to bruise his hands. It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust from the glaring sunshine to the half-dark of the barn’s interior. He scanned the mostly empty stalls, quickly walking past them towards the tack room, searching for anything out of order.

"Please. Please don’t." The voice sounded small and scared, and undeniably belonged to his younger brother, Greg.

"Shut up." Ray was five years older than Landon and nobody would call him soft. Or even nice. But the venom dripping from his short utterance just now was chilling.

Landon almost ran to the last stall, stumbling in his haste to reach Greg. He gripped the wooden separation for support, only vaguely noticing the splinters penetrating his skin. What he saw not only confirmed his suspicions from hearing the screams, but made the blood freeze in his veins.

Greg was curled up in the foetal position on the floor, straw sticking to his jeans and the T-shirt that had slipped up, exposing several bruises on his sides. His hands covered his head as Ray kicked him brutally in the back with the heavy cowboy boots their eldest brother preferred to wear.

"Stop it!" Landon stepped farther into the stall, attempting to get between Ray and Greg to stop this madness.

Greg whimpered.

Ray looked up, the anger in his eyes quickly giving way to shock.

"What are you doing here?" Ray staggered, supporting himself by placing a hand on the back wall when he reached it. "You...you’re not supposed to be back yet."

"I’m glad I returned earlier." Landon went on his knees to place a supporting hand on Greg’s head, not taking his eyes off Ray for a second. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Just a little much-needed discipline." Ray sneered at Greg’s cowering form. "Let the little shit here know that his easy days are over, now that you’re graduating and moving away. It’s about time he starts pulling his weight around here."

Excerpt From: Helping Harry

Portland, Oregon

Thursday, June 10, 2010

"You’ll behave for Pamela, won’t you, Jessica?" Harry Lear gave his nine-year-old daughter the sternest look he could muster. He needed a weekend away, something he hadn’t had since last year’s acrimonious divorce from his alcoholic wife. And what better excuse than his ten-year reunion at Riverside High?

"Do I have to?" Jessica’s pout had been perfected over years of practice and had worn out several nannies and babysitters already.

"Please." He knew from experience that being polite and honest worked best.

"We’ll be good." Tyler, his five-year-old son, tilted his head and looked at Jessica with a calculating glint in his eyes. "I bet Daddy will get us some really neat gifts if we’re good."

Harry barely suppressed a grin. The little bugger was just as conniving as his sister, but he was usually more restrained about it. People underestimated him, but his kind of logic worked with Jessica, so Harry let it slide.

"Okay." Jessica nodded and smiled at her little brother. She loved him to pieces and would do anything he asked...usually.

"Great!" Tyler jumped up and down as if he’d already received his gift.

"Thanks, kids. I really appreciate this." Harry hugged each of them before opening the door just as the school bus stopped across the street. "Pamela will pick you up from school like we discussed and you’ll stay with her until I come to get you from her place on Sunday night."

"We know." Jessica rolled her eyes as she picked up the pinkest schoolbag in existence. "You already told us about ten times."

"Yeah, we’re not babies!" Tyler followed his sister’s example and grabbed his LEGO Police backpack.

"I know you’re not." Harry grinned and opened his arms. "Can I still get a hug?"

"Oh...okay." Despite Jessica’s put-upon look, she hugged him tightly before stepping back to make room for Tyler.

"Bye, Daddy." Tyler gave him a manly slap on the back and followed his sister out the door.

Harry stood and watched them get on the bus before he closed the door and returned to cleaning up the kitchen and finalising his packing. He’d miss them something awful, but this would be good for him. Ever since the divorce and getting sole custody, he’d been totally focused on them. Part of it was because he was afraid Lisa might want them back once she was out of rehab, part of it was because he couldn’t imagine what losing them would be like. Thanks to Lisa’s admission that she’d only become pregnant to make him marry her, he’d never been as attached to her as he was to Jessica and Tyler. He’d liked her, but he would never have married her, especially not right out of high school.

He sighed as he walked upstairs to check his suitcase. Had there been any mistakes he hadn’t made? He missed Riverside and the sun and warmth of Texas terribly. Lisa was the one who’d wanted to follow her parents back to Oregon when her father was transferred. Had it been up to him, they would have figured out a way to make it work and he would’ve got his computer engineering degree in Riverside, where he belonged.

Excerpt from: Mewn of Tokyo: Sudden Bliss

Koji-san…Koji-san?

Koji heard his name repeat in the air close by. Like a mosquito, it buzzed in his ear, annoying and insistent. He’d answer…in a minute. This was too important.

He kept typing, eyes glued to the monitor. The Meiji Memorial Hospital account was his baby. Nothing else mattered.

The mosquito buzz stopped a moment, followed by the sound of a throat clearing. Once. Twice. Then a third time.

The sound was soft and feminine. He caught a whiff of perfume, and then long, pink lacquered nails drummed softly on the desk beside his keyboard.

His hands stilled over the keys and he looked up, following the scent of perfume. The symbols and letters he’d been focusing on hovered in his vision. Behind them was Tomoko. His boss’s secretary. He blinked and her face came into focus. Worry lines marred her usually smooth forehead.

Worry lines? Tomoko standing at his desk, working so hard to get his attention? A strange feeling tickled in his gut, penetrating the fog of words and numbers imprinted like ticker tape across his vision.

“Koji-san, Mr. Miosuke wants to see you.” Tomoko’s voice was soft and courteous as usual, though it sounded as if she were speaking from the end of a tunnel.

Her words took a few extra seconds to process. When they did, his stomach tightened. “Do you know what he wants?” Miosuke usually only summoned people to his office when they’d done something wrong.

The young woman shook her head, though her frown remained. “No, Koji-san. He just said now.” Shimatta. When Miosuke said now, it was never good. He was in trouble, no doubt, though he couldn’t imagine what he’d done wrong. Maybe he should have been working eighty-hour weeks instead of seventy-five.

Slowly he rose from his desk, heart pounding, and followed Tomoko past the rows of cubicles where his fellow engineers tapped away at their keyboards. The clacking sound that he’d stopped noticing long ago, now echoed through his brain and matched the rhythm of his heart. Then there was that ache in his neck, the one he never noticed while typing, and now rubbed it with one hand as he walked.

Too bad he wasn’t into women. He couldn’t even distract himself by watching Tomoko’s stockinged legs as she walked in front of him. Tomoko was pretty and her round bottom pressed against her tight skirt with each step she took. But he might as well have been watching his sister, Gina, for all the sight aroused him. The only thing that drew him was Tomoko’s long sleek hair. But it stopped there. He tried to imagine that long sleek hair brushing across the back of a broad-shouldered guy full of hard, rounded muscles and a thick cock. It worked…for a second. Miosuke’s door loomed ahead. Besides, a fantasy didn’t work as well as the real thing.

Not that there was anyone in the office to distract him either. None of the guys around him fit the visual either. The only guy who’d ever come a bit close had left for another job a long time ago. Koji remembered him briefly as he followed Tomoko. A few stolen blowjobs in the broom closet before stealing back out into the hallway, making their way back to the office separately, as if nothing had happened. It had been hell. A hell he hadn’t wanted to repeat. Other than that, eighteen hours a day at his desk didn’t allow time for more than jacking off in the shower.

“Go on in, Koji-san.” Tomoko smiled though the worry still showed in her eyes. She held the door to Miosuke’s office open for him.

Koji pulled in a deep breath and walked in.

The older man looked up from his desk, gave a brief nod and gestured to a chair. Like Tomoko, the man had worry lines, but unlike Tomoko, the hard look in his dark eyes made Koji feel pierced through the middle.

The door shut behind him. Koji bowed, his breath caught somewhere in his windpipe. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

Miosuke nodded. “Hai. Have a seat.”

Koji bowed again quickly and lowered himself into the chair indicated. His palms already sweated and he folded his hands in his lap, prepared to take whatever verbal lashing was coming.

Miosuke leaned forward on his elbows. “Watanabe-san, you’re a valued member of this firm.”

Koji lowered his head, a gesture of modesty when accepting praise. “Domo arigato.”

“You’re welcome. But,” Miosuke continued slowly, “the talk flitting about the office is that you’re here every night until at least eleven and then in again early, well before eight most mornings.”

Koji’s heart did a strange little flip. Others around him worked nearly as many hours. At least he thought they did. “I am only trying to do my best. The Meiji Memor—”

“When was your last vacation?” Miosuke fixed him with pointed look.

Nande? Koji caught himself staring a moment at the older man. What was he getting at? He tried to recollect, then the memory of last summer came to him. He’d taken one day for Gina’s wedding and then come back to work. Two months later, after his stepmother had died of cancer, he’d taken two days for the funeral, one for the service and then the next for Shizuko’s cremation ceremony.

He cleared his throat. “Um, last summer. I…took…a few days.”

“For a funeral. That’s no vacation.” Miosuke’s voice softened appropriately.

Koji fought down the memory of Shizuko in her coffin. “The Sanyohama account had to be looked after,” he went on, “and I was afraid to leave it to someone else. A health clinic, you know…I couldn’t take any chances of their system running down.”

“Yes, I remember that.” Miosuke cleared his throat again. “Watanabe-san, have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?”

Koji furrowed his brow. Funny, Gina had asked him if he had the flu or something when he went to her house for dinner last night. He’d gone into her bathroom and looked at himself to see if he appeared as ill as she thought. All he saw were the usual dark circles under his eyes. But he’d never exactly been a vibrant picture of health, even when he’d played sports and practiced karate. “When I brush my teeth I look in the mirror.”

Miosuke scratched at his head, a strange look on his lined face. “You are not only a good employee, Watanabe-san,” he said, “you’re an investment.”

“Sir? An investment?”

“Hai.” Miosuke gestured towards him. “You are a producer, bringing income to Toshio Systems. It is my job to protect this firm’s investments.”

Koji’s heartbeat sped up, the way it always did when he used to play soccer. It hadn’t pounded quite this way in a long time. “I don’t understand. I’m sorry.” It didn’t sound like he was about to be reprimanded or terminated. Yet, Miosuke was getting at something.

“What I’m trying to tell you is as of this moment, you’re officially on vacation. For at least one week.”

Icy heat prickled down Koji’s arms. “Miosuke-san, no, I mean, I’m in the middle of corrections to the Meiji account.” Knowing he was being disrespectful, he fell silent and bowed. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying his plea would move Miosuke. He had to finish this account. Had to. And he was the only one who could make sure it was done and done right.

“Watanabe-san,” Miosuke’s voice had taken on an edge. “You failed to mention to me that twice this week the office manager has come in at six in the morning and found you asleep at your desk. I am all for your being a productive employee, but if you burn out and your health fails, you will not be able to produce at all.”

Miosuke held up a folder and set it back down. “According to my file on you, all your projects are up and running perfectly. Not a glitch. All they now require is minimal maintenance. That can be done by me or one of your colleagues. His face softened a bit. “I promise, we will take good care of them for you while you’re gone.”

Gone. The word rang through Koji’s mind like a death knell.

Miosuke picked up the receiver of his desk phone. “I have booked you a room in the Crown Hotel for a week, starting this morning.” Koji shot up from his seat. “No, sir, I…beg you.” He was behaving in the most unseemly manner but couldn’t help himself. Not only was he being forced away from the most important account of his career, but also Miosuke was forcing him to go to the Crown! Toshio Systems reserved several rest-cure rooms there for employees at all times. He’d die, absolutely die, if they stuck him in one of those small rooms with nothing in it but a bed, no space for his laptop, no cell phone allowed and no other clothing than T-shirts and shorts. And then to be put through a daily regimen of exercise, being sat down to meals. Kuso!

Miosuke’s face settled into a neutral tone, as if he’d steeled himself against all of Koji’s objections. The older man pushed a button on the phone and waited. “Security? Yes, I need you to escort an employee out of the building and down to the Crown.” He hung up the receiver. “I’m sorry, Watanabe-san. I anticipated this response. You are fast on the road to complete burnout. Toshio Systems cannot allow this. Your failed health will cost us more in insurance payments in the long run.

The Crown is a luxury hotel. One of the finest in Tokyo. They have a spa, massages, fine cuisine. You’ll enjoy it.”

Desperation fanned through Koji’s chest. Images of that little room, being locked in, insane because he couldn’t work, cut off from…the world. No! He had to think fast, had to find a middle way solution. Then the idea hit him.

And none too soon. The door to Miosuke’s office opened and two uniformed security guards entered.

Koji’s heart jumped. He sank bank into his chair, not knowing whether to be terrified or humiliated. “Miosuke-san, you are right. I’ll take my vacation. Just, please, I beg you, let me choose the place. I’ll go right now.” His heart pumped and his hands trembled in his lap.

Miosuke held up a hand to the guards. “Just a moment.” His hard look fell on Koji. “What place is this?” Koji bowed his head. No doubt, some of the guys in his office went to the place he had in mind, but none of them needed to broadcast it to their boss the way he did now. And Miosuke would understand immediately once Koji named the neighbourhood it was in. However, faced with even two minutes at the Crown, he’d strip down naked and play a Mozart sonata on his violin in the middle of the office if it would keep him from being forced there. “The White Tiger. It’s a…hotel…a ryokan…in Ni Chome.”

A men’s hotel in Tokyo’s premier gay neighbourhood.

He’d actually thought about going there on his last vacation, at least for a couple of days. The last time he’d been at a gay bar, he’d heard some guys talking about the White Tiger. Koji had never been a big one for eavesdropping, but more than his ears had pricked up when he’d heard them say that the men at the White Tiger were gorgeous and gave incredible blowjobs, whenever you wanted one. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing—baths and massages, pampering and…those same gorgeous men walking around in skimpy clothes all the time. Sounded like paradise. But he’d never made it there.

How ironic. Now he was basically being forced to go.

Excerpt from: Mewn of Tokyo: Sudden Bliss

Koji-san…Koji-san?

Koji heard his name repeat in the air close by. Like a mosquito, it buzzed in his ear, annoying and insistent. He’d answer…in a minute. This was too important.

He kept typing, eyes glued to the monitor. The Meiji Memorial Hospital account was his baby. Nothing else mattered.

The mosquito buzz stopped a moment, followed by the sound of a throat clearing. Once. Twice. Then a third time.

The sound was soft and feminine. He caught a whiff of perfume, and then long, pink lacquered nails drummed softly on the desk beside his keyboard.

His hands stilled over the keys and he looked up, following the scent of perfume. The symbols and letters he’d been focusing on hovered in his vision. Behind them was Tomoko. His boss’s secretary. He blinked and her face came into focus. Worry lines marred her usually smooth forehead.

Worry lines? Tomoko standing at his desk, working so hard to get his attention? A strange feeling tickled in his gut, penetrating the fog of words and numbers imprinted like ticker tape across his vision.

“Koji-san, Mr. Miosuke wants to see you.” Tomoko’s voice was soft and courteous as usual, though it sounded as if she were speaking from the end of a tunnel.

Her words took a few extra seconds to process. When they did, his stomach tightened. “Do you know what he wants?” Miosuke usually only summoned people to his office when they’d done something wrong.

The young woman shook her head, though her frown remained. “No, Koji-san. He just said now.” Shimatta. When Miosuke said now, it was never good. He was in trouble, no doubt, though he couldn’t imagine what he’d done wrong. Maybe he should have been working eighty-hour weeks instead of seventy-five.

Slowly he rose from his desk, heart pounding, and followed Tomoko past the rows of cubicles where his fellow engineers tapped away at their keyboards. The clacking sound that he’d stopped noticing long ago, now echoed through his brain and matched the rhythm of his heart. Then there was that ache in his neck, the one he never noticed while typing, and now rubbed it with one hand as he walked.

Too bad he wasn’t into women. He couldn’t even distract himself by watching Tomoko’s stockinged legs as she walked in front of him. Tomoko was pretty and her round bottom pressed against her tight skirt with each step she took. But he might as well have been watching his sister, Gina, for all the sight aroused him. The only thing that drew him was Tomoko’s long sleek hair. But it stopped there. He tried to imagine that long sleek hair brushing across the back of a broad-shouldered guy full of hard, rounded muscles and a thick cock. It worked…for a second. Miosuke’s door loomed ahead. Besides, a fantasy didn’t work as well as the real thing.

Not that there was anyone in the office to distract him either. None of the guys around him fit the visual either. The only guy who’d ever come a bit close had left for another job a long time ago. Koji remembered him briefly as he followed Tomoko. A few stolen blowjobs in the broom closet before stealing back out into the hallway, making their way back to the office separately, as if nothing had happened. It had been hell. A hell he hadn’t wanted to repeat. Other than that, eighteen hours a day at his desk didn’t allow time for more than jacking off in the shower.

“Go on in, Koji-san.” Tomoko smiled though the worry still showed in her eyes. She held the door to Miosuke’s office open for him.

Koji pulled in a deep breath and walked in.

The older man looked up from his desk, gave a brief nod and gestured to a chair. Like Tomoko, the man had worry lines, but unlike Tomoko, the hard look in his dark eyes made Koji feel pierced through the middle.

The door shut behind him. Koji bowed, his breath caught somewhere in his windpipe. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

Miosuke nodded. “Hai. Have a seat.”

Koji bowed again quickly and lowered himself into the chair indicated. His palms already sweated and he folded his hands in his lap, prepared to take whatever verbal lashing was coming.

Miosuke leaned forward on his elbows. “Watanabe-san, you’re a valued member of this firm.”

Koji lowered his head, a gesture of modesty when accepting praise. “Domo arigato.”

“You’re welcome. But,” Miosuke continued slowly, “the talk flitting about the office is that you’re here every night until at least eleven and then in again early, well before eight most mornings.”

Koji’s heart did a strange little flip. Others around him worked nearly as many hours. At least he thought they did. “I am only trying to do my best. The Meiji Memor—”

“When was your last vacation?” Miosuke fixed him with pointed look.

Nande? Koji caught himself staring a moment at the older man. What was he getting at? He tried to recollect, then the memory of last summer came to him. He’d taken one day for Gina’s wedding and then come back to work. Two months later, after his stepmother had died of cancer, he’d taken two days for the funeral, one for the service and then the next for Shizuko’s cremation ceremony.

He cleared his throat. “Um, last summer. I…took…a few days.”

“For a funeral. That’s no vacation.” Miosuke’s voice softened appropriately.

Koji fought down the memory of Shizuko in her coffin. “The Sanyohama account had to be looked after,” he went on, “and I was afraid to leave it to someone else. A health clinic, you know…I couldn’t take any chances of their system running down.”

“Yes, I remember that.” Miosuke cleared his throat again. “Watanabe-san, have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?”

Koji furrowed his brow. Funny, Gina had asked him if he had the flu or something when he went to her house for dinner last night. He’d gone into her bathroom and looked at himself to see if he appeared as ill as she thought. All he saw were the usual dark circles under his eyes. But he’d never exactly been a vibrant picture of health, even when he’d played sports and practiced karate. “When I brush my teeth I look in the mirror.”

Miosuke scratched at his head, a strange look on his lined face. “You are not only a good employee, Watanabe-san,” he said, “you’re an investment.”

“Sir? An investment?”

“Hai.” Miosuke gestured towards him. “You are a producer, bringing income to Toshio Systems. It is my job to protect this firm’s investments.”

Koji’s heartbeat sped up, the way it always did when he used to play soccer. It hadn’t pounded quite this way in a long time. “I don’t understand. I’m sorry.” It didn’t sound like he was about to be reprimanded or terminated. Yet, Miosuke was getting at something.

“What I’m trying to tell you is as of this moment, you’re officially on vacation. For at least one week.”

Icy heat prickled down Koji’s arms. “Miosuke-san, no, I mean, I’m in the middle of corrections to the Meiji account.” Knowing he was being disrespectful, he fell silent and bowed. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying his plea would move Miosuke. He had to finish this account. Had to. And he was the only one who could make sure it was done and done right.

“Watanabe-san,” Miosuke’s voice had taken on an edge. “You failed to mention to me that twice this week the office manager has come in at six in the morning and found you asleep at your desk. I am all for your being a productive employee, but if you burn out and your health fails, you will not be able to produce at all.”

Miosuke held up a folder and set it back down. “According to my file on you, all your projects are up and running perfectly. Not a glitch. All they now require is minimal maintenance. That can be done by me or one of your colleagues. His face softened a bit. “I promise, we will take good care of them for you while you’re gone.”

Gone. The word rang through Koji’s mind like a death knell.

Miosuke picked up the receiver of his desk phone. “I have booked you a room in the Crown Hotel for a week, starting this morning.” Koji shot up from his seat. “No, sir, I…beg you.” He was behaving in the most unseemly manner but couldn’t help himself. Not only was he being forced away from the most important account of his career, but also Miosuke was forcing him to go to the Crown! Toshio Systems reserved several rest-cure rooms there for employees at all times. He’d die, absolutely die, if they stuck him in one of those small rooms with nothing in it but a bed, no space for his laptop, no cell phone allowed and no other clothing than T-shirts and shorts. And then to be put through a daily regimen of exercise, being sat down to meals. Kuso!

Miosuke’s face settled into a neutral tone, as if he’d steeled himself against all of Koji’s objections. The older man pushed a button on the phone and waited. “Security? Yes, I need you to escort an employee out of the building and down to the Crown.” He hung up the receiver. “I’m sorry, Watanabe-san. I anticipated this response. You are fast on the road to complete burnout. Toshio Systems cannot allow this. Your failed health will cost us more in insurance payments in the long run.

The Crown is a luxury hotel. One of the finest in Tokyo. They have a spa, massages, fine cuisine. You’ll enjoy it.”

Desperation fanned through Koji’s chest. Images of that little room, being locked in, insane because he couldn’t work, cut off from…the world. No! He had to think fast, had to find a middle way solution. Then the idea hit him.

And none too soon. The door to Miosuke’s office opened and two uniformed security guards entered.

Koji’s heart jumped. He sank bank into his chair, not knowing whether to be terrified or humiliated. “Miosuke-san, you are right. I’ll take my vacation. Just, please, I beg you, let me choose the place. I’ll go right now.” His heart pumped and his hands trembled in his lap.

Miosuke held up a hand to the guards. “Just a moment.” His hard look fell on Koji. “What place is this?” Koji bowed his head. No doubt, some of the guys in his office went to the place he had in mind, but none of them needed to broadcast it to their boss the way he did now. And Miosuke would understand immediately once Koji named the neighbourhood it was in. However, faced with even two minutes at the Crown, he’d strip down naked and play a Mozart sonata on his violin in the middle of the office if it would keep him from being forced there. “The White Tiger. It’s a…hotel…a ryokan…in Ni Chome.”

A men’s hotel in Tokyo’s premier gay neighbourhood.

He’d actually thought about going there on his last vacation, at least for a couple of days. The last time he’d been at a gay bar, he’d heard some guys talking about the White Tiger. Koji had never been a big one for eavesdropping, but more than his ears had pricked up when he’d heard them say that the men at the White Tiger were gorgeous and gave incredible blowjobs, whenever you wanted one. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing—baths and massages, pampering and…those same gorgeous men walking around in skimpy clothes all the time. Sounded like paradise. But he’d never made it there.

How ironic. Now he was basically being forced to go.

Excerpt from: Sudden Heat

“Huh.” Quan Chan opened his eyes. Kiku wasn’t there. All he could see was his room in morning light. All he could hear was his own breath, as tight and urgent as it had been in his— Dream.

Ai yi. Not again. Quan Chan took a deep breath and looked down.

The covers were pushed down, exposing his lower body. His hand rested on his own softening dragon and the warm stickiness of his yang emission coated his body, the splash of release he’d felt during his dream. Masturbating in his sleep again. How humiliating. Good thing he didn’t share this bedroom with anyone. It was bad enough Kiku was only a few rooms away, now cosily settled in with a lover who didn’t give him visions, while Quan Chan pined away for the man.

With a deep sigh, he rose from the bed and went straight into the shower. After soaping his body, he stood under the hot spray a bit longer than usual, annoyed with himself for still missing the morning showers he and Kiku used to take at times. Both muscular, their combined brawn barely fit into the tiny stall, but that had been part of the fun. Wet, soapy skin gliding together as they turned to rinse.

A new erection threatened from the mere memory. Damn. He still had it bad for Kiku. Sighing again, he turned off the shower, grabbed his towel and dried off. At the bathroom mirror, he found himself lingering again. He stared at his reflection, feeling his reluctance to get downstairs and start the day. There was always a lot to do around this place. Tending to guests, housekeeping chores, meditation, helping in the kitchen or wherever it was needed. Yet, in the weeks since Kiku had been forced to end their love affair, getting up each day had gotten increasingly difficult, not easier, as Quan Chan had hoped it would.

Especially now. In recent months, Kiku’s White Tiger Hotel had become a love nest of amorous couples. First Naoto had fallen in love with his guest, Koji, then Yuzo had come and stolen Kiku’s heart. After that, Ryu, whose love affair with Kiku had ended for the same reason his own had, met Nat. The gorgeous cop had followed Ryu all the way from Thailand to be with him. Had given up his career and everything. The twins, Tatou and Mod, always had a little love thing of their own, and then in the middle of it all, Basho’s long lost lover, an Englishman named Timothy, had miraculously reappeared after fifteen years, when the two men had thought themselves lost to each other forever.

A pang gripped his chest. It was hard to know what bothered him more—that he’d been forced to give Kiku up as a lover or that there didn’t seem to be anyone out there who could love him the way Kiku now loved Yuzo or Nat loved Ryu, someone who felt he was worth more than anything else on Earth and that the way to heaven was through making love to him. For Kiku, their lovemaking had largely been a way to hell. Enough. He turned to hang up his towel. What would Kiku think of his falling into self-pity? Better to meditate, have breakfast and begin the day. Self-pity only led in a downward spiral to more self-pity then rapidly to hopelessness. Not the place a White Tiger allowed himself to go when he was supposed to remain on the middle way, the Tao.

Quan Chan sat on his zafu and meditated, after which he put on the hotel uniform, an open white vest and shorts, and went downstairs to the kitchen. He pushed open one side of the swinging doors and paused. Timothy was embracing Basho from behind where Basho stood at the table, cutting vegetables. Timothy’s eyes were closed and he was nuzzling the curve of Basho’s neck.

Quan Chan suppressed a groan. Just what I need. Bracing himself, he went quietly in. The two men separated when they saw him.

Basho smiled at him. “Good morning, Chan Chan.” Quan Chan worked a smile onto his lips. “Good morning.” He now felt appropriately guilty for his annoyance. Who was he to object, even inwardly, to this man’s happiness? Basho had suffered horribly during his forced separation from Timothy, and had undergone experiences that left him burned and crippled in one leg. Not to mention also that Basho fed a hotel full of people, guests and residents alike, three unbelievable meals a day, as he’d done for years without one complaint. He bowed his head in greeting to Timothy. The Englishman waved and smiled in a friendly way. Timothy truly was a good guy and his presence here had not only made Basho happy, but also brought more humour and laughter to the men of the White Tiger.

Basho indicated a place at the table where a covered tray of food sat. “That’s for you,” he said.

“Oh, thank you. I…got a late start this morning.”

Basho nodded, his expression sympathetic. It was no secret how Quan Chan was in love with Kiku and had literally been bumped out of Kiku’s bed the night Yuzo showed up on the run for his life from his psychotic yakuza lover. “You’re very welcome. Enjoy.”

“I’m sure I will.” He sat and uncovered the food. The aroma of miso soup floated up at him. He closed his eyes, said a quick blessing and picked up the bowl and a spoon, carefully fishing out a cube of tofu.

Just then the kitchen door swung open and Kiku walked in. Quan Chan set his bowl down and started to rise, but Kiku held out his hand, a gesture which told him to stay in his seat.

Kiku drew closer and Quan Chan saw an envelope in one large hand. Quan Chan’s stomach tightened, not only from the sight of the letter, but from seeing Kiku. No doubt, the other man’s second sight would pick up on the fact that he’d dreamt again of him, even though Kiku would be too polite to mention it.

“May I join you?”

“Of course.” Quan Chan didn’t hesitate. He never did when it came to having a moment with his friend. He watched Kiku slide back a chair and sit.

Kiku smiled at him while his eyes seemed to study Quan Chan’s face. Apparently what he saw made his smile fade. “Are you all right, friend?” He leaned forward and gave Quan Chan’s forearm a friendly squeeze.

Quan Chan fought the urge to close his eyes and savour the brief touch. “I’m all right.” Kiku frowned. There really was no fooling him. All Kiku had to do was look and he’d see that Quan Chan had once again recently entertained the brief idea of leaving here and returning to the White Tiger Temple in Shanghai. It seemed the reasonable thing to do, especially since Sun Lau was elderly now and probably wanted him to come back. It had been a year and a half since Quan Chan’s last visit, the longest gap of time he’d stayed away in years. Though Sun Lau never complained or guilted him about it, Quan Chan could hear that Sun Lau missed him. It was in the sound of the elderly man’s voice whenever they spoke on the phone. Years ago, when Kiku had first asked Quan Chan to come to Tokyo and help him get this hotel going, Sun Lau had been keen on having a skilled emissary spread the White Tiger practices abroad. None of them had expected Quan Chan to end up staying. Eventually, this place had become Quan Chan’s home and Quan Chan had so wanted Kiku to be his partner for the rest of their lives. Out of love for Quan Chan, Sun Lau had been forbearing with him, but there was no possible way Sun Lau could remain so patient with him. Many times Quan Chan had considered going back, to be a dutiful son to the man who’d saved his life. But his passion for Kiku had always won, and his insistence on staying here in Tokyo had been the one great rebellious act of his life.

“Chan Chan, I’m sorry…about—“

“Please, Kiku, don’t apologise. It’s not like that. There’s no blame.” He looked down into his bowl, his stomach suddenly too tight to eat.

“I don’t want to lose you. You’re special to me. That has never changed. And yet, I wouldn’t stop you from following your path.”

The pain in his friend’s voice made his heart squeeze. Kiku only spoke the truth to him. The bond between them was stronger than anything he could have imagined. Kiku was the one person in his whole life who’d truly grieved the things that had happened to him as a child growing up on the streets of Shanghai.

“I know that.”

“Just so you know,” Kiku said after a moment’s silence between them, “I’m not saying this because I saw inside of you.” He held up the letter. “This was in the morning’s mail.”

Quan Chan accepted the envelope from him and immediately recognised Sun Lau’s scrawly handwriting. Of course, Kiku had known what the letter was before handing it to him.

“Thank you, Kiku,” he said, then set it down by his place and picked up the bowl of soup. If he didn’t eat, Kiku would notice and worry about him even more. He tipped the bowl to his lips and sipped some of the broth. Soothingly warm and tangy. Basho was amazing. He thought Kiku would get up and leave, but his friend seemed to linger, and Quan Chan sensed that Kiku was about to ask him for a favour. Which, of course, he would grant. Anything for Kiku.

“You probably know, Koji’s friend Hiru is coming to stay here for the weekend,” Kiku began, sounding a bit hesitant. He didn’t like to ask Quan Chan for favours, especially after what had happened with Yuzo. “The man is…confused. You know what I mean?” Quan Chan nodded. Koji had spoken at times about the man he’d worked with for years at his computer engineering firm. “Of course. I’ll tend to him, if that’s what you need.”

Relief infused Kiku’s chiselled features. The man was so damn handsome he took Quan Chan’s breath away. “I thought you’d be best to look after him. You know I wouldn’t have asked you…under the circumstances, but the twins, even one at a time, would, I think, overwhelm the man.” This made Quan Chan smile. This was true. Tatou and Mod, though sweet and very good with guests, would be too much for a man who was confused. “I understand, Kiku. Don’t worry.”

“Thank you.”

Excerpt from: Sudden Heat

“Huh.” Quan Chan opened his eyes. Kiku wasn’t there. All he could see was his room in morning light. All he could hear was his own breath, as tight and urgent as it had been in his— Dream.

Ai yi. Not again. Quan Chan took a deep breath and looked down.

The covers were pushed down, exposing his lower body. His hand rested on his own softening dragon and the warm stickiness of his yang emission coated his body, the splash of release he’d felt during his dream. Masturbating in his sleep again. How humiliating. Good thing he didn’t share this bedroom with anyone. It was bad enough Kiku was only a few rooms away, now cosily settled in with a lover who didn’t give him visions, while Quan Chan pined away for the man.

With a deep sigh, he rose from the bed and went straight into the shower. After soaping his body, he stood under the hot spray a bit longer than usual, annoyed with himself for still missing the morning showers he and Kiku used to take at times. Both muscular, their combined brawn barely fit into the tiny stall, but that had been part of the fun. Wet, soapy skin gliding together as they turned to rinse.

A new erection threatened from the mere memory. Damn. He still had it bad for Kiku. Sighing again, he turned off the shower, grabbed his towel and dried off. At the bathroom mirror, he found himself lingering again. He stared at his reflection, feeling his reluctance to get downstairs and start the day. There was always a lot to do around this place. Tending to guests, housekeeping chores, meditation, helping in the kitchen or wherever it was needed. Yet, in the weeks since Kiku had been forced to end their love affair, getting up each day had gotten increasingly difficult, not easier, as Quan Chan had hoped it would.

Especially now. In recent months, Kiku’s White Tiger Hotel had become a love nest of amorous couples. First Naoto had fallen in love with his guest, Koji, then Yuzo had come and stolen Kiku’s heart. After that, Ryu, whose love affair with Kiku had ended for the same reason his own had, met Nat. The gorgeous cop had followed Ryu all the way from Thailand to be with him. Had given up his career and everything. The twins, Tatou and Mod, always had a little love thing of their own, and then in the middle of it all, Basho’s long lost lover, an Englishman named Timothy, had miraculously reappeared after fifteen years, when the two men had thought themselves lost to each other forever.

A pang gripped his chest. It was hard to know what bothered him more—that he’d been forced to give Kiku up as a lover or that there didn’t seem to be anyone out there who could love him the way Kiku now loved Yuzo or Nat loved Ryu, someone who felt he was worth more than anything else on Earth and that the way to heaven was through making love to him. For Kiku, their lovemaking had largely been a way to hell. Enough. He turned to hang up his towel. What would Kiku think of his falling into self-pity? Better to meditate, have breakfast and begin the day. Self-pity only led in a downward spiral to more self-pity then rapidly to hopelessness. Not the place a White Tiger allowed himself to go when he was supposed to remain on the middle way, the Tao.

Quan Chan sat on his zafu and meditated, after which he put on the hotel uniform, an open white vest and shorts, and went downstairs to the kitchen. He pushed open one side of the swinging doors and paused. Timothy was embracing Basho from behind where Basho stood at the table, cutting vegetables. Timothy’s eyes were closed and he was nuzzling the curve of Basho’s neck.

Quan Chan suppressed a groan. Just what I need. Bracing himself, he went quietly in. The two men separated when they saw him.

Basho smiled at him. “Good morning, Chan Chan.” Quan Chan worked a smile onto his lips. “Good morning.” He now felt appropriately guilty for his annoyance. Who was he to object, even inwardly, to this man’s happiness? Basho had suffered horribly during his forced separation from Timothy, and had undergone experiences that left him burned and crippled in one leg. Not to mention also that Basho fed a hotel full of people, guests and residents alike, three unbelievable meals a day, as he’d done for years without one complaint. He bowed his head in greeting to Timothy. The Englishman waved and smiled in a friendly way. Timothy truly was a good guy and his presence here had not only made Basho happy, but also brought more humour and laughter to the men of the White Tiger.

Basho indicated a place at the table where a covered tray of food sat. “That’s for you,” he said.

“Oh, thank you. I…got a late start this morning.”

Basho nodded, his expression sympathetic. It was no secret how Quan Chan was in love with Kiku and had literally been bumped out of Kiku’s bed the night Yuzo showed up on the run for his life from his psychotic yakuza lover. “You’re very welcome. Enjoy.”

“I’m sure I will.” He sat and uncovered the food. The aroma of miso soup floated up at him. He closed his eyes, said a quick blessing and picked up the bowl and a spoon, carefully fishing out a cube of tofu.

Just then the kitchen door swung open and Kiku walked in. Quan Chan set his bowl down and started to rise, but Kiku held out his hand, a gesture which told him to stay in his seat.

Kiku drew closer and Quan Chan saw an envelope in one large hand. Quan Chan’s stomach tightened, not only from the sight of the letter, but from seeing Kiku. No doubt, the other man’s second sight would pick up on the fact that he’d dreamt again of him, even though Kiku would be too polite to mention it.

“May I join you?”

“Of course.” Quan Chan didn’t hesitate. He never did when it came to having a moment with his friend. He watched Kiku slide back a chair and sit.

Kiku smiled at him while his eyes seemed to study Quan Chan’s face. Apparently what he saw made his smile fade. “Are you all right, friend?” He leaned forward and gave Quan Chan’s forearm a friendly squeeze.

Quan Chan fought the urge to close his eyes and savour the brief touch. “I’m all right.” Kiku frowned. There really was no fooling him. All Kiku had to do was look and he’d see that Quan Chan had once again recently entertained the brief idea of leaving here and returning to the White Tiger Temple in Shanghai. It seemed the reasonable thing to do, especially since Sun Lau was elderly now and probably wanted him to come back. It had been a year and a half since Quan Chan’s last visit, the longest gap of time he’d stayed away in years. Though Sun Lau never complained or guilted him about it, Quan Chan could hear that Sun Lau missed him. It was in the sound of the elderly man’s voice whenever they spoke on the phone. Years ago, when Kiku had first asked Quan Chan to come to Tokyo and help him get this hotel going, Sun Lau had been keen on having a skilled emissary spread the White Tiger practices abroad. None of them had expected Quan Chan to end up staying. Eventually, this place had become Quan Chan’s home and Quan Chan had so wanted Kiku to be his partner for the rest of their lives. Out of love for Quan Chan, Sun Lau had been forbearing with him, but there was no possible way Sun Lau could remain so patient with him. Many times Quan Chan had considered going back, to be a dutiful son to the man who’d saved his life. But his passion for Kiku had always won, and his insistence on staying here in Tokyo had been the one great rebellious act of his life.

“Chan Chan, I’m sorry…about—“

“Please, Kiku, don’t apologise. It’s not like that. There’s no blame.” He looked down into his bowl, his stomach suddenly too tight to eat.

“I don’t want to lose you. You’re special to me. That has never changed. And yet, I wouldn’t stop you from following your path.”

The pain in his friend’s voice made his heart squeeze. Kiku only spoke the truth to him. The bond between them was stronger than anything he could have imagined. Kiku was the one person in his whole life who’d truly grieved the things that had happened to him as a child growing up on the streets of Shanghai.

“I know that.”

“Just so you know,” Kiku said after a moment’s silence between them, “I’m not saying this because I saw inside of you.” He held up the letter. “This was in the morning’s mail.”

Quan Chan accepted the envelope from him and immediately recognised Sun Lau’s scrawly handwriting. Of course, Kiku had known what the letter was before handing it to him.

“Thank you, Kiku,” he said, then set it down by his place and picked up the bowl of soup. If he didn’t eat, Kiku would notice and worry about him even more. He tipped the bowl to his lips and sipped some of the broth. Soothingly warm and tangy. Basho was amazing. He thought Kiku would get up and leave, but his friend seemed to linger, and Quan Chan sensed that Kiku was about to ask him for a favour. Which, of course, he would grant. Anything for Kiku.

“You probably know, Koji’s friend Hiru is coming to stay here for the weekend,” Kiku began, sounding a bit hesitant. He didn’t like to ask Quan Chan for favours, especially after what had happened with Yuzo. “The man is…confused. You know what I mean?” Quan Chan nodded. Koji had spoken at times about the man he’d worked with for years at his computer engineering firm. “Of course. I’ll tend to him, if that’s what you need.”

Relief infused Kiku’s chiselled features. The man was so damn handsome he took Quan Chan’s breath away. “I thought you’d be best to look after him. You know I wouldn’t have asked you…under the circumstances, but the twins, even one at a time, would, I think, overwhelm the man.” This made Quan Chan smile. This was true. Tatou and Mod, though sweet and very good with guests, would be too much for a man who was confused. “I understand, Kiku. Don’t worry.”

“Thank you.”

Excerpt from: Sudden Surrender

If I don’t get the hell away from him, he’ll kill me. The thought shuddered through Yuzo’s mind like a mantra. His justification for leaving…no, escaping, this gilded cage he’d willingly gotten locked into.

Yuzo’s hands shook as he hunched over his bathroom vanity, using the wooden handle of his hairbrush to grind up the sleeping pills he’d filched from Taro’s medicine cabinet last night. How he’d managed to pull that theft off was only a testament to his terror and desperation.

Yuzo took the saké cup and brush and climbed into the shower, crouching over his work to try and muffle the scrape scrape of the hairbrush handle against the porcelain. Yeah, he had this tiny bedroom and bathroom all to himself, for what good it did. Sound carried, even in a luxury flat like this one. Worse, Taro’s armed goons were always stationed right outside the door, because, as Taro liked to say with that greasy smile on his square face,

“No one will steal my little prince.”

Some prince. Huddled in a dry bathtub, naked except for a pair of boxer-briefs, desperately grinding sleeping pills into powder so he could drug his sadistic sugar-daddy and escape. The damn tablets were stubbornly refusing to break into anything smaller than granules which Suzuki would no doubt see floating in his saké.

Sweat poured from Yuzo’s skin but he kept grinding. Whether he deserved his freedom or not at this point had stopped being an issue within his conscience. Survival had won out. That and his wish to bring Uncle Tokuma no more grief and shame than he already had.

Then he heard his bedroom door open. “Yuzo-chan!”

Yuzo gasped and froze. Taro! Shit! He scrambled out of the tub, stuck the cup in the vanity cabinet and stood in front of the mirror. “In here,” he called and ran the brush through his hair, forcing his breath to calm down. One fuck-up and Taro would kill him.

But not before torturing him some more in the name of sexual pleasure.

“What is this?” Taro Suzuki’s stocky frame filled the doorway. His mere presence sent prickles of icy heat down Yuzo’s spine. “You don’t come out to greet me?” The older man’s shirt hung open and the oni tattooed on his barrel chest and thick stomach glared out at Yuzo, the colourful demons’ eyes bugging, their large teeth bared with foreboding, even in the reflection of the vanity mirror.

Yuzo pasted on the smile that usually appeased Taro and feigned the urgency of brushing his hair. “I wasn’t presentable yet.”

Suzuki stepped forward, his eyes locked with Yuzo’s in their reflections. It was then Yuzo saw the saké bottle dangling from Taro’s hand. The older man plunked the bottle onto the vanity and insinuated the front of his body against Yuzo’s back. One arm snaked around Yuzo’s front, hand splayed across his stomach.

Yuzo set the brush down and schooled his features to appear like he enjoyed the attention. Heart pounding, he tilted his head back against Suzuki’s thick chest while he strained to remember the White Tiger practices he’d studied on the sly from the pamphlet he’d managed to filch from the hotel during their last visit there. Another feat of desperation.

Breathing steadily, he focused his qi, his life force, so that it would strengthen him mentally and physically. Of course, there was more, like the sexual channelling of yang force to clear the mind and revive the spirit. But you needed a partner for that bit and as Yuzo had grievously learned these past few months, Taro Suzuki was the last guy in the world anyone should expose his genitals to. The yak would rather squeeze the life out of a cock than make it feel enlivened.

What little Yuzo had been able to learn of the Taoist meditative practices served him well. His mind and body remained clear and calm enough to continue his plan and not let the other man’s behaviour sway his resolve as it had the other times he’d started to escape. Suzuki seemed tender and affectionate in moments like this, but the pain would soon follow. It always did.

“That’s better, Yuzo-chan.” Suzuki’s saké-infused breath whispered across the back of Yuzo’s neck. “For a moment there, I thought you were afraid of me.” The man’s fingertips brushed over the bruises on Yuzo’s throat. “You know that was only for fun.” He followed the statement with a kiss on the nape of Yuzo’s neck. Yuzo pulled in another slow, calming breath and closed his eyes. Yeah, near strangulation while Suzuki screws me. Lots of fun. “I know,” he managed to whisper. Everything Suzuki said was like some kind of twisted test of Yuzo’s loyalty.

Suzuki’s fingertips on Yuzo’s jaw tilted his face up and then sharp teeth scraped his earlobe. Yuzo suppressed a yelp while tears threatened to fill his eyes, as much from the hurt as from frustration. Why did everything have to include pain with this bastard? For the millionth time, he regretted letting himself be seduced by a yakuza with Suzuki’s reputation. All the other workers in the host club had warned him off Taro Suzuki and of course, he hadn’t listened.

What he wouldn’t give now to still be hosting in that place and coming home to that ratty futon he slept on with Mojo in the flop they rented with the other guys. Yuzo had once dreamed of getting out of there, of finding a rich sugar-daddy like Suzuki and living as he was here in this luxury apartment. Now, Mojo and the ratty futon looked like paradise. Mojo was an urchin, but he’d been crazy about Yuzo. Had done everything for him. Without physical and psychological torture.

Taro bit his earlobe again and straightened, looking into the mirror. Yuzo breathed past the pain and watched the yak’s eyes study his reflection. In the next moment, Yuzo sensed the darkening shift of energy in the man’s stocky form. His blood chilled. Taro Suzuki was crazy but he wasn’t stupid.

“You seem different tonight.” The statement was full of Suzuki’s usual suspicion.

Kuso. An invisible part of Yuzo felt suspended over a pit of hungry vipers. He considered every word and move. Manipulation would go only so far with Taro.

But before he could respond, Taro shrugged. “I keep forgetting what a lightweight you really are.” He chuckled and reached over, retrieving the bottle of saké off the vanity and unscrewing the cap. “Another day or two and you’ll be begging me to choke you again.”

Relief prickled down Yuzo’s arms. If Taro thought his upset was only about the strangulation, so much the better. He shifted to the side, giving the older man space to drink from his bottle, but then found the glass opening being pressed to his own lips. The acrid scent of fermented rice assaulted his nostrils.

“Drink,” Suzuki said, the command clear in his tone, “a couple of nice big sips.”

Yuzo’s relief evaporated. Wordlessly he took the bottle and tilted it back, letting a generous amount of saké fill his mouth. Hoping the stuff would numb his renewed terror, he swallowed. The saké burned in his veins and caused a numbing tingle to cascade through his limbs and brain. He surrendered to the feeling, knowing that as Suzuki took the bottle away and gathered Yuzo’s arms behind his back into a lock, he was going to need it. “Chibe!” Taro called to one of his goons. “Now!”

Excerpt from: Sudden Surrender

If I don’t get the hell away from him, he’ll kill me. The thought shuddered through Yuzo’s mind like a mantra. His justification for leaving…no, escaping, this gilded cage he’d willingly gotten locked into.

Yuzo’s hands shook as he hunched over his bathroom vanity, using the wooden handle of his hairbrush to grind up the sleeping pills he’d filched from Taro’s medicine cabinet last night. How he’d managed to pull that theft off was only a testament to his terror and desperation.

Yuzo took the saké cup and brush and climbed into the shower, crouching over his work to try and muffle the scrape scrape of the hairbrush handle against the porcelain. Yeah, he had this tiny bedroom and bathroom all to himself, for what good it did. Sound carried, even in a luxury flat like this one. Worse, Taro’s armed goons were always stationed right outside the door, because, as Taro liked to say with that greasy smile on his square face,

“No one will steal my little prince.”

Some prince. Huddled in a dry bathtub, naked except for a pair of boxer-briefs, desperately grinding sleeping pills into powder so he could drug his sadistic sugar-daddy and escape. The damn tablets were stubbornly refusing to break into anything smaller than granules which Suzuki would no doubt see floating in his saké.

Sweat poured from Yuzo’s skin but he kept grinding. Whether he deserved his freedom or not at this point had stopped being an issue within his conscience. Survival had won out. That and his wish to bring Uncle Tokuma no more grief and shame than he already had.

Then he heard his bedroom door open. “Yuzo-chan!”

Yuzo gasped and froze. Taro! Shit! He scrambled out of the tub, stuck the cup in the vanity cabinet and stood in front of the mirror. “In here,” he called and ran the brush through his hair, forcing his breath to calm down. One fuck-up and Taro would kill him.

But not before torturing him some more in the name of sexual pleasure.

“What is this?” Taro Suzuki’s stocky frame filled the doorway. His mere presence sent prickles of icy heat down Yuzo’s spine. “You don’t come out to greet me?” The older man’s shirt hung open and the oni tattooed on his barrel chest and thick stomach glared out at Yuzo, the colourful demons’ eyes bugging, their large teeth bared with foreboding, even in the reflection of the vanity mirror.

Yuzo pasted on the smile that usually appeased Taro and feigned the urgency of brushing his hair. “I wasn’t presentable yet.”

Suzuki stepped forward, his eyes locked with Yuzo’s in their reflections. It was then Yuzo saw the saké bottle dangling from Taro’s hand. The older man plunked the bottle onto the vanity and insinuated the front of his body against Yuzo’s back. One arm snaked around Yuzo’s front, hand splayed across his stomach.

Yuzo set the brush down and schooled his features to appear like he enjoyed the attention. Heart pounding, he tilted his head back against Suzuki’s thick chest while he strained to remember the White Tiger practices he’d studied on the sly from the pamphlet he’d managed to filch from the hotel during their last visit there. Another feat of desperation.

Breathing steadily, he focused his qi, his life force, so that it would strengthen him mentally and physically. Of course, there was more, like the sexual channelling of yang force to clear the mind and revive the spirit. But you needed a partner for that bit and as Yuzo had grievously learned these past few months, Taro Suzuki was the last guy in the world anyone should expose his genitals to. The yak would rather squeeze the life out of a cock than make it feel enlivened.

What little Yuzo had been able to learn of the Taoist meditative practices served him well. His mind and body remained clear and calm enough to continue his plan and not let the other man’s behaviour sway his resolve as it had the other times he’d started to escape. Suzuki seemed tender and affectionate in moments like this, but the pain would soon follow. It always did.

“That’s better, Yuzo-chan.” Suzuki’s saké-infused breath whispered across the back of Yuzo’s neck. “For a moment there, I thought you were afraid of me.” The man’s fingertips brushed over the bruises on Yuzo’s throat. “You know that was only for fun.” He followed the statement with a kiss on the nape of Yuzo’s neck. Yuzo pulled in another slow, calming breath and closed his eyes. Yeah, near strangulation while Suzuki screws me. Lots of fun. “I know,” he managed to whisper. Everything Suzuki said was like some kind of twisted test of Yuzo’s loyalty.

Suzuki’s fingertips on Yuzo’s jaw tilted his face up and then sharp teeth scraped his earlobe. Yuzo suppressed a yelp while tears threatened to fill his eyes, as much from the hurt as from frustration. Why did everything have to include pain with this bastard? For the millionth time, he regretted letting himself be seduced by a yakuza with Suzuki’s reputation. All the other workers in the host club had warned him off Taro Suzuki and of course, he hadn’t listened.

What he wouldn’t give now to still be hosting in that place and coming home to that ratty futon he slept on with Mojo in the flop they rented with the other guys. Yuzo had once dreamed of getting out of there, of finding a rich sugar-daddy like Suzuki and living as he was here in this luxury apartment. Now, Mojo and the ratty futon looked like paradise. Mojo was an urchin, but he’d been crazy about Yuzo. Had done everything for him. Without physical and psychological torture.

Taro bit his earlobe again and straightened, looking into the mirror. Yuzo breathed past the pain and watched the yak’s eyes study his reflection. In the next moment, Yuzo sensed the darkening shift of energy in the man’s stocky form. His blood chilled. Taro Suzuki was crazy but he wasn’t stupid.

“You seem different tonight.” The statement was full of Suzuki’s usual suspicion.

Kuso. An invisible part of Yuzo felt suspended over a pit of hungry vipers. He considered every word and move. Manipulation would go only so far with Taro.

But before he could respond, Taro shrugged. “I keep forgetting what a lightweight you really are.” He chuckled and reached over, retrieving the bottle of saké off the vanity and unscrewing the cap. “Another day or two and you’ll be begging me to choke you again.”

Relief prickled down Yuzo’s arms. If Taro thought his upset was only about the strangulation, so much the better. He shifted to the side, giving the older man space to drink from his bottle, but then found the glass opening being pressed to his own lips. The acrid scent of fermented rice assaulted his nostrils.

“Drink,” Suzuki said, the command clear in his tone, “a couple of nice big sips.”

Yuzo’s relief evaporated. Wordlessly he took the bottle and tilted it back, letting a generous amount of saké fill his mouth. Hoping the stuff would numb his renewed terror, he swallowed. The saké burned in his veins and caused a numbing tingle to cascade through his limbs and brain. He surrendered to the feeling, knowing that as Suzuki took the bottle away and gathered Yuzo’s arms behind his back into a lock, he was going to need it. “Chibe!” Taro called to one of his goons. “Now!”

Excerpt From: Ménage a Must

When the wheel of the carriage Molly O’Dowd sat in dropped into yet another rut, she slapped a hand on her prized bonnet and hugged her mistress’s jewellery case to her chest. The vehicle gave an ominous creak and listed to one side before it lumbered forward. She sent up a fervent prayer that they’d reach their destination soon. Her sore bum could not take another round of bouncing on the thinly padded seat.

"No title is worth this discomfort." The loud, petulant complaint came from the young miss she served as a personal maid.

Her mistress sat across from Molly, arms folded across her chest. Ethereally beautiful, with flawless skin and cornflower blue eyes, and an heiress to a fortune built from railways and coalmines, Annabelle was the only child of the late August Calder. He’d been an overindulgent but neglectful papa, which had made her just a tad spoilt.

With her tight fist holding the purse strings, Annabelle’s social-climbing stepmamma had dragged her to England in her hunt for a title. And not a moment too soon—the girl needed a man but more importantly a husband. Molly had caught Annabelle’s dancing master lapping away at her virginal cunny.

There was no telling her mistress anything once she got a notion in her pretty head. She’d kept Molly busy smuggling the man in and out of the Calder mansion. Molly had barely managed to preserve Annabelle’s virginity using dire threats and never being more than a few feet away from the amorous couple.

"Hush, Annabelle, the earl’s servants might hear you." The admonishment hissed from the perpetually pursed lips of Annabelle’s stepmother, Priscilla.

Her name suited her—prissy by name and nature. Mrs Calder never had a hair out of place or a thread hanging from her ensemble. She was a thin woman with a fondness for ruffles and pastels, which didn’t suit her sallow skin.

As far as Molly knew, Priscilla never showed any emotion but disapproval or irritation. Molly wondered for the millionth time how she had become the wife of that lusty old letch August Calder. Before he had died, he’d pinched Molly’s bum and fondled her breasts on the sly more than once. Given the chance, he’d have tossed up her skirts for sure. Now she wasn’t adverse to a good tumble, but to spread her legs for the master under his wife’s nose was the act of a slattern. She had standards—a little relaxed, but they served her well.

Annabelle groaned as they hit another pothole. "I still don’t see why we couldn’t hire a conveyance for our use."

"His lordship offered the use of his carriage and we didn’t want to offend him." Her tone suggested that their discomfort was inconsequential.

Annabelle’s rosebud mouth formed a pout. "Molly, you did pack my bed linens, didn’t you?"

Priscilla waved her hand to cut off Annabelle’s gripes. "Never mind that, I wanted to have a word with the both of you before we arrived."

This explained why Molly wasn’t travelling with the rest of the servants Mrs Calder deemed necessary as a show of her wealth.

"Now you listen to me, miss, I’ve paid that impoverished noblewoman a small fortune to secure this invitation. Muck it up and I’ll ship you off to my aunt in Maine."

The threat hung in the air. Priscilla’s aforementioned relative would make a Puritan look like a hedonist.

Annabelle narrowed her eyes into slits and her expression turned mutinous. Even then, she looked like an annoyed fairy. "The executors of my father’s estate wouldn’t let you."

"Everybody has a price." Priscilla pinned Molly with an inimical glower. It seemed she wasn’t to escape Priscilla’s censure. "I expect you to keep her in line and not pander to her odd whims."

Molly gulped and nodded. She couldn’t afford to lose her place, not when she was so close to getting out of service on her own terms.

Excerpt From: Merry Kinkmas

Phoebe Larkham sighed as she fussed with folders on the conference table.

I just might end up killing him if I see him today.

Not intentionally, of course, but the way her luck was running, Matt’s demise wouldn’t surprise her. The poor man wouldn’t live to see Christmas—tomorrow.

For eight months she’d been waiting for her colleague, Matt Andrews, to notice her. Their desks were adjacent, and occasionally they’d worked together on a project. The man was driving her crazy with lust. He was tall, with curly blond hair that flopped over his brow and just begged to be tugged to bring his head down for a long, hot, wet kiss. A very long, hot, wet kiss. Her nipples peaked at the thought.

His shoulders were broad, his hips tapered in a way that suggested some form of intense physical activity. She often daydreamed about what he did...and sometimes how he’d do it with her. Slow. Long. Fast. Hard. She blinked and frowned down at her work. He always carried a gym bag around, and usually went to the club for a session, but in all her casual snooping she had yet to discover exactly which fitness club he was a member of. And she’d tried. Boy, had she tried. Whatever he did, it was working. He had a butt her fingers tingled to touch. And on those days he came in without shaving...well, she just wanted to grab those chiselled, roughened features and mash them into her breasts. Among other things. She shifted in her seat as heat blossomed between her thighs.

If he knew the fantasies that went on in her mind when she sat across from him in the meeting room she was sure they’d make him blush. Hell, they made her blush. And burn. And tingle. And...well, go all wet between her legs. She rubbed her knees together under her desk, creating a delicious pressure at the apex of her thighs. A branch outside the conference room window snapped under the weight of the snow and jolted Phoebe from her reverie. She pouted.

But that’s all they are—fantasies.

She was too shy to actually take the lead, be the aggressor. Every time she tried to work up the courage, she’d meet his eyes—and run.

His eyes fascinated her. That blue gaze mesmerised her each time she caught his eyes. And it was his intense stare she thought of in the dark of night, while she plunged her Dream Maker Cliterrific 2000 into her pussy and brought herself to climax.

Of course, he had the great personality and fun sense of humour to complete the package. They’d become very good cronies, which just added insult to injury. He saw her as a friend, not the wild sex bunny she wanted to be with him. He made her think of sex, and she apparently made him think of...well, watching football and swigging some brews. With other friends.

Bugger.

Excerpt From: Miami Sizzle

Chuck Pinkerton stepped out of the low-slung orange Lamborghini Aventador. He took two steps and fell flat on his face, twisting his arm and bloodying his nose. Pain ricocheted around his body, making him angry that he’d fallen over again.

"Seriously?" he groaned aloud. He couldn’t even look cool driving the hottest car known to man. Supporting his weight on his uninjured right arm, he crawled to his knees, then to his feet, wiping his hands down the front of his jacket. Crap, dog shit?

"Hey, Chuckie, thanks for washing my— Damn, what’s that smell?" David Wright the Third—or Trip, as he liked to be called—asked as he slid into his car. Trip looked him up and down, his lips curled into a snarl and he waved his hands in front of his face. "Hell, that’s three times this week you’ve ended up on your ass. Did some voodoo lady put a curse on you?" Trip rolled his eyes and slammed the door shut. He zoomed off, spraying gravel against Chuck’s legs.

The world wasn’t fair. Why the hell did Trip get the car, the job, the great clothes and all the fame? The only thing Trip had that Chuck didn’t want was… Hell, Trip had everything and Chuck had nothing—except for a possible curse.

He shivered over the memory of the woman at the bus stop last week. He’d run into her, knocking her bag of apples to the ground. He’d tried to help her pick them up but he’d had a hard time grasping the fruit because they’d been wet from the rain. He’d almost knocked her other grocery bag out of her hand as he’d moved around her. Then her eyes had gone round and she’d started yelling in some language he hadn’t understood—not Spanish either, because he knew what Spanish sounded like and this hadn’t been it. She’d pulled a dead chicken from a plastic grocery bag and held it up as he’d gathered the apples, dropping a few of them over and over again. She’d shaken the bird at him, waving the bags in her other hand—it only could have been worse if the chicken had been dripping blood, but it hadn’t been. Still, he’d cringed away from the scary chicken hanging from her hands and tripped, falling on his ass in a puddle of muddy water, ruining his cell phone—his new cell phone. She’d cackled and chanted more words above him, giving him the evil eye and scaring the shit out of him.

That was when all the bad luck had started. Okay, so he’d had some bad luck before then, but his life had gone downhill fast after he’d met the strange chicken lady.

When he’d arrived at Trip’s after that, the man had railed at him for twenty minutes. He’d been so embarrassed, wishing he could hide. Of course, he’d lusted after Trip in the beginning but episodes like this, when Trip made fun of him, had caused that lust to dry up to the point where there was very little attraction left. Maybe if Trip apologised and treated him to a nice dinner… But who was he kidding? He wasn’t Trip’s type.

Six months ago, when the bastard had hired him as a personal assistant, he would have done anything for Trip. At first, he’d thought the job would be cool. Of course, this wasn’t the dream job he’d thought it would be when he’d first moved to Miami. No, being Trip’s errand boy sucked.

Miami was amazing and Chuck had had high hopes before he’d moved here. Hell, who couldn’t win in the city with the freaking hottest beach in the world? Of course, he knew the answer to that question—it was none other than himself, Chuckie Pinkerton. That was who.

The beaches were overflowing with hot men. The gyms and restaurants were teeming with the beautiful people of South Beach, but none of them gave a damn about good ol’ Chuckie.

He’d grown up in Fenton, Missouri, just miles away from his favourite baseball team, sneaking down to the park every chance he got to watch. Of course, he’d dreamt of being a player, but he had two left feet and that was on his lucky days. The Cardinals were his team, his heroes, and he would have done anything to watch them. Too bad he hadn’t been able to get a decent job in Missouri. He’d tried, but the job market had sucked, and he’d wanted to be more than a fry cook. He’d wanted a good job where people would respect him.

Excerpt From: Michaela's Experiment

Earth Year 2304, Biosphere A1Z9

The moment she entered her boss Anica Maine’s apartment, intriguing moans whispered through the living room, making a rush of alarm snap through Michaela. Instantly she located the room’s Red Alert button on a nearby wall.

If she touched it, the Order of Authority would arrive immediately and assist. She took a step towards it but another seductive whimper drifted down the nearby hallway, stopping her cold.

The soft sound belonged to a female. Anica? She didn’t sound distressed. Contrary, she appeared to be enjoying something. But what in the world was she doing to create such unique noises?

A familiar flush of excitement zipped through Michaela and she bit her bottom lip and paused. Unfortunately, over the past several weeks her excitement had been getting her into a bit of trouble. She’d been warned by the Order of Authority to get herself adjusted yet again for her emotion problem or risk Elimination. Numerous attempts to curb her excitement by the OA had been unsuccessful and it was why she refused to push that Red Alert button now.

If nothing was wrong in Anica’s apartment and Michaela alerted the OA, it was one more black mark against her. One step closer to Elimination.

She blew out a frustrated sigh. She just wanted a peaceful existence, but the interesting sounds intrigued her, luring her deeper into the apartment. Michaela tiptoed down the hallway to Anica’s sleeping room and froze in the open doorway.

Sweet biosphere! What is going on here?

A volley of grunts, moans and naked flesh greeted her. Limbs were tangled together as three people writhed on the air bed. Her friend Anica was one of them! She was intertwined with two males, with her waist-length honey-blonde hair being illegally dishevelled. Her hourglass figure gleamed pink with exertion and sparkled beautifully with perspiration.

What in the world were they doing?

Anica was lying face down, the length of her body fully upon a brown-haired male who lay face up. Kneeling between their wide-spread legs was a black-haired male, his hips pistoning madly against Anica’s naked behind.

A low keening exploded from Anica. The foreign sound...the shocking scene...they made Michaela...excited. The exquisite expressions of joy lacing their flushed faces seemed to her...curious.

But why wasn’t Michaela feeling what Anica was so obviously enjoying?

Press the panic button. This is abnormal. Illegal!

But if she did that, the authorities would come, and because of the seriousness of what was happening here, whatever it was, the OA would bypass re-adjustment and go straight to Eliminating Anica. And more than likely Eliminate Michaela too, for simply watching.

Despair pushed away her excitement. Have mercy, she was so in trouble just seeing this, whatever this was. She should leave. They hadn’t seen her yet. The males were too involved with Anica.

Excerpt From: Middle Game

Jason had been watching the snow falling for hours, mounding up around the window sill, white and fluffy. The studio wasn’t cold, not at all, but a part of him felt a little chilled just from watching the ice crystals build.

Jason shivered, making sure the motion was tiny, not moving on the lounge chair in the least.

"Be still, Jase. I’m almost done." Knight was painting furiously.

"I am." He was naked, except for a soft, silken drape over his thighs.

The front door opened and closed, Rook’s voice singing out, reaching them even here in the studio, "Hello, honeys, I’m home!"

Jason smiled. The sound of Rook’s voice made him happy every time he heard it.

"Don’t move!" Knight spoke loudly enough that Rook no doubt heard it from the front of the house because it was followed by the sound of his laughter and he appeared at the door.

"Look at this! Two of my favourite people in the whole world, both together." Rook draped himself over Knight and kissed Knight’s cheek.

"Working, Rookie." Knight did smile, though, which Jason had learned over the past month was rare.

"I know." Rook’s eyes wandered over the canvas, and he licked his lips. "God, you’re a talented asshole, aren’t you?" Rook gave Knight another kiss, then backed off, blowing a kiss at Jason. "So how long before we can puppy pile?"

"Ten minutes, tops." Knight growled the words, eyes dragging over Jason’s body.

"Does he need fluffing or anything?" Rook asked, voice hopeful.

"No touching. You’ll destroy my view."

Rook pouted and sighed loudly. "I’ve been working all day long."

"You’ve been playing with dildos, Rookie." Knight sighed, then set his brushes down. "Go on, Jase. I’m done."

He pushed himself off the chair towards Rook. The man fascinated him, so pretty with his blond hair, his bright blue eyes. So different from Knight’s slender darkness.

Rook stuck his tongue out at Knight but gave the man a proper kiss even as he held out his arm to Jason. Jason went to them, moving carefully, suddenly painfully aware of the plug inside him.

Rook’s hand slid over his skin as soon as he was close enough and the kiss with Knight ended noisily. Then Rook’s mouth covered his, tongue pushing in. A sweet hum sounded, Rook’s blue eyes staring into his own like he was the most fascinating thing ever.

It was Knight’s hand, though, that slid down his back, moving to jostle the plug. He jerked away, cheeks burning. Knight shook his head. "Still so shy?"

Rook’s eyes widened, his lips pulling up into a grin. "A plug? Knight, you naughty, naughty man." Rook slid a hand down his back just like Knight had done, heading right for his ass.

"I wanted to make sure he stayed awake."

Jason groaned. He’d stayed awake.

Rook laughed, the sound happy and sweet. "Can we play on your couch, Knight? Or should we find a bed?" Rook found the base of the plug and began to tap it.

"Let’s go upstairs. Bish will be back soon."

Rook bounced happily and grabbed Jason’s and Knight’s hands, leading the way like a naughty Pied Piper.

"I need to clean up, Rookie!" Knight was laughing, though. Rook was the only one who made the man laugh.

"We’ll help. After." Rook shook his ass, making it very clear what came before the after. Jason was given a sweet smile. "I think someone needs some help with that plug up his ass..."

"Rook..." His cheeks heated, but his cock jerked, filling.

Rook grinned and squeezed his hand, moving faster.

"Horndog. I love the way Jase walks when he’s full." Knight’s voice had a sexy, husky note to it.

"And you call me a horndog?" Rook laughed and took a half step behind him. "Knight is right, though, honey, you move like magic with that plug."

His cheeks were burning and he ducked his head then shook it.

"You should have seen him take it in for me." Knight’s fingers slipped over his skin.

Oh. Oh, God. He... He still wasn’t used to being a...plaything for these three men.

Rook moaned and rubbed against Knight. "I wish I’d seen that."

"I’m sure we can revisit after we play...with a bigger plug."

Rook beamed. "That would be perfect." Rook wrapped his arms around Knight, giving the man another one of those kisses. And then Rook’s attention focused on him, mouth latching on.

Excerpt From: Miles To Go

Evenings in the bunkhouse should have been peaceful, but Max kind of hated them. Too much time alone since he was the only employee here at the Galloway Ranch. Well, technically Rory was the other hand, but since he and the boss had hooked up and got all moon-eyed over each other, Rory had packed up and moved into the big house.

Which left Max alone most evenings unless he was invited over for dinner with Rory, Chance, and Rory’s sister Annabelle. Since she hadn’t been at the ranch long at all, and it’d been a goodly amount of time before that since Annabelle and Rory had seen each other, Max turned down most dinner invites. Best to let family have time together—and maybe he felt a little like the odd one out.

Luckily everyone believed him when he’d tell them he was tired or wanted to watch some show on TV. Truth was, sleep was hard to come by, always had been, and as for watching TV, well, he tried but sometimes all those people laughing and loving on there just made Max feel more alone.

“Well, guess I’m in the mood for a big ol’ pity party,” Max muttered as he stepped into his bedroom. Lord, I don’t even want to be in my own company if I’m gonna be a whiny bastard. Max snorted and started undressing, nearly landing on his butt as he tried to pull off his boot. Rolling his eyes at himself, he hobbled to the bed and plopped down on the edge. Bending over, he plucked the boot jack out from under the frame and dropped it on the floor. That little piece of wood made getting his boots off so much easier.

After a cool shower chased away the lingering Texas heat that seemed to have embedded under his skin, Max dried off and put on his boxers. Jeans and a ratty cotton shirt were next. He decided to forgo socks. It was still rather warm in the evenings and keeping his feet cool helped keep the rest of him the same. Max would have loved to have sat around in his boxers, but with Annabelle living on the ranch now, he never knew when it was safe to just let it all hang out. That girl tended to blow in like a blonde-headed tornado, not caring if Max might be stark-ass naked.

Not that he ever was, other than when he got cleaned up, but even then he wouldn’t have put it past Annabelle to just throw open the bathroom door if she wanted to talk to him. Thinking about the possibility made Max’s skin so hot he bet he fairly glowed, and not in a good way. He’d flat-out die of embarrassment if something like that happened; Max couldn’t imagine someone seeing him in the buff. Even when Rory had lived here, Max had been careful to keep his stuff covered, and not because Rory was gay. Max didn’t care about that. He was just…shy, which was probably stupid considering he was well over forty.

Max realised his mind was jumpy tonight, bouncing all over like a toddler who’d sucked down a bag of sugar and capped it off with a quart of caffeinated soft drink. He needed to settle down, and he needed to eat. His stomach was gnawing right through his backbone. He headed into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, rubbing his rumbling stomach as he looked over his options for dinner.

Eggs seemed the easiest; if he was cooking for a full crew he’d have put more effort into it, but it was only him. Max reached in and grabbed the carton. He added a stick of butter, some shredded cheese that he’d have to examine closely before using, and a pathetic looking green pepper. He’d just set the food down on the counter by the stove and was fixing to go back and check the expiration date on the milk when the phone rang.

Figuring it was Rory or Annabelle, or maybe even Chance calling to nag at him to join them, Max muttered as he walked over to pick up the phone. Before he could even get a word out, a light tenor came through the line.

“Hey Max! How’s it going?”

Max frowned and pulled the phone away from his ear an inch or so. Someone was awful perky. The man’s voice sounded vaguely familiar, and like a smack to the head, it jostled his brain into gear. He kind of knew that voice.

“Bo?” Max knew it had to be the blond haired man he’d met up at the big house a while back. Bo Morris, Chance’s former fuck buddy.

Excerpt From: Miles To Go

Evenings in the bunkhouse should have been peaceful, but Max kind of hated them. Too much time alone since he was the only employee here at the Galloway Ranch. Well, technically Rory was the other hand, but since he and the boss had hooked up and got all moon-eyed over each other, Rory had packed up and moved into the big house.

Which left Max alone most evenings unless he was invited over for dinner with Rory, Chance, and Rory’s sister Annabelle. Since she hadn’t been at the ranch long at all, and it’d been a goodly amount of time before that since Annabelle and Rory had seen each other, Max turned down most dinner invites. Best to let family have time together—and maybe he felt a little like the odd one out.

Luckily everyone believed him when he’d tell them he was tired or wanted to watch some show on TV. Truth was, sleep was hard to come by, always had been, and as for watching TV, well, he tried but sometimes all those people laughing and loving on there just made Max feel more alone.

“Well, guess I’m in the mood for a big ol’ pity party,” Max muttered as he stepped into his bedroom. Lord, I don’t even want to be in my own company if I’m gonna be a whiny bastard. Max snorted and started undressing, nearly landing on his butt as he tried to pull off his boot. Rolling his eyes at himself, he hobbled to the bed and plopped down on the edge. Bending over, he plucked the boot jack out from under the frame and dropped it on the floor. That little piece of wood made getting his boots off so much easier.

After a cool shower chased away the lingering Texas heat that seemed to have embedded under his skin, Max dried off and put on his boxers. Jeans and a ratty cotton shirt were next. He decided to forgo socks. It was still rather warm in the evenings and keeping his feet cool helped keep the rest of him the same. Max would have loved to have sat around in his boxers, but with Annabelle living on the ranch now, he never knew when it was safe to just let it all hang out. That girl tended to blow in like a blonde-headed tornado, not caring if Max might be stark-ass naked.

Not that he ever was, other than when he got cleaned up, but even then he wouldn’t have put it past Annabelle to just throw open the bathroom door if she wanted to talk to him. Thinking about the possibility made Max’s skin so hot he bet he fairly glowed, and not in a good way. He’d flat-out die of embarrassment if something like that happened; Max couldn’t imagine someone seeing him in the buff. Even when Rory had lived here, Max had been careful to keep his stuff covered, and not because Rory was gay. Max didn’t care about that. He was just…shy, which was probably stupid considering he was well over forty.

Max realised his mind was jumpy tonight, bouncing all over like a toddler who’d sucked down a bag of sugar and capped it off with a quart of caffeinated soft drink. He needed to settle down, and he needed to eat. His stomach was gnawing right through his backbone. He headed into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, rubbing his rumbling stomach as he looked over his options for dinner.

Eggs seemed the easiest; if he was cooking for a full crew he’d have put more effort into it, but it was only him. Max reached in and grabbed the carton. He added a stick of butter, some shredded cheese that he’d have to examine closely before using, and a pathetic looking green pepper. He’d just set the food down on the counter by the stove and was fixing to go back and check the expiration date on the milk when the phone rang.

Figuring it was Rory or Annabelle, or maybe even Chance calling to nag at him to join them, Max muttered as he walked over to pick up the phone. Before he could even get a word out, a light tenor came through the line.

“Hey Max! How’s it going?”

Max frowned and pulled the phone away from his ear an inch or so. Someone was awful perky. The man’s voice sounded vaguely familiar, and like a smack to the head, it jostled his brain into gear. He kind of knew that voice.

“Bo?” Max knew it had to be the blond haired man he’d met up at the big house a while back. Bo Morris, Chance’s former fuck buddy.

Excerpt From: Minute Maid

May 1949

"Would you look at that!" Lizzie Gould whispered to herself, bent double, arse sticking out as she stared through the keyhole into her mistress' bedroom. "She acts so prim and proper in front of the likes of us, yet there she is again, opening her legs wider than the bloody Thames!"

Emmaline Childs was sprawled naked on her king—size bed, slit glistening, long, blonde hair splayed over her white pillow. A fully dressed man stood at the foot of the bed, side-on to Lizzie, with slender hands on his hips. He looked like a dandy—a man who wouldn't enjoy getting his black, slicked hair sweaty or his hands soiled—but there was no doubt in Lizzie's mind he was about to. If that stiff cock tenting his trousers and the stern look Emmaline was giving him was anything to go by, he'd be as nude as the posh knob herself in no time.

"Wouldn't want a bit of the old 'how's your father' with him," Lizzie murmured, finding the man a little scrawny for her tastes. She preferred broad shoulders, a generous arse, and muscle on a man's bones. A bit like that Johnny Francis, the butler who'd started working here a few weeks ago. "He's a handsome fella if ever there was one."

She squirmed, sensations blossoming between her legs like they always did when she spied through the keyhole or thought of him. More often than not, Lizzie imagined the men as Johnny and herself as Emmaline, and touched her cunt until she panted just as heavily as the woman on the bed. She'd thought, way back when the war had started, that her mistress would find it difficult to snag bed partners, what with many men going away to fight, but it hadn't made a jot of difference in this household. When the siren had gone off, they'd all hidden in the superior bomb shelter in the grounds out the back, rations hadn't affected them due to bootlegging, and Emmaline entertained more men than she ever had. Soldiers on leave, mainly, but one or two Navy men had slipped through the cracks.

"Slipped into her crack, more like."

The man in Emmaline's room removed his black jacket and white shirt, showing off a puny, hairless chest, his skin alabaster and littered with grey freckles. His prominent ribs reminded Lizzie of a fishing creel she'd seen once when she'd been to Margate on a day out—bowed, the bones uneven.

He walked away from the bed towards the door Lizzie stood behind.

Oh, bugger. If he comes in here to hang his things up, he's going to get a shock to find me in the dressing room...

He didn't, instead draping his garments just so over the back of a chair beside the door. His trousers followed, and Lizzie got an eyeful of his pristine white underpants covering an arse she guessed would feel like skin—covered bones beneath her hands. His spindly legs and knobbly knees were a far cry from Emmaline's usual bedroom partners, and having the man so close made Lizzie uncomfortable.

Maybe the brazen hussy couldn't entice one of her usual types tonight. Mind you, she's probably shagged half of London already. Slim pickings now people have guessed what she's about...

She laughed silently, wondering where the hell Emmaline found the men anyway—where did she go every night to pick them up?—and why they didn't mind a woman so well—used? She'd made a name for herself, she had. To all intents and purposes she was a lady, possibly unaware people hereabouts looked on her as a prostitute pretending she was gentry. And perhaps Emmaline was a floozy. Lizzie had seen male visitors leaving envelopes on the wooden bedside table or trinkets in fancy boxes. Emmaline always opened them when the men had gone, holding a necklace to her throat or hanging a sparkling bracelet over her wrist, and stashing the money in her safe.

Funny, but Lizzie had never seen Emmaline wearing the jewels, nor were they in her mistress' safe. Lizzie was trusted with the combination, having worked in the house for many years, and often pretended she was the mistress, prancing around the bedroom in the gems the woman had purchased herself. She sometimes imagined herself on Emmaline's bed when she made it in the mornings, too, with Johnny between her legs, a lock of his brown hair hanging over one dark eye, breathing unevenly as he gazed down at her.

Bet he's already got a woman. Besides, he wouldn't be interested in someone like me.

Excerpt from: Miranda and the Prince

Miranda ducked her head, barely avoiding the bucket of slops that was hurled out the window into the street just a few feet away. It splattered, foul liquid spraying up, and she jumped out of the way, anxious to keep her dress clean. If she spoiled it, she wouldn’t have a chance to wash it for days.

It wasn’t as if she didn’t want to be clean, she thought, checking the hem of her hand-me-down gown. It was just that she didn’t have time to take care of anything but what her father, his new wife and her children needed done. The few things Miranda could do to make life more palatable for herself always waited until last.

If things went awry, it fell to her slim but sturdy shoulders to deal with them, including making sure that the booth where sold the few vegetables they gathered was set up in the marketplace every morning. It also fell to her to work that booth, for her father trusted no one else to handle his money. He demanded an in-depth record of all that was sold and the coin that was earned.

And if the tally was not met, she paid the price. Even now her back ached from the stripes he’d placed there, using the heavy cane she used on the oxen when it came time to plough. Miranda sighed. There wasn’t time for her to rest and heal, even though she ached, for there was work to be done-always.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if her father and stepmother helped or even if one of her three step siblings lent a hand. But her father said this wasn’t the life they were used to, but it was one she was built for. He called her slight build sturdy and slapped her on her back almost hard enough to make her lose her balance.

Miranda was tall, just a few inches shorter than her father-a fact he bemoaned. She had the looks of her mother, fine-boned but lush with curves that were the envy of her stepsister. She also had her mother’s black curls and her bright blue eyes fringed with heavy dark lashes. Pale skin, like that of a porcelain doll, was smooth and perfect without the blotches that plagued her stepsister.

Her lips were full, curving seductively, cherry bright. Her nose was thin, tipped at the end to give her a touch of precociousness. Her heart-shaped face held a determined chin that could be stubborn when necessary. She was a comely lass, and the bane of her stepfamily’s existence.

Miranda reached the stall in the marketplace, unloading the heavy basket she’d carried. One of the other servants, a stout woman in her late thirties, was already there and smiled as she walked up.

“’Tis about time you arrived, Miss Miranda. I was worried something might have happened to you.”

“No, Kate, I’m fine, just a little slow on my feet this morning.” She didn’t mention the reason for her slowness nor did Kate ask, for all the servants knew of the punishments her father administered and how often Miranda paid for crimes not of her doing.

“I could have carried that for you, girl. There was no reason for you to do that,” Kate scolded her.

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” she said, stressing the words but softening them with her smile.

They got to work and finished unloading the handcart Kate had brought. Soon they were selling their wares. Miranda was happy. With today’s crowd they would make enough to please her father and perhaps keep her stepmother content.

A loud blaring of horns could be heard through the market, and Miranda looked up from where she measured a cup of wheat flour to see what the fuss was about. It wasn’t hard to tell. Above the crowds of people were men on horses dressed in the livery of the palace. Their horns blared once more before they parted, turning in perfect step to allow for the arrival of others.

Miranda watched, her eyes huge, as two men rode forward, their heads bent towards each other as they conversed. It looked quite heated, as well. The younger of the two, a handsome noble dressed in a fine leather jerkin and breeches, a white shirt and high knee boots, threw up his hands, tossed his reins to a young page standing before him and dismounted.

His hair was dark brown with glints of red peeking where the sun’s rays teased them out. His green eyes were the colour of the peridot that her mother used to wear round her throat on special occasions-an unusual colour for an eye, but one that drew the gaze as it drew hers.

His face was rugged, a small scar in the corner of his mouth adding to his appeal and giving him a hint of a devilish mien only enhanced by the scowl he wore at this moment. He was amazingly tall, his shoulders broad and his chest wide and powerful. The muscles of his thighs strained the breeches that covered them, flexing as he walked away from the older man and his horse.

She gasped as his gaze met her own, and she covered her mouth, lowering her eyes. It would prove disastrous if such a man, not just a royal but Prince Braden, the only son of the King and Queen, was to show any interest in her. Her father would beat her, perhaps this time cutting off her hair, which he had decided was the source of her “sinful” pride.

She finished measuring the flour, refusing to look in his direction again, even though she felt his strangely beautiful eyes upon her. Collecting the monies owed, she turned to the back of the stall, secreting away the money in a small purse that was in a hidden pocket in her skirt.

“Excuse me?”

She heard the deep, masculine voice and knew a moment of panic. Turning, she looked up into his face, feeling those green eyes as they wandered over her as if assessing her value. “Yes, Your Highness?” she asked breathlessly.

Prince Braden, son of King Magnus and Queen Wilhelmina was talking to her, Miranda, the nobody who was good only for work.

“I believe you dropped this,” he said, holding out a ring that was covered with hay from the floor of the stall.

Miranda was so flustered she held out her hand, feeling the ring dropped into it. “T…Thank you, Your Highness,” she managed to say, dropping a quick curtsey and looking down at the floor.

“You should be more careful. It looks like a family piece,” he said, raising her chin with his hand. “You are quite beautiful. Who do you belong to?”

“Belong to? Your Highness?” she stuttered.

Excerpt From: Miranda's Travels

The wind whipped the rain into Miranda’s face as she struggled, sodden through, her horse weary, towards the stable at the tavern. She dismounted, threw off her rain-soaked cape, and led her horse in. She saw a figure at a nearby stall with his back to her.

“Stable boy,” she demanded. “Come here and look after my horse.” As he walked out of the shadows, she saw he was quite old to be a stable boy, but Miranda was tired and hungry, and wanted to have her horse tended to as soon as possible so she could get a warm meal.

As he came closer, she saw his face and body more clearly, and she caught her breath. He was strikingly handsome, with dark hair, broad shoulders, and a neatly-trimmed moustache and beard. Miranda felt a warmth spreading low in her body. She smelt a clean, masculine scent that woke up her senses and made thoughts of dinner vanish; this was what her body craved now, as tired as she was.

“Hello,” she said with a smile. “I’m Miranda. I would appreciate it if you would take care of my horse this evening. I’ll be staying at the inn.”

“Yes, ma’am, my pleasure,” he said with an answering smile. “My name is Nicholas. This is a fine horse you have.”

“Thank you. He has been a good worker and companion for me for years,” Miranda replied. As Nicholas came even closer, Miranda could feel her heart racing and blood rushing to her face. All the miles of riding with her legs wrapped around her fine beast had started a hunger in her body, and now she wanted that hunger satisfied.

“Come here, I’ll show you how to brush him,” she instructed Nicholas. She handed him the brush from her saddlebag and took his hand. Sparks seemed to travel up her arm and through her body at the contact.

“I believe I know how to properly brush a horse, ma’am,” Nicholas told Miranda, pulling his hand away from hers.

“My horse is very particular,” Miranda informed him. He likes to be brushed slowly and smoothly, like this,” she instructed. Standing behind Nicholas and grabbing his hand once again, she guided it along the horse’s side. She moved in closer to him, breathing in his scent. Her nipples hardened as she pressed herself against him. She could hear his breath catch at the close contact, and knew he must be feeling the electric currents that were running through her body.

“Long, slow, calming strokes work the best,” she said, guiding his hand over the horse’s rump and down his leg. “And make sure you check his hooves.” Miranda bent over to pick up one of the horse’s legs, exposing an expanse of creamy white cleavage as she did so.

“That is exactly the method I use,” Nicholas said. “I’m sure I can do a satisfactory job without your assistance.”

Excerpt from: Misery Loves Company

The interior was stark. One room. A worn couch, table, two chairs, a bureau, and a dusty rug covering the centre of the bare board floor. A single bed was next to the wood stove against the far wall. It squeaked menacingly when she sat on it, testing the mattress. The quilt that draped the bed was handmade, its colours as muted as the shades of brown that made up the room. Above the bed hung wind chimes. She reached up, smiled when they tinkled. She wondered why they were inside and not hanging in the breeze on the porch.

There was no breeze inside. “You’re in the wrong place,” she whispered. These words seemed to express her general attitude towards life. Loneliness crept through her, so sudden and so stark she wavered, thinking perhaps she should turn and run.

But she paused, and as she did, comfort came to her in the form of an embrace. Arms, thick and strong circled around her torso from behind and as the dream wrapped her in safe warmth she tipped her head back. Breath moistened her ear, full lips pursed against her skin, hair fluttered against her cheek. She touched the hand that had begun to explore her breast. Her eyes drifted longingly across the bed.

“Yes,” the voice in her ear seemed to moan, as though echoing her sudden desire for intimacy. And as she turned to kiss her new lover, to embrace him fully, she staggered to nothing but cold air.

Her suitcase, perched by the door where she had dragged it, fell over with a thump. For several moments she simply stood. She neither rationalised nor fantasised. One step at a time. And the next step would be making the room comfortable.

She lit a fire in the stove, the warmth mixed with the scent of burning wood. An oil lamp on the table would be her only other source of light. This was from choice. There was a lamp run by generated power, but since she was going to enjoy the full sensation of living the rustic life she made a conscious decision not to cheat by flicking a switch. Everything she sensed would eventually seep through into her drawings. Every sense added to the passion of what would become artistic creation.

Passion. She caught herself stopping, waiting for the ghostly kiss against her ear, the hand on her body, yet all had gone silent. Ghosts. The word made her smile.

Excerpt From: Miss Me Baby

"She didn’t go into the water alone. She had help."

John stared at the flat line on the computer screen and rubbed his chin. He couldn’t believe his ears. The last night he’d seen Felicity, she hadn’t been near the lake. Eight years’ time made more than the memory muddy. Some days he could barely remember her face. Other times, his heart ached like she’d just passed.

He focused on the bad day eight years in the past. The day she’d died. She’d hated water-boating, swimming... Being in water scared her to death. But the pulsating bars on the sound programme accompanied by the words in the dialogue box didn’t lie-someone had called the police tip line.

Someone wanted him to pay for her death. Didn’t the caller realise John had paid for losing Felicity every day since she’d passed?

"Can you play it again? I thought the person sounded familiar, but now I’m not sure." John continued to scrub the back of his hand against his chin.

"She didn’t go into the water alone. She had help."

"Did you see the person who helped her?"

"Yes."

"Who was it?"

"John. John Babcock."

"Can I get your name, sir?"

"Whoever called, they hung up before we got a name. Untraceable, too." Detective Henry Gates tapped his pencil on the pad of paper. "I came here because there’s something fishy about this call. Here’s the thing. We’ve checked your car. Run through your apartment with a fine-tooth comb. If you had anything to do with the drowning of Felicity Black, then we can’t find it." He sighed. "I’ve talked to Ryan. He’s got the most to lose and I can’t find a damned thing on either of you."

"You took my statement. I was right here at Bar Twenty-Three playing a set with Marauder. If I’d known she was going to"-he swallowed past the lump in his throat-"hurt herself, I wouldn’t have taken the stage. I loved her and was helping her get treatment to overcome her demons. We were working on having a future together."

"I believe you-and have all along-but things have never added up in this case." Gates tossed the pencil onto the table. "What’s got me flummoxed is the tip. It’s been eight years. Why didn’t they come forward before? What changed?"

"Nothing’s changed." John sat back in his seat and folded his arms. He crossed his ankles. "I’ve gone through that night in my head so many times, wondering what I could’ve done to change the outcome. She had the divorce papers. Are you sure Ryan knows nothing?"

"Nothing. His alibi is airtight, and with no life insurance or assets other than their home, he had nothing to gain from her passing. Think hard. You’re certain no one has a grudge against you?"

"There will always be patrons here at Bar Twenty-Three who hate my guts for being thrown out or not allowed in, but I doubt they’d stoop to framing me for the death of my girlfriend. They probably don’t remember it."

"Keep your eyes open and let me know if anything comes to mind." Henry stood and smoothed out his suit jacket. "If you think of something else, anything else, let me know." He offered his hand. "I appreciate you speaking to me."

John shook hands with Gates and nodded. "If the coroner ruled it suicide, then the call is the only reason you’ve reopened the case?"

"It’s procedure to follow all leads. This case bothered me from the start because there’s still so much that looks simple on paper, but doesn’t play out simple in actuality. Thank you for your time."

Excerpt From: Missing in Milan

Linate Airport was shrouded in clouds as the plane began its final descent. The weather had been poor since we left Heathrow, the seat belt signs remaining on for the whole flight. I’d hoped for a glimpse of the Alps, snow-covered and majestic, as we passed over them. Instead I’d seen only heavy rain and heard fierce rumbles of thunder that buffeted the small plane. I wasn’t a nervous flyer, unlike the woman in the seat across the aisle, who’d clearly been terrified by every shudder and jolt, however minor. Still, I would be glad when we were on solid ground once more.

Travelling light is the sensible choice, I thought, hefting my backpack onto my shoulders as the cabin doors were opened, allowing us to disembark. It saved time waiting for my luggage to emerge on one of the carousels in the chaotic baggage reclaim area. Time I could instead spend catching up with Charlie. This would be the first occasion we’d been together since she moved to Milan to study, and I was looking forward to finding out how she was enjoying her new life.

Clearing passport control without any hold-ups, I walked through to the arrivals hall. People waited on the other side of low metal barriers, scanning every new face as it emerged. Some were liveried chauffeurs, clutching handwritten signs bearing the name of the passenger they’d come to collect. Others were clearly waiting for family or friends. I looked for Charlie’s familiar, freckled features in the crowd and failed to spot her.

I made a slow circuit of the area, checking to make sure Charlie wasn’t in any of the shops or killing time over a coffee in the landside café. She was nowhere to be seen. This didn’t worry me as much as it might. It certainly wasn’t unusual for her to be late. Intending to find out how far she was running behind schedule, I dialled her mobile. It was answered on the seventh ring by a recording that simply said, “Hi, this is Charlie. Leave a message.”

My reply was equally brief. “Charlie, this is your sister. We’ve landed. Let me know where you are, okay?”

Excerpt From: Mist and Stone

“Touch her, and I will geld you before you take your next breath.” Rage filling her vision, Willow stepped in front of the young priestess at her side and blocked the advances of the man before them.

His thin lips peeled away from his teeth in a poor facsimile of a smile. “Mayhap, I will touch you instead.”

As he reached for her breast, she drew her dagger from the sheath attached to her kirtle and pressed the blade against the man’s groin. Unprepared for her bold move, he gasped and froze in place. She did not bother hiding her smile as she pushed the blade upwards bringing him to his toes.

Hooves clattered over the courtyard’s stones and a rider dismounted, but she refused to look away from the man in front of her.

The rider moved beside her and locked a warm hand around her wrist.

She turned to glare at the second man. “Have you come to protect your brother in arms from my blade?”

Recognition hit her low in the gut as familiar eyes, blue as a bright autumn day, crinkled with poorly concealed amusement. Gareth.

A crooked smile quirked his lips as he ignored her question as well as her barb. “While I am tempted to allow you to make good on your threat, I do not think the King would appreciate you spilling the blood of one of his knights.” He paused and eyed the man at the end of her dagger. “No matter how much he likely deserves it.”

“Release me,” she demanded. She refused to allow either man to think she was a helpless child.

In response, Gareth grabbed the other man’s tunic and gently, but firmly, pulled her weapon from its intended target. “The priestess is none of your concern, Maleagant. You will give her a wide berth or Arthur will hear of this.”

The other man narrowed his eyes, rage bright in the icy depths. “They are pagan whores.” Yanking free of Gareth’s grasp, he stumbled backwards. “God does not care for them. Why should Arthur?”

Willow shook with anger as he disappeared from view. She turned her scowl on the man who still held her wrist, caressing the underside with a callused thumb. A shiver worked down her spine as he continued to stroke the sensitive skin.

Excerpt From: Mistletoe and Submission

“Bloody hell—leave the man be. If he doesn’t want a blowjob, there’s no rule that says he has to have one!” The front legs of Sloan’s chair slammed into the floorboards as he stopped balancing precariously on the back legs of the fine mahogany antique and suddenly leant forward to rest his elbow on the green baize. “Now, are you in or not?”

While everyone else’s attention seemed to turn back to the poker game, Carl Jenkins glanced down at the submissive kneeling at his feet. Shaking his head, he offered the rather confused looking sub an apologetic smile. “Nothing personal.”

The guy silently crawled away, towards the next dominant sitting around the table and quickly set to work. Within seconds Mike’s fly was unzipped, and the sub had his lips wrapped around his third cock of the evening.

As the bets were placed, Carl barely looked at his own cards before he folded. His mind wasn’t on the game right then. He mentally rolled his eyes at himself as he stared at the tiny stack of poker chips that remained before him.

He supposed he should be used to placing his bets blind. There was only one thing he’d ever managed to think about on any of their regular poker nights, and it was never the sodding cards.

As he took a sip of his beer, Carl glanced, as subtly as possible, towards Sloan. The older man’s attention was all focussed on his cards. His hair was longer than it had been when Carl had first met him a few months before. The ragged blond strands fell forward into Sloan’s eyes as he studied the game, sharp blue eyes quickly taking in every detail.

He increased the stakes, pushing several extra stacks of chips into the pot. Carl’s eyes followed his every movement with as much rapt attention as they always did. Sloan had wonderful hands, strong and confident. It was so easy to imagine those hands—

Quickly shutting down that line of thought, he tore his attention away from Sloan and all the amazing things he could so easily picture the other guy’s hands doing.

Out of the corner of his eye, Carl noticed that Mike had finished enjoying the sub’s mouth and had folded out of the game too. Pushing back his chair, the other dominant left the room. A hint of a Christmas tune floated into the room from somewhere else in the club as the door was opened.

Another snippet of a carol informed Carl of Mike’s return a few minutes later, just as Sloan scooped up his winnings. The moment the last chip was cleared from the centre of the table, half a dozen Christmas crackers were tossed down in their place.

Carl kept his attention on Sloan as the older man raised an eyebrow and glanced from the crackers to Mike and back again. He didn’t need to actually say anything. His expression alone was enough to let everyone know he wasn’t in the mood for stupidity.

Apparently far too pleased with his latest scheme to take the hint, Mike turned his seat around and straddled it, still grinning from ear to ear.

“Very festive?” Ryan offered, somewhat warily, from the other end of the oval table.

“Wait ‘til you pull one!” Mike said, eyes sparkling with someone’s future misfortune.

“What happens then?” Todd asked from the seat next to him, leaning back in his chair a little, as if one of the garishly coloured tubes might leap up and attack him at any moment.

“Then the lucky winner has to do the dare inside.”

Carl’s gaze reluctantly settled on the crackers, wondering what chance he had of getting out of pulling one of the damn things. He could guess what sort of dares they would contain if Mike had written them. At best, it would be painful and humiliating.

At worst… Carl glanced across to Sloan. He didn’t want to think about his worst case scenario right then. It would be far too much like tempting fate.

“Carl, you’re first,” Mike announced.

“Why Carl?” Sloan cut in, before Carl could scrape two words together.

“Because he never does a damn dare!” Mike protested. He turned to Carl. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Scared of a little Christmas cracker?”

Bloody terrified would have been closer to the mark, but Carl reached out and picked up one anyway. There wasn’t much else he could do. Any dominant worth his salt would rise to that kind of bait. If he backed down, he knew he might as well just skip straight to that worst case scenario anyway.

Sloan held out a hand to pull it with him.

Excerpt From: Mistletoe and Submission

�Bloody hell�leave the man be. If he doesn�t want a blowjob, there�s no rule that says he has to have one!� The front legs of Sloan�s chair slammed into the floorboards as he stopped balancing precariously on the back legs of the fine mahogany antique and suddenly leant forward to rest his elbow on the green baize. �Now, are you in or not?�

While everyone else�s attention seemed to turn back to the poker game, Carl Jenkins glanced down at the submissive kneeling at his feet. Shaking his head, he offered the rather confused looking sub an apologetic smile. �Nothing personal.�

The guy silently crawled away, towards the next dominant sitting around the table and quickly set to work. Within seconds Mike�s fly was unzipped, and the sub had his lips wrapped around his third cock of the evening.

As the bets were placed, Carl barely looked at his own cards before he folded. His mind wasn�t on the game right then. He mentally rolled his eyes at himself as he stared at the tiny stack of poker chips that remained before him.

He supposed he should be used to placing his bets blind. There was only one thing he�d ever managed to think about on any of their regular poker nights, and it was never the sodding cards.

As he took a sip of his beer, Carl glanced, as subtly as possible, towards Sloan. The older man�s attention was all focussed on his cards. His hair was longer than it had been when Carl had first met him a few months before. The ragged blond strands fell forward into Sloan�s eyes as he studied the game, sharp blue eyes quickly taking in every detail.

He increased the stakes, pushing several extra stacks of chips into the pot. Carl�s eyes followed his every movement with as much rapt attention as they always did. Sloan had wonderful hands, strong and confident. It was so easy to imagine those hands�

Quickly shutting down that line of thought, he tore his attention away from Sloan and all the amazing things he could so easily picture the other guy�s hands doing.

Out of the corner of his eye, Carl noticed that Mike had finished enjoying the sub�s mouth and had folded out of the game too. Pushing back his chair, the other dominant left the room. A hint of a Christmas tune floated into the room from somewhere else in the club as the door was opened.

Another snippet of a carol informed Carl of Mike�s return a few minutes later, just as Sloan scooped up his winnings. The moment the last chip was cleared from the centre of the table, half a dozen Christmas crackers were tossed down in their place.

Carl kept his attention on Sloan as the older man raised an eyebrow and glanced from the crackers to Mike and back again. He didn�t need to actually say anything. His expression alone was enough to let everyone know he wasn�t in the mood for stupidity.

Apparently far too pleased with his latest scheme to take the hint, Mike turned his seat around and straddled it, still grinning from ear to ear.

�Very festive?� Ryan offered, somewhat warily, from the other end of the oval table.

�Wait �til you pull one!� Mike said, eyes sparkling with someone�s future misfortune.

�What happens then?� Todd asked from the seat next to him, leaning back in his chair a little, as if one of the garishly coloured tubes might leap up and attack him at any moment.

�Then the lucky winner has to do the dare inside.�

Carl�s gaze reluctantly settled on the crackers, wondering what chance he had of getting out of pulling one of the damn things. He could guess what sort of dares they would contain if Mike had written them. At best, it would be painful and humiliating.

At worst� Carl glanced across to Sloan. He didn�t want to think about his worst case scenario right then. It would be far too much like tempting fate.

�Carl, you�re first,� Mike announced.

�Why Carl?� Sloan cut in, before Carl could scrape two words together.

�Because he never does a damn dare!� Mike protested. He turned to Carl. �What�s wrong, sweetheart? Scared of a little Christmas cracker?�

Bloody terrified would have been closer to the mark, but Carl reached out and picked up one anyway. There wasn�t much else he could do. Any dominant worth his salt would rise to that kind of bait. If he backed down, he knew he might as well just skip straight to that worst case scenario anyway.

Sloan held out a hand to pull it with him.

Excerpt From: Mistress of the Damned

The car skidded dangerously on the rain-slicked, two-lane highway as Kelli Colter floored the gas pedal. The hem of her pristine white wedding gown was splattered with mud.

“You stood me up, you son of a bitch! On our wedding day!” she screamed into the closed confines of her Lexus.

Tears of frustration and humiliation streamed down her cheeks. Outside, the sunny but cool day was beginning to slide into night. On the windshield, raindrops once again began to obscure the view in front of her. Tall, stately pine trees edged the right side of Highway-97, and on the left, there was a sheer drop to the forest floor below.

The cell phone in her dainty beaded bag, sewn especially for her wedding day, chirped. Kelli’s throat constricted with overwhelming sadness, and her stomach churned. Why was she so attracted to men who rejected her and dumped her?

“I thought you loved me, Randy,” she shouted into the tension-filled air. “I never would have believed you’d jilt me right at the altar, right where all our friends were gathered to see us join as man and wife.”

The phone chirped again. Kelli ignored its insistent ring.

She was thirty-two. She’d dated a lot of men but hadn’t felt that zing for them, that rightness between them that would lead her to consider marriage. Not until she’d met Randy, a dashing, handsome man who’d swept her off her feet from the moment she’d met him. Kelli couldn’t believe it had only been three months ago. She’d made such a fool of herself! Making love to him with abandon, as if there was no tomorrow. He’d been insatiable when it had come to sex. No place was out of bounds for coitus. An elevator, her car, the kitchen table, even in the Seattle park as the sun set. And she’d thrown herself at him. All for what? So he could decide at the last moment he didn’t want her beside him for the rest of their lives?

The cell phone rang again. Kelli dug into the bag, found it with her fingers, and pressed the button to roll down the driver’s side window of the car. A cold wind blew at her, tugging at her gown, and the rain lashed at her but she didn’t care. She threw the phone out into the wild. Why would she want to talk to anyone, to hear their commiserations? And their pity? Rejection was her life story. Her father had died when she was a baby, and her mother, who couldn’t stay away from booze for more than five minutes, had abandoned her when she was ten. Kelli snorted. Talk about being hammered by one rejection after another. First, her parents, then her foster parents, then the men in her life. It was as if no one wanted her.

Excerpt From: Modelling Death

Jacob Richmond looked around the bar, searching among the moving bodies and flashing lights for his cousin’s familiar face. The pounding music pulsed in time with the migraine throbbing through his skull. After a long international flight, exhaustion dragged his steps, and he could barely see through the pain jabbing behind his eyeballs. If he hadn’t promised David he’d meet him at the club, he’d have checked into a hotel and called it a night. However, David wanted Jacob to meet his friends, and besides, Jacob needed to pick up the key to his cousin’s apartment.

Bingo!

Jacob spotted his cousin’s distinctive red hair across the crowd. Working his way through the sea of people, Jacob headed towards where he thought he’d seen David. He was forced to stop several times along the way to slap intrusive fingers off his body.

Apparently 'no' was code for 'grab my ass'. It was an eye-opening experience for Jacob, who usually worked long hours and didn’t have a lot of time for bar hopping, no matter how many countries he visited. It was never a good idea to show up for a modelling gig looking tired and hung-over. Some of his co-workers partied hard and came to work looking less than their best the next day.

There wasn’t a quicker way to piss off a photographer.

Hoping to eventually work behind the camera instead of in front of it, Jacob tried not to alienate any of the photographers or fashion designers he might want to work with in the future.

His reputation as an even-tempered model who always delivered the perfect picture had served his career well.

"Hey, David," he called out as he approached. Five other people sat around the crowded table with his cousin.

They all stopped talking to stare.

Jacob tried not to feel too self-conscious. People usually watched him. However, normally a camera lens or a rope stood between him and any onlookers.

"Jacob." David jumped to his feet then rushed over to give Jacob a hug. "Sorry to drag you out here, but I really wanted my friends to meet you," he admitted with a shy smile.

Jacob knew David wanted to show off his cousin the model while desperately trying not to look like it.

"I’m happy to meet your friends anytime." David was one of the few relatives who didn’t drive Jacob absolutely bonkers. He figured the least he could do was meet David’s friends since his cousin was letting Jacob crash at his place for a while.

"David, introduce me." A short, dark-haired kid gave Jacob a slow, skin-crawling once-over.

"Shane, this is my cousin Jacob. He’s a fashion model," David said proudly.

Shane’s eyes widened. "I know you. You did that ad where you stood on the beach looking at the water wearing that tiny, tiny swimsuit. I wore out my hand jerking off to that one."

"Um. Thanks." He tried to sound polite since he doubted Shane really wanted to know how much his comment creeped Jacob out.

"No problem. I’d love to do it with you sometime in person." Shane leered at Jacob as if he were a blow-up doll one second from being used.

David shoved Shane away. "Stop being a perv. You’re going to freak out my cousin." He gave Jacob an apologetic shrug. "Sorry. I’ll pay you back for the club cover charge."

"There was a cover charge?" Jacob wondered if he should’ve paid something when he’d entered. The bouncers had waved him through with no mention of money. One of them had groped his ass but so had half the other people he’d passed. This was definitely the sort of meat market Jacob tried to avoid.

David laughed. "Probably not for you." He reached into his pocket and pulled out

a key. "Here. I made you a copy for your stay."

"Thanks, man." Jacob snatched at the key like it was the answer to his prayers. All he wanted was a pillow where he could lay his pounding head and find a moment’s peace. "I appreciate you letting me crash at your apartment. I’m so sick of hotels. I should probably look into getting a place of my own again, but I hate paying rent when I’m never home."

David slapped him on the back. "You look tired. Go ahead and get out of here. I know clubs aren’t your thing." David glanced to the left, over Jacob’s shoulder. "But if you could put your arm around my waist and pretend to be interested in me for about three seconds, I’d totally appreciate it."

Used to his cousin’s odd ways, Jacob slid his arm around David’s waist. Leaning over, he whispered into his cousin’s ear, "I don’t care who you’re trying to attract, I’m not kissing you."

Excerpt From: Moments

"Shit, Sam. March? That’s four frigging months."

Jacob Riley, all six-three of pissed-off male, slammed the door to the small conference room behind him and stamped to the window to stare moodily at the bright sunshine-filled day outside. He twisted both hands tight into his hair in frustration, wondering how the fuck this day had just all gone to hell. His lawyers—his fucking well-paid lawyers—had said they’d get him off, not land him with some lame-ass probation community service crap. Jeez, like he was gonna be taught anything by cleaning streets or dealing with people’s trash. Shit.

The TV in the corner was showing some trashy entertainment show, where a very smug presenter was reporting the latest news. Jacob tried to tune it out but it was nigh on impossible—it must have been the tenth time the show had been played in rotation.

The news of the arrest of actor Jacob Riley boosted the audience figures for the half season’s finale of End Game to their highest point for eight months. He’s been offered a lifeline in a county programme of rehab and his spokesperson said he’s concentrating on work and on himself. Well, folks, here’s hoping this is one recovering addict who actually makes it out alive.

"It’s on hiatus," Samantha replied carefully from just inside the door. "I’ve just got off the phone with HBO and they’ll delay your return to ‘Game until you’re free to come back. Remember, with Christmas on the way, we have some room to manoeuvre."

Jacob spun on his heel. His quiet, calm assistant stood holding a clipboard, a cellphone balanced on top of it.

"Fuck," he summarised. HBO would be stupid to lose him, he was convinced of it. ‘Game was his show. Jacob’s character was pivotal, the star of the whole goddamned show.

"You’re lucky you play Zach," Sam snapped. "And that Zach is a drug-taking manic depressive. Otherwise I swear they would have canned you today, no hesitation."

Was she trying to make him feel better? "Sam, do I look like I give a shit?"

"You need—"

"No! I don’t need anything or anyone. They push me off the show and they’ll see their ratings drop overnight. No one loses Jacob Riley and sees their show survive."

Sam stared at him in bewilderment.

Resentment bubbled up inside him. He was fully aware he was coming across as petulant and childish. But how could Sam or anyone understand what was going through his head? Sam, with her to-do lists and her anal outlook on life, sure as hell couldn’t. Who the hell did she think she was? HBO wouldn’t tell his assistant anything of any importance.

"We have four months to get you into a programme and complete your work through the community service," she continued. Her patient tone, measuring every word, talking to him as if he were a small child—he hated every syllable.

"No," Jacob snapped, balling his temper and his dismissal of her into that one word.

She stepped away from him to stand against the door. "Jacob—"

"No. I’m not cleaning streets, I’m not searching for rubbish or any of the usual crap they put celebrities through to humiliate us!"

"Jacob, it’s not meant to be a humiliation. But it is a punishment," Sam said, raising her free hand in an attempt to placate him. Her cellphone slid off the clipboard and tumbled to the floor.

Jacob listened, but what she’d said only served to increase his temper. He could feel the itch of addiction under his skin, and it terrified him. Although he would never admit it, he was out of control and it was eating at the edges of him.

In over a year, he hadn’t wanted a hit as badly as he did at this moment. Frustration and anger burst out of him with uncontrolled force. He reared up and crowded her against the door, his hand circling her wrist and gripping tightly. "Don’t get all sanctimonious on me, Sam, it’s not your style," he snarled.

"Jacob, you’re hurting me," Sam whimpered, visibly pushing as close to the wood as she could. Her words didn’t register, and his grip tightened. "Jacob. Please…" she said, tears in her eyes, pain and real fear in her voice. Something in the simple please reached through his anger. He threw Samantha’s hand back towards her body, but he didn’t move away.

"I’m sorry, but don’t push me, okay?" he said tiredly. Half closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. It was the first time in their relationship he could see fear in Sam’s eyes, and it scared the hell out of him. Was she actually afraid of him? What do I say? How the hell do I…?

"Your father," Sam said. "Your father is waiting for you in the next room."

Jacob flipped from menacing back to petulant instantly.

"Great, another thing to make my day." Jacob stepped back, watching as Samantha rubbed her wrist and blinked back tears.

"Jacob, he wants to help. He knows of this place you can go for the next—"

"He’s the one who got me into this mess, Sam! He freaking turned me in!"

"He’s waiting."

Excerpt From: Moments

"Shit, Sam. March? That’s four frigging months."

Jacob Riley, all six-three of pissed-off male, slammed the door to the small conference room behind him and stamped to the window to stare moodily at the bright sunshine-filled day outside. He twisted both hands tight into his hair in frustration, wondering how the fuck this day had just all gone to hell. His lawyers—his fucking well-paid lawyers—had said they’d get him off, not land him with some lame-ass probation community service crap. Jeez, like he was gonna be taught anything by cleaning streets or dealing with people’s trash. Shit.

The TV in the corner was showing some trashy entertainment show, where a very smug presenter was reporting the latest news. Jacob tried to tune it out but it was nigh on impossible—it must have been the tenth time the show had been played in rotation.

The news of the arrest of actor Jacob Riley boosted the audience figures for the half season’s finale of End Game to their highest point for eight months. He’s been offered a lifeline in a county programme of rehab and his spokesperson said he’s concentrating on work and on himself. Well, folks, here’s hoping this is one recovering addict who actually makes it out alive.

"It’s on hiatus," Samantha replied carefully from just inside the door. "I’ve just got off the phone with HBO and they’ll delay your return to ‘Game until you’re free to come back. Remember, with Christmas on the way, we have some room to manoeuvre."

Jacob spun on his heel. His quiet, calm assistant stood holding a clipboard, a cellphone balanced on top of it.

"Fuck," he summarised. HBO would be stupid to lose him, he was convinced of it. ‘Game was his show. Jacob’s character was pivotal, the star of the whole goddamned show.

"You’re lucky you play Zach," Sam snapped. "And that Zach is a drug-taking manic depressive. Otherwise I swear they would have canned you today, no hesitation."

Was she trying to make him feel better? "Sam, do I look like I give a shit?"

"You need—"

"No! I don’t need anything or anyone. They push me off the show and they’ll see their ratings drop overnight. No one loses Jacob Riley and sees their show survive."

Sam stared at him in bewilderment.

Resentment bubbled up inside him. He was fully aware he was coming across as petulant and childish. But how could Sam or anyone understand what was going through his head? Sam, with her to-do lists and her anal outlook on life, sure as hell couldn’t. Who the hell did she think she was? HBO wouldn’t tell his assistant anything of any importance.

"We have four months to get you into a programme and complete your work through the community service," she continued. Her patient tone, measuring every word, talking to him as if he were a small child—he hated every syllable.

"No," Jacob snapped, balling his temper and his dismissal of her into that one word.

She stepped away from him to stand against the door. "Jacob—"

"No. I’m not cleaning streets, I’m not searching for rubbish or any of the usual crap they put celebrities through to humiliate us!"

"Jacob, it’s not meant to be a humiliation. But it is a punishment," Sam said, raising her free hand in an attempt to placate him. Her cellphone slid off the clipboard and tumbled to the floor.

Jacob listened, but what she’d said only served to increase his temper. He could feel the itch of addiction under his skin, and it terrified him. Although he would never admit it, he was out of control and it was eating at the edges of him.

In over a year, he hadn’t wanted a hit as badly as he did at this moment. Frustration and anger burst out of him with uncontrolled force. He reared up and crowded her against the door, his hand circling her wrist and gripping tightly. "Don’t get all sanctimonious on me, Sam, it’s not your style," he snarled.

"Jacob, you’re hurting me," Sam whimpered, visibly pushing as close to the wood as she could. Her words didn’t register, and his grip tightened. "Jacob. Please…" she said, tears in her eyes, pain and real fear in her voice. Something in the simple please reached through his anger. He threw Samantha’s hand back towards her body, but he didn’t move away.

"I’m sorry, but don’t push me, okay?" he said tiredly. Half closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. It was the first time in their relationship he could see fear in Sam’s eyes, and it scared the hell out of him. Was she actually afraid of him? What do I say? How the hell do I…?

"Your father," Sam said. "Your father is waiting for you in the next room."

Jacob flipped from menacing back to petulant instantly.

"Great, another thing to make my day." Jacob stepped back, watching as Samantha rubbed her wrist and blinked back tears.

"Jacob, he wants to help. He knows of this place you can go for the next—"

"He’s the one who got me into this mess, Sam! He freaking turned me in!"

"He’s waiting."

Excerpt From: Monsoon Fever

The rain drops are Lakshmi’s tears. That is what Lalida had said—tears of pity wept by Vishnu’s consort at the sad state of mankind. From the sheltered veranda, Priscilla watched sheets of rain sweep relentlessly across the land. The silver curtain alternately hid and revealed the shapes of the green hills rising in the distance.

Priscilla swallowed the last of her biscuit and leaned back in the rattan chair, drawing her shawl around her shoulders. She knew, from the past week’s experience, that the downpour would end in a few hours. The lush wet bushes would sparkle in the sun, as though someone had scattered handfuls of jewels over their leaves. For now, the muted hues of the landscape matched her mood.

“More tea, Madam?” Lalida stole up behind her on bare feet, her orange sari like a streak of fire in the grey morning.

“Not for me, but please bring a fresh pot for Mr. Archer.”

“Yes, Madam.” The maid hurried away, leaving Priscilla alone again with her reveries.

Had it really been only a month ago that they had arrived in India? It seemed like a lifetime. She could barely remember the streets of London, the bustle and the noise, the clatter of hooves on the pavement, the horns and the backfiring engines of the autos vying with the carriages for space. It was so quiet here on the plantation. All she could hear was the hiss of the rain sluicing down.

The first week she had been busy, working with Lalida and a few of the village girls to clean up her father-in-law’s bungalow and sort through the untidiness of two decades of bachelor living. She’d met Jonathan’s father only once, at the wedding six years ago. Her confused recollection was of a jovial, but somewhat distracted man with eyes younger than one would expect from his seventy four years. He had travelled five weeks to see his only son married, yet he stayed in London only four days.

India was his home, he’d told her. He couldn’t bear to be away for long.

Once the house was in order, Priscilla had little to occupy her. Jonathan’s days were full, managing the plantation and trying to figure out his father’s tangled affairs. He had little time for her. Not that this was so different from her life in London, but there she had friends and diversions. Here she had no one to talk to but Lalida whose English was hardly adequate for a conversation of any depth.

The door hinges squeaked. Priscilla turned, expecting the servant, but instead she saw the trim, erect figure of her husband.

“Good morning, Jon. Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough. I hope that my tossing and turning didn’t disturb you.”

“Not at all.” Priscilla couldn’t tell him the truth. Often she lay awake for hours, staring at the pale mosquito netting looped above their bed, listening to his muttering, wanting but not daring to wake him. Dying for him to touch her. “Sit down and have some breakfast. Lalida’s coming with a fresh pot.”

“I’m really not hungry. I’ll take a flask of tea with me. I want to get out to the north slope as soon as I can and see how the plucking is coming along. Suresh told me that normally the second flush harvest should be completed before the rains begin. The longer we take, the poorer the quality will be.”

“Please, sit down for just a minute. Have a biscuit. These days I hardly see you!”

Jonathan rested his hand on her shoulder. He brushed his lips across her ginger curls. The brief touch made Priscilla shiver with delight. “I’m sorry, Pru. I know that this must be hard on you. As soon as the harvest is finished, we’ll start looking for a buyer. We’ll be back in England before Christmas, I promise.”

He straightened up, a resolute look hardening his youthful features. “Right now, though, I’m facing something of an emergency. I hope that you can understand. Lalida, put that in a Thermos for me. I’ll be back for lunch, around one.” He reached for the oilcloth raincoat hanging by the door post.

Excerpt From: Moon of Sacrifice

Seraynian Dimension

Her offence had been discovered. How could such pleasure sour so quickly?

Latah Donovan clenched her hands into small, tight fists and inhaled a deep breath through her nose. The stagnant air did nothing to calm her chaotic state of mind. Hadn’t the meeting in the High Council chambers been called in order to force an unwilling confession from her? Or had she missed an important word in the announcement she’d found tacked to the board in her work area which hadn’t even mentioned her name? Or had Gellas discovered her solitary hobby to uncover his lies, which would’ve resulted in more Seraynians being forced from the only homes they’d ever known for the erroneous belief that the planet laid in an unstable dimension? Was the uneasiness churning away in her gut due to her fear of detection or her overactive imagination?

Today, under the high raftered ceiling, her father and mother stood beside her, patience etched onto their weary faces. For them, this was just another meeting filled with official state business that meant next to nothing. Agara, Latah’s younger sister, wrapped her arms around herself and stamped her feet emphasising the apathy of the large, gathered crowd.

At the front of the room, Gellas, the High Council leader sat, his golden eyes rheumy, as he wheezed louder than ever, almost as if he’d keel over at any moment. At times, he coughed a loud, hacking sound, and covered his mouth with his gnarled hand. Perhaps the mental exertion involved in standing up in a packed room was getting to be too much for him. But despite her fears, he didn’t look directly at Latah.

She exhaled in relief. Then the meeting couldn’t have been called to reveal her forbidden journeys. No, the assembly was for some other reason. A new dread began to curl thick tentacles around her throat, constricting her airflow. Why had Gellas and his council of two men, who would most likely succeed him as the next leaders, ordered every Seraynian to the area?

Latah surreptitiously scanned the room. As usual, Sanias of her generation was there, his arms folded across his massive chest, his eyes roaming over everyone and nothing. A frown of disapproval marking his features, he seemed to survey all as if they were the enemy.

Dragging her gaze from him, Latah watched as Gellas clutched at the elaborate chair’s armrests, laboured to his feet and cleared his throat several times. The assembled Seraynians fell into a hushed, expectant silence. Feet shuffled and a baby wailed before its mother frantically quieted it.

Gellas spoke, his voice hoarse with age. “I have spent the better part of my life serving you. I have done everything in my power to increase your numbers, to prevent outsiders from ruining our pure heritage. Sometimes, I feel I have failed, but I have been devoted to you all. From your end, disloyalty to the Seraynian people is not an option.”

Latah’s father gasped, as did several others standing nearby. Allegiance was a problem on the planet? How was that possible? Was this another of the stories Gellas was fabricating in preparation for the succession to his position after his death? Latah had begun to see that the old man didn’t desire what was best for the people, but what was the greatest good for himself. He would muddle the High Council and the Seraynian people, civil war would break out in which everyone took sides, and when the bloodshed and bickering were over, he would go down in the history books as the greatest leader the land had ever known, especially given that the resulting turmoil would leave only good memories of the days when he had ruled in unopposed peace.

“If we cannot act as a united group,” Gellas continued, “then we cannot save our dimension.”

Excerpt From: Moon Shy

His hands moulded her arse, and she couldn’t believe it. She’d worked for ten months at this boring, mouldering old firm just because he did, too, and finally, she had her hands on him—and he on her, come to that. He was drunk, she was drunk. It was an office party, after all.

They’d simply been chatting over the table of nibbles when he’d asked her to dance. She had accepted and enjoyed rubbing up against him while onlookers gaped at quiet little Jenny, dancing with the hottest property on the fifth floor.

When he’d whispered in her ear about meeting her in his office, somewhere quiet for them to come to know one another better, she’d jumped at the chance without thinking of the sadness of ten months working together and him only just knowing her name.

They’d left the party together. The company was so broke, they were doing the typical Christmas do several weeks early and in the office itself. No one seemed to mind, though. There was plenty of free booze.

As soon as they’d reached his office, his lips had been on hers, his hands on her arse. If she’d been even a drink or two more sober, she would have slapped him. But she was drunk and horny, so she’d slipped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer.

As he undid the zip that slipped down her back, she loosened his tie and opened his shirt.

She was soon clad only in her sexiest bra and knickers before him, too desperate for his cock to worry about her chubby tummy or wobbling thighs. He seemed to find her attractive enough. She dropped to her knees to see to the bulge hidden under his trousers.

His dick was hot and hard and fitted nicely in her mouth. She sucked for a little while before he barked out a command. She obeyed instantly, leaning over the desk, feeling the warmth on the wood where his buttocks had just been pressing and the chill on her breasts of the cold, early November evening.

He spanked her, teasing her, before he pulled off her knickers and forced his way inside of her. She rocked back against him as he banged furiously into her with no care for her satisfaction. When he came, spurting all over her buttocks and back, she was still aching for more. But he passed out on his office chair. She covered him with his jacket, dressed and went home with the plan to wank furiously, but all she did was fall into bed.

The next morning, she was summoned to Mr. Taylor’s office. It looked different in the daylight, but her cheeks flushed as she remembered the hi-jinks of the night before.

Mr. Taylor, though, was not up for a repeat performance.

“But-but you can’t fire me. You were having sex, too!” Jenny exclaimed in an explosion of disbelief and fury.

“I was merely testing you, and you failed,” he said, not a sign of a smile on his lips.

“You bastard! You snotty, fucking bastard!” she yelled. “Well, you can stick your crappy, little job up your arse, because I don’t bloody well want it, anyway.” And she stamped out of the room.

Just as she stood in the doorway, she yelled so the whole floor could hear, “And you’re a fucking awful lay with your tiny penis and your lack of staying power. Go fuck yourself!”

She walked over to her desk, head held high, very much aware of the stares. She gathered her things and left, and it wasn’t until she had walked down the street that she burst into tears.

She quickly pulled herself together and bought a copy of the local paper. She looked at the jobs section, and there was a big advert for Demonet. They were looking for new customer service representatives. She was not particularly keen on the idea of working for a company that would see her as a nameless drone, but she decided to apply for the position anyway. Times were hard, and she needed a job. She had a flat and associated bills to pay. Needs must.

Two weeks later, she walked into the Demonet building for her first day at work.

Excerpt From: Moonlit Magic

“You can’t avoid him forever.”

Glaring at her best friend, Beckett Matthews crossed her arms over her chest and turned towards the window, watching the lush, green countryside race by. “Sure I can. Just watch me.”

There had been nights when she thought it would kill her, but she’d avoided him perfectly well for five long years. Of course, the fact that the Atlantic Ocean had stood between them had made staying away from him somewhat easier.

Now that she’d returned to Ireland, steering clear of Kieran Brennan was going to be a bit more difficult. But, she reminded herself, she was just visiting. This was simply a last minute stop on the European museum circuit. She’d be in Dublin only as long as the Tapestry and Textile exhibition. When the tapestries went back to the U.S. so would she, and Kieran would once again be relegated to the land of memories and mistakes.

It hadn’t all been a mistake, had it? Longing flooded her at the memory of his lanky, muscled body pressing her into the cool earth under the stars.

Shaking off the past, she focused on the present. The present consisted of riding from the airport to her aunt’s cottage outside of Wicklow with Tara. Every landmark they passed brought back memories better left buried. The standing stones where he’d first kissed her. The pond where they’d gone skinny-dipping after dark. The castle ruins where they’d made love. She closed her eyes, willing away the memories. All roads led back to Kieran.

“Admit it,” Tara chided, her lilting accent bringing back memories of every summer she’d spent here at her aunt’s home. “You can’t stop thinking about him.”

Beckett sighed. She’d never stopped thinking about him. At twenty-three he’d been gorgeous. She’d loved running her fingers through his long tawny hair and staring into his deep, sea green eyes. And God knew she’d never tired of touching him—lean and muscular —golden perfection. She clenched her hands, remembering the feel of his sweat-slick skin against hers.

She needed to stop behaving like a hormonal eighteen-year old. That chapter of her life was long past. She’d willingly walked away from everything he’d offered—ran was more like it. She ran home to a lonely existence.

It was stupid to think that her relationship with Kieran would have turned out like her parents’ relationship had, but she couldn’t free herself from the bone deep fear that he would leave when she needed him most. That he would abandon her like her mother and father. Granted, her mother hadn’t had a choice, but her father did. And he chose to leave her and her siblings after her mother died.

Part of her knew that Kieran would never do anything that cowardly, but old fears died hard, apparently. Instead, she’d focused on the physical, fucking him at every opportunity and when he wanted more...she’d run. She pushed away the almost tactile recollection of the way their bodies fit together, only to wonder how they’d fit now.

How had he changed? She could only hope he’d developed a receding hairline and a beer belly. Of course, his voice was probably the same. He’d been able to seduce her by simply whispering endearments in his low, sexy brogue. It wasn’t just the accent, though thinking of the way he murmured her name against her neck as he moved inside her had her ready to insist that Tara drop her off on his doorstep.

Frowning, Beckett shifted in the seat of the cramped economy car. “It’s been five years. If he’s not married, I’m sure he’s involved with someone.”

No matter how much she might still want him, she refused to get involved with a man who belonged to someone else. For all she knew, he could have kids. It wasn’t difficult to imagine him with children—he’d adored his younger siblings and cousins.

For a moment, she pictured him happy and in love with someone else. If she’d stayed when he’d asked her—

Beckett tried to swallow past the rock that suddenly lodged in her throat. The sting of tears burned her eyes and she blinked rapidly, hoping her friend hadn’t noticed.

How could she still feel so strongly about him? Sure, he’d been her first love, not to mention her adolescent-long infatuation, but how could she still be moved to the point of tears by imagining him with someone else?

“He’s not involved with anyone.” Tara glanced meaningfully at her. “He hasn’t been with anyone since you left.”

Beckett snorted. “How stupid do you think I am?” There was no way someone like Kieran would go a few months without a lover, let alone five years.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. There’s no way. It’s just not possible.”

Excerpt From: Moonlit Ménage

The softly babbling river behind Brontë Matthews and the breeze dancing through the leaves provided accompaniment to the haunting melody spilling from her fingertips. It pulled at her, drawing her into a swiftly moving current of emotion. Unease and pleasure swirled together, flowing through her as rapidly as the water. It was as if the music wove a spell, drawing out her hidden feelings for the two men in front of her—desire, confusion, longing, lust. The song echoed her every emotion.

Closing her eyes, she tried to grasp the next, elusive phrase from her memory as her bow danced across her viola. In her mind’s eye, she could see the cascading notes, scrawled across her composition notebook, but they vanished into a smudge of ink. Frustrated and unable to recall the phrase, she repeated the previous line and lifted her bow from the quivering strings. The last note hung suspended, trembling in the still morning air.

“Where did you hear that?” Quillen Davies demanded.

Brontë slowly lowered her instrument to her lap as his voice slashed through the tranquillity of the moment.

“What do you mean?” she asked, studying his face. His normally relaxed demeanour had vanished, and horror replaced the laughter always apparent in his eyes. She looked to his friend, Tarran Ashe. Though he was usually the more taciturn of the two men, he looked as upset as Quill. She frowned. What the hell was their problem?

Quillen bent his head closer to hers. “I mean, where did you hear it, cariad?” Worry increased his accent’s musical lilt, contrasting sharply with the husky timbre of his voice.

He watched her through the black fall of silky hair that partially obscured his deep green eyes. Darker than the lush foliage around them, they seemed to hide a wealth of secrets. Strange how she’d never noticed that before. Shaking his hair from his face, he scowled—his sculpted lips turning downward. In the month she’d known him, she’d never seen him so much as frown. Now, he practically glowered at her.

She glanced at the other man. Tarran’s pale grey eyes were narrowed as he glared at her, too. Of course, that wasn’t much different than his usual expression, but there was something pinched—something that looked off somehow.

Apprehension and confusion gnawed at her.

The river gurgled pleasantly in the background, but a chill she couldn’t shake settled over her skin like a damp, cloying shroud. The trees of the Gwydyr forest seemed to crowd closer as if listening to them. What had started out as a peaceful morning had quickly become ominous and unsettling. For the first time since arriving in Wales a month ago, she felt like an outsider—an interloper. She was supposed be here working on her graduate degree at the Bren Gwyrdd Music Conservatory. In fact, she hoped to complete this song as one of the requirements of her composition class. But the way Quill and Tarran acted, she was beginning to feel like she’d committed a crime.

How was she supposed to explain that the song had come to her in a series of dreams? Who would believe it? Each night, she dreamt a little more of the melody. The sounds were so vivid, they’d wake her from a sound sleep until she was forced to scribble down the tune, lest it vanish from her mind forever. It was true that the subconscious mind was capable of amazing things, but composing entire songs? Not entire songs, she corrected herself. She still didn’t have the ending.

Tarran reached out and took her hand, enveloping it in his much larger one. “We’re not trying to scare you, love.” His usual, deep, smooth tone was clipped and sharp sounding.

“No? Well, you’re doing a pretty good job. What’s going on? What’s the problem with the song?”

Excerpt From: Moor Love

Looking out the window, Caleb watched as the train wound its way through the Yorkshire countryside. He still couldn’t believe he was here. It had taken nearly a year of paperwork to get his student placement, but the day had finally arrived.

He quickly scanned the folder of information he’d been given. Smiling to himself, he closed the folder. He’d looked at the damn thing so many times, he already had it memorised. He’d be working for Jon Cook on a small sheep farm just inland of the small seaside town of Whitby.

According to the information he’d received, he’d have his work cut out for him. After his mom had read it, she tried desperately to talk him out of going. No, Mr. Cook wasn’t a serial killer or anything, just different.

Mr. Cook had been in a car wreck nineteen years earlier. The accident took the life of his father and left him with a pronounced limp and an inability to speak. A more recent fall while dipping his sheep had aggravated his earlier injury. Unable to tend to his sheep in the fields properly, Mr. Cook had finally agreed to sign up for the work placement program.

Caleb already knew they would have a problem, because Mr. Cook kept insisting he didn’t need a worker for an entire year, but the program only placed students for that amount of time. Once Caleb started working, he’d be there for the designated time, or risk losing his college credits.

As he leaned his forehead against the glass, Caleb lost himself in his own problems. He’d come out to his mom when he was sixteen, but he’d waited to tell his dad. As the years went by, he kept promising himself he’d do it, but the timing had yet to be right.

After his folks had divorced, Caleb and his mom moved back to the Kansas City area, leaving his father and the family’s farm behind. His formative years had been spent on baseball fields and malls instead of barns and pastures.

He’d been sent to Iowa for two weeks every summer to stay with his dad. It was during this time, he’d felt the divide between them grow. Usually he’d spend the entire time sitting on the porch or in front of the old television. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help his dad on the farm, he just didn’t know what to do. His dad had little patience and often lost his temper while trying to explain the way to perform a particular task.

Caleb had found getting out of the way made them both much happier. That all changed after coming out of the closet to his mother. At the age of sixteen, Caleb decided it was time to roll his sleeves up and learn everything he could about sheep. Prior to his two week visit, Caleb searched the internet, reading every article he could find.

He knew it was the summer he’d finally tell his dad that he was gay and wanted them to have somewhat of a relationship established before then. He soon found out that reading about sheep and actually caring for them, were two different things.

His dad was a little more patient with him, but Caleb could tell he still had a lot of bridging to do before coming out to him. Since then, he realised that he actually enjoyed learning about farm animals, not only sheep, but pigs, cattle and even chickens.

When it came time for him to apply to a university, Caleb chose Kansas State because of its well known agricultural program. He knew he didn’t want to be a farmer or rancher, but he was finding out there were all sorts of careers a person could get into as long as he had agricultural knowledge.

In the end, he decided to go for a dual degree in both agricultural science and marketing. He’d interviewed his sophomore year with a national feed company and thought that was the career path he’d enjoy the most.

Maybe a year away would strengthen his resolve to speak with his dad. Hell, it couldn’t hurt anyway. Shifting his gaze away from the breathtaking scenery, Caleb looked down at the folder once again. He wondered how Mr. Cook felt about gays. Would he be expected to put that part of his life on hold for the next year?

Caleb wasn’t sure of how tolerant the people in and around Whitby would be. He’d grown to enjoy a fairly active sex life and if he had to, he’d put his desires on hold, but it wouldn’t be easy. He’d at least make sure his sexual orientation was known up front. Even if he couldn’t engage in one of his favourite pass-times, he at least didn’t want to hide it any longer.

Jon Cook was thirty-six, only thirteen years older than Caleb, but from the few letters he’d received from Mr. Cook, he seemed much older. Maybe it was being unable to speak. Caleb wasn’t sure, but the letters were always very well written and straight to the point.

The sign along the track and announcement over the speaker above his head, declared he’d arrived in Whitby. Caleb quickly stuck the folder into his laptop case before looking at his new hometown. He could see the ocean off in the distance. Caleb couldn’t remember ever being this close to the ocean. Well, he’d flown over it on his way to England, but this was different. This was definitely a new chapter in his life.

Excerpt From: More Than Pride

Dillon sat on the back porch enjoying the cool evening breeze with a cold Mason jar of sun tea in his hand. He yawned, tired after his long day of helping clear out the west garden for spring planting. He generally didn't mind pitching in—a pride was only as strong as its weakest member and Dillon had decided long ago that he wouldn't be the weakest. He might have been born the runt of the litter but time dedicated to building up his body and a late growth spurt had helped him rise to the second strongest of the pride. Now only the alpha pair was stronger than him...and Adrian didn't really count because Dillon had met few people as vicious as Talan's sweet wolf mate.

Sighing, Dillon pushed at the deck with his foot, sending the wooden swing tilting higher.

His life should've been just about fucking perfect. He had a good job as overseer of the pride's work teams and sometimes as a representative for their alpha. Talan trusted him to negotiate treaties and represent him when he couldn't get away. Why, then, did he feel hollow inside? The last few days it had taken effort to even drag himself out of bed. Nothing seemed to bring him joy anymore. Not even the cubs running around the house could bring out his usual smile. Now that both Kevin and Talan had mates, he longed for one of his own.

A sigh ripped through his chest. None of the local lions appealed to him, and although he'd started to take a look at Adrian's pack for potential mates, he hadn't found a wolf partner who appealed to him either. Was it too much to hope to find one perfect man? Hell, he'd even take a woman if she made his heart beat faster.

"Meow."

The tiny sound caught Dillon's attention. He stopped the sway of the swing to peer into the darkness. A large tabby cat pranced through the high grasses, attacking dandelions as he crossed the field.

Walk. Walk. Pounce.

The animal followed that pattern over and over as it approached. Dozens of hapless dandelions lost their fluff as it moved closer.

"Hey there, little fella," Dillon said, keeping his voice low and soothing. What a cute cat. However, Dillon needed to get the small creature off the pride lands before he became a lion snack. "Come here," he cooed to the pretty cat.

An owl's screech made the hairs on the back of Dillon's neck stand up straight. He leapt off the porch and ran towards the tabby as a great horned owl launched off a nearby tree. The bird zeroed in on the cat, and, before Dillon's horrified gaze, swooped down and grabbed the feline in its claws.

"No!" Dillon screamed. He scooped up a rock off the ground and threw it at the bird. His stone hit its mark, striking the avian on the wing.

The owl screeched, releasing its grip on the small animal. To Dillon's surprise, the tabby flipped midair and transformed. Fur changed to smooth, muscled skin and red—gold hair flowed across a well—shaped skull. Instead of a fluffy cat, a naked man landed on his feet in the grass. The cat shifter crouched down like a feral creature afraid to be out in the wide open. His brilliant hair shone in the moonlight and even in human form the man's eyes shimmered reflectively.

Another cry came from the owl. It landed several feet away and transformed into a tall muscular man with brown and white speckled hair. Bruises covered him from face to torso. His ribs stood out in sharp relief against his battered mocha-coloured skin.

The owl man swayed for a moment before his eyes rolled up into the back of his head and he collapsed onto the ground.

Why the hell were a cat and an owl intruding on lion land? Concern for the injured shifter had Dillon moving towards the avian first.

"I hope you two have a good reason for being on our land. I'd hate to have to kill you," Dillon muttered as he reached the owl shifter's side.

Excerpt From: Morvea

Present day.

Eli looked up from the brief on his desk when his secretary poked her head into his office. He frowned at the nervous look on her face.

"Mr Thatcher, you have some visitors," she said hesitantly.

Eli looked at his watch. "Who is it? I’m due in court in forty-five minutes. I don’t really have time."

His secretary’s eyes widened a little. "Oh, I think you should make time for them."

Before he could respond, three men pushed their way through the door. Eli automatically stood. Who did these men think they were, just barging into his office like that?

"Mr Thatcher, I’m sorry." His secretary’s voice was shaky as she clung to the door frame.

Eli assessed all three men. He took in their rigid posture, the firm expressions on their faces, and the subtle bulges beneath their suit jackets.

Oh goodie, they’re carrying guns.

Eli kept his own expression calm. "It’s all right, Claire." He spared a quick glance at her, giving her a small, reassuring smile. "Could you please clear my schedule for the day?"

Her eyes widened farther, but she quickly averted her gaze to the floor, obviously confused and nervous. "Yes, Mr Thatcher."

"Thank you. That will be all, Claire." Eli watched her hand shake as she reached out to grab the doorknob then closed the door behind her. Eli focused back on the men occupying the room. "So, gentlemen, what can I do for you?"

The man directly in front of him said, "Mr Wayland wishes to see you."

Eli swallowed hard. Wayland was no stranger to him, but Eli had never met him personally before, and he had a feeling meeting him now wasn’t a good thing. Wayland was head of the council, here on Earth, who controlled the travelling between realms. Word was that he was a mean SOB who had no patience or kindness. He was a stickler for having complete control, and made it very clear that if you stepped outside his set margins, you paid for it. Word also was that he was a psychopath, so Eli really didn’t like that the man wanted to see him.

Eli straightened his form—he didn’t want these guys to see his apprehension. "All right," he said with more confidence than he felt. He followed the men out of his office and to the elevators. Once the elevator doors had closed them in, he looked to the guy that had spoken before. "Can I ask what this is about?"

"No," he said simply.

Oookay.

They walked quickly through the lobby of his building and out to the bustling New York City street, where an SUV waited for them. He was ushered into the back with one of the men, the door slamming closed after him. He had no sooner settled himself in his seat when he felt a slight pinch and stinging on the side of his neck.

He whipped his head to the left to the guy sitting next to him…who was holding a syringe in his hand.

"What the fu—?"

But before he could finish, everything went dark.

* * * *

Eli groaned as he rolled his head back, his brain feeling like it’d been replaced with cotton.

"Hey," a familiar voice said to his right.

Eli’s eyes snapped open and he looked over to see Rick, one of his and Keddrick’s bodyguards, tied to a chair. Larry, their other bodyguard and Rick’s best friend, was also tied to a chair next to Rick. Eli looked down at himself—yup, tied to a chair.

"What the hell?" Eli struggled against his bindings, his wrists burning as the rope scraped against his skin. He tried looking over his shoulder to get an idea of what kind of knot tied his hands together, but he couldn’t see. He leaned to the side and saw that the knots tying his legs to the chair were pretty intricatex—there was no way he’d be able to wiggle out of those. "What the fuck is going on?"

"Don’t know," Rick replied. "We just woke up ourselves."

Eli took in his surroundings. It looked like they were in an empty warehouse. Garbage lined the walls. There were broken boards everywhere and spare pieces of metal sheets leaning against the support beams. Even though the windows were so dirty he couldn’t see out of them, light filled the big room.

All right, let’s add this up. Old empty warehouse and we’re tied to chairs…yup, we’re in trouble.

Excerpt From: Morvea

Present day.

Eli looked up from the brief on his desk when his secretary poked her head into his office. He frowned at the nervous look on her face.

"Mr Thatcher, you have some visitors," she said hesitantly.

Eli looked at his watch. "Who is it? I’m due in court in forty-five minutes. I don’t really have time."

His secretary’s eyes widened a little. "Oh, I think you should make time for them."

Before he could respond, three men pushed their way through the door. Eli automatically stood. Who did these men think they were, just barging into his office like that?

"Mr Thatcher, I’m sorry." His secretary’s voice was shaky as she clung to the door frame.

Eli assessed all three men. He took in their rigid posture, the firm expressions on their faces, and the subtle bulges beneath their suit jackets.

Oh goodie, they’re carrying guns.

Eli kept his own expression calm. "It’s all right, Claire." He spared a quick glance at her, giving her a small, reassuring smile. "Could you please clear my schedule for the day?"

Her eyes widened farther, but she quickly averted her gaze to the floor, obviously confused and nervous. "Yes, Mr Thatcher."

"Thank you. That will be all, Claire." Eli watched her hand shake as she reached out to grab the doorknob then closed the door behind her. Eli focused back on the men occupying the room. "So, gentlemen, what can I do for you?"

The man directly in front of him said, "Mr Wayland wishes to see you."

Eli swallowed hard. Wayland was no stranger to him, but Eli had never met him personally before, and he had a feeling meeting him now wasn’t a good thing. Wayland was head of the council, here on Earth, who controlled the travelling between realms. Word was that he was a mean SOB who had no patience or kindness. He was a stickler for having complete control, and made it very clear that if you stepped outside his set margins, you paid for it. Word also was that he was a psychopath, so Eli really didn’t like that the man wanted to see him.

Eli straightened his form—he didn’t want these guys to see his apprehension. "All right," he said with more confidence than he felt. He followed the men out of his office and to the elevators. Once the elevator doors had closed them in, he looked to the guy that had spoken before. "Can I ask what this is about?"

"No," he said simply.

Oookay.

They walked quickly through the lobby of his building and out to the bustling New York City street, where an SUV waited for them. He was ushered into the back with one of the men, the door slamming closed after him. He had no sooner settled himself in his seat when he felt a slight pinch and stinging on the side of his neck.

He whipped his head to the left to the guy sitting next to him…who was holding a syringe in his hand.

"What the fu—?"

But before he could finish, everything went dark.

* * * *

Eli groaned as he rolled his head back, his brain feeling like it’d been replaced with cotton.

"Hey," a familiar voice said to his right.

Eli’s eyes snapped open and he looked over to see Rick, one of his and Keddrick’s bodyguards, tied to a chair. Larry, their other bodyguard and Rick’s best friend, was also tied to a chair next to Rick. Eli looked down at himself—yup, tied to a chair.

"What the hell?" Eli struggled against his bindings, his wrists burning as the rope scraped against his skin. He tried looking over his shoulder to get an idea of what kind of knot tied his hands together, but he couldn’t see. He leaned to the side and saw that the knots tying his legs to the chair were pretty intricatex—there was no way he’d be able to wiggle out of those. "What the fuck is going on?"

"Don’t know," Rick replied. "We just woke up ourselves."

Eli took in his surroundings. It looked like they were in an empty warehouse. Garbage lined the walls. There were broken boards everywhere and spare pieces of metal sheets leaning against the support beams. Even though the windows were so dirty he couldn’t see out of them, light filled the big room.

All right, let’s add this up. Old empty warehouse and we’re tied to chairs…yup, we’re in trouble.

Excerpt From: Mountain Rescue

Everything looked grey. The sky was a solid, ominous mass of deep slate, currently spewing the heavy sleet that seemed to be unique to the Cumbrian fells in summer. The stone buildings and silvery slabs of the pavement melded together, all sheen dampened by the miserable lack of light. Henry Jones shook himself like a large, shaggy dog, scattering water in all directions.

"Thank God for Gore-Tex! Christ, Cal, you’re going to need waterproof underwear in this godforsaken place. Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to come back to London with me?"

"I like the rain, Henry."

Cal spoke through the barrier of his scarf, which was wrapped protectively around his face. He chuckled and got a mouthful of fluffiness for his trouble.

All six feet five inches of Henry’s broad frame managed to exude a comical air of bemusement. He peeled off a glove, wrung the water from it and held out a large hand. "Well, good luck, my friend. I need to run if I’m going to get the next train back to civilisation."

With his slimmer hand, Cal grasped the huge paw, then pulled its owner into a soggy hug.

"Thanks for everything, Henry. I really appreciate it, especially you driving the car all the way up here. Give my love to Elena and the bump."

Cal knew from the goofy grin that crossed Henry’s broad face that he was thinking of his heavily pregnant wife. He was really going to miss his best friend. With a baby on the way, the two hundred- odd miles between them might as well be a thousand. Henry returned the hug with the affection of a protective grizzly bear, then headed off towards the small station with one last glance over his shoulder and a wave.

For a moment Cal felt a wave of sadness wash over him, but it was soon gone. This was a new beginning for him and he was determined to stay positive. The drunk driver who had managed to decimate his family for the price of a bottle of whiskey had been jailed. Months of legal red tape had finally been unravelled and Cal had inherited as the sole beneficiary of both his parents’ and his great-aunt’s estates. Even after death duties, at twenty-two he was a relatively wealthy young man. Of course, he would have given up every single penny to rewind time and bring them all back.

His Great-Aunt Ruby had spent Christmas at his family home as she had every year, and he could still see her, parked contentedly in the corner of the lounge with a bottle of sherry and a tub of salted nuts that must have played havoc with her false teeth. His parents had decided to drive her back to Cumbria and spend a few days touring the Lake District. If only he had offered to make the trip instead, they wouldn’t have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The head-on collision, which had killed them all instantly, might never have happened. Images of the car, crushed beyond recognition, filled his head.

Cal felt the familiar burn of guilt, like acid in the pit of his stomach. His brain tried to convince him that it wasn’t his fault, but his heart disagreed. It would be some time before he could reconcile the two. He swallowed back the intense emotion that still threatened to overwhelm him at times and focused on his surroundings.

Though the buildings around him were familiar, Cal suddenly felt completely lost. He was at the end of the winding High Street, water dripping uncomfortably down the back of his neck. He needed to buy some supplies then get back to the house to start unpacking—his entire life was currently wrapped in cardboard and wriggly polystyrene worms. There was so much whirring around in his brain that he didn’t know what to do first. In the end he dived into the mini-mart and scooped random items off the shelves. Looking over his basket when he got to the checkout, he had no recollection of having picked up pickled onions or marshmallows. Eggs, bread, tea bags and milk had made it, so he wouldn’t starve, but it was going to be a close thing.

He stood outside the door, clutching his plastic carrier bag of shopping. Up ahead was a large outdoor equipment store. It was different from all the others he had passed so far in that there were no gimmicky signs in the window, no tourist tat lurking in the displays. Cal wasted a few seconds wondering about the number of people who actually bought stuffed sheep in the Lake District, or wandered around in walking gear whilst never actually venturing outside of the towns and villages. The place in front of him was called Mountains and had a café on the third floor—coffee and a respite from the rain would be welcome while he attempted to order his scattered thoughts.

He pushed open the heavy glass door and stood on the mat for a moment, while the worst of the drips from his clothing created a small puddle around him. The floor was slate flagged and eminently practical for dealing with mud, water and anything else that might be dragged inside by heavy boots. He pulled off his hat and scrubbed a cold hand through his shaggy blond hair, glancing around to locate the stairs.

Excerpt From: Mourning Jack

It amazed me how a street filled with people could fall into complete silence. The only sounds came from the distant murmur of the motorway and a group of sparrows squabbling in a tree close to the memorial. The cortège, led by a mute in a long tail coat, crept past the ancient town hall and slowed to a halt in front of us. I stared at the hearse, at the flag-draped coffin and couldn’t imagine Jack being in there. Only the muted weeping of his parents, his sister and her children confirmed that he was. I watched them step forward and place red roses on the top of the hearse. I did the same, mine being a white one.

Goodbye, old friend.

I wiped my eyes, trying to erase the burn of tears. Charlotte, Jack’s sister, leaned against me. I held her in silence while another person approached the hearse. Tall, dark-haired and slender, his face pinched and pale. He didn’t have a flower. Instead, he placed his palm on the glass and whispered something before stepping back into the black-clad knot of mourners. No one offered him comfort except for Charlotte who lifted her head and gave him a watery smile. He nodded and faded back into the crowd—another person in black, stilled and silenced by grief. I wondered, briefly, whether he was the one Jack had written to me about.

"Ade, I’ve finally met someone I can see spending the rest of my life with. I miss him like crazy. I’m counting down the days until leave. I’m climbing into bed with Cal, and I’m not leaving it, not until I have to get on that fucking plane..."

I stroked Charlotte’s hair and swallowed when the cortège moved on, crawling slowly forward past the Royal British Legion members with their lowered standards and salutes. Old men who’d fought other wars, mourning the loss of one of their own from the endless bloody mess that was Afghanistan. Jack would’ve loved this.

Fucking hell, Ade. All this fuss for me? All I did was step on a fucking IED, hardly a hero’s death, just a stupid mistake. Just go to the pub and get rat-arsed in my name, that’ll do.

I swallowed and wiped my eyes.

Charlotte’s sobs subsided to sniffles. She stepped back and smiled. "Thanks, Ade."

"Any time. You’re coming to the pub, aren’t you?"

"Everyone is."

"Good." I kissed her forehead. "I’m going to head back now and make sure everything is ready."

She nodded. "I’ll round everyone up. We’ll see you there."

The crowds were breaking apart, people drifting back to their everyday lives. The bikers stood around talking, apart from those who volunteered to look after the mourners. The standards were carried away and traffic moved along the High Street once more. Wootton Bassett became just another little market town with pubs, betting shops and butchers. I walked to my car and wished Jack was still there.

* * * *

The private dining room soon filled with people, all picking at the buffet. I’d gone for Jack’s favourites at Charlotte’s request. There were sausage rolls, pork pies, Scotch eggs, the usual. In spite of his best mate being a chef, Jack always derided the ‘fancy-schmancy’ stuff.

"Give me a good ploughman’s any day."

I didn’t think he’d mind if the sausage rolls were made with wild boar and apple sausage, or that the pork pies weren’t those unnaturally pink horrors you get in supermarkets. I’d made pâté the day before and the bread that morning. My commis chefs did me proud with the spread. A whole poached salmon, dressed with translucent slivers of cucumber, formed the centrepiece on the buffet table. It had been in my freezer since Jack’s last visit.

"See. I didn’t spend all the time in Scotland in bed with Cal. I brought this for you. Put it in the freezer and cook it for me when I come back on leave."

It hurt to look at it and at the large photo of Jack standing thigh-deep in a Scottish stream holding the fish and grinning. Sunlight glanced off his fair hair, finding streaks of corn silk there. I could almost hear him.

"Will you look at the size of this fucker. Told ya I could fish."

Charlotte had had the photo blown up, mounted, and brought it to me. I propped it up on an easel so everyone could see it. People passed by and paused. The man who might be Cal sat on his own beside it, cradling a glass of wine in his hands. I wondered whether I should talk to him had no idea where to start.

"Penny for them." Charlotte appeared beside me.

"Who’s that, the one sitting by Jack’s picture?"

Excerpt From: Mourning Jack

It amazed me how a street filled with people could fall into complete silence. The only sounds came from the distant murmur of the motorway and a group of sparrows squabbling in a tree close to the memorial. The cortège, led by a mute in a long tail coat, crept past the ancient town hall and slowed to a halt in front of us. I stared at the hearse, at the flag-draped coffin and couldn’t imagine Jack being in there. Only the muted weeping of his parents, his sister and her children confirmed that he was. I watched them step forward and place red roses on the top of the hearse. I did the same, mine being a white one.

Goodbye, old friend.

I wiped my eyes, trying to erase the burn of tears. Charlotte, Jack’s sister, leaned against me. I held her in silence while another person approached the hearse. Tall, dark-haired and slender, his face pinched and pale. He didn’t have a flower. Instead, he placed his palm on the glass and whispered something before stepping back into the black-clad knot of mourners. No one offered him comfort except for Charlotte who lifted her head and gave him a watery smile. He nodded and faded back into the crowd—another person in black, stilled and silenced by grief. I wondered, briefly, whether he was the one Jack had written to me about.

"Ade, I’ve finally met someone I can see spending the rest of my life with. I miss him like crazy. I’m counting down the days until leave. I’m climbing into bed with Cal, and I’m not leaving it, not until I have to get on that fucking plane..."

I stroked Charlotte’s hair and swallowed when the cortège moved on, crawling slowly forward past the Royal British Legion members with their lowered standards and salutes. Old men who’d fought other wars, mourning the loss of one of their own from the endless bloody mess that was Afghanistan. Jack would’ve loved this.

Fucking hell, Ade. All this fuss for me? All I did was step on a fucking IED, hardly a hero’s death, just a stupid mistake. Just go to the pub and get rat-arsed in my name, that’ll do.

I swallowed and wiped my eyes.

Charlotte’s sobs subsided to sniffles. She stepped back and smiled. "Thanks, Ade."

"Any time. You’re coming to the pub, aren’t you?"

"Everyone is."

"Good." I kissed her forehead. "I’m going to head back now and make sure everything is ready."

She nodded. "I’ll round everyone up. We’ll see you there."

The crowds were breaking apart, people drifting back to their everyday lives. The bikers stood around talking, apart from those who volunteered to look after the mourners. The standards were carried away and traffic moved along the High Street once more. Wootton Bassett became just another little market town with pubs, betting shops and butchers. I walked to my car and wished Jack was still there.

* * * *

The private dining room soon filled with people, all picking at the buffet. I’d gone for Jack’s favourites at Charlotte’s request. There were sausage rolls, pork pies, Scotch eggs, the usual. In spite of his best mate being a chef, Jack always derided the ‘fancy-schmancy’ stuff.

"Give me a good ploughman’s any day."

I didn’t think he’d mind if the sausage rolls were made with wild boar and apple sausage, or that the pork pies weren’t those unnaturally pink horrors you get in supermarkets. I’d made pâté the day before and the bread that morning. My commis chefs did me proud with the spread. A whole poached salmon, dressed with translucent slivers of cucumber, formed the centrepiece on the buffet table. It had been in my freezer since Jack’s last visit.

"See. I didn’t spend all the time in Scotland in bed with Cal. I brought this for you. Put it in the freezer and cook it for me when I come back on leave."

It hurt to look at it and at the large photo of Jack standing thigh-deep in a Scottish stream holding the fish and grinning. Sunlight glanced off his fair hair, finding streaks of corn silk there. I could almost hear him.

"Will you look at the size of this fucker. Told ya I could fish."

Charlotte had had the photo blown up, mounted, and brought it to me. I propped it up on an easel so everyone could see it. People passed by and paused. The man who might be Cal sat on his own beside it, cradling a glass of wine in his hands. I wondered whether I should talk to him had no idea where to start.

"Penny for them." Charlotte appeared beside me.

"Who’s that, the one sitting by Jack’s picture?"

Excerpt From: Mr Fix-It

Deena Stevens stopped brushing her hair in mid—stroke and cocked her head to listen.

THUD! THUD! THUD!

The rhythmic banging was coming from the laundry room.

"Shit! Not again!"

Deena tossed her hairbrush into the open vanity drawer then slid it closed with a smooth swing of her ample hip. Her bare feet slapped on the age—worn oak floor as she ran out of the bathroom, down the hall, across the big country kitchen and into the laundry room.

The 1970s avocado—green washing machine was rocking wildly back and forth; thudding at the apex of each shimmy. Deena flipped open the lid and looked inside the ancient appliance. The rotating drum inside was off kilter, spinning in an oval pattern rather than a circle. As she'd done a hundred times before, Deena waited as the interrupted spin cycle slowed and finally stopped with one last THUD!

Deena was just south of five—foot-four, and had to stand on tiptoe when she leaned over the edge of the machine to get at the load of whites inside. She rearranged the sopping wet bed sheets and ankle socks until they were as balanced as they'd ever get, then dropped the lid closed.

The machine gradually rumbled back to life, spinning slowly at first, then picking up speed. Deena stood back and squinted at the washer. She crossed her arms under her generous breasts, and bit her lower lip. She didn't take her eyes off the 'Avocado Beast' until the spin cycle was whirring away at full speed and it was clear that the cantankerous old machine wasn't going to go walking out of the laundry room.

Satisfied that the spin cycle was going to be completed without further drama, Deena stepped back into the kitchen. She supposed she should finish getting ready before the phone rang.

Deena had barely finished the thought when a slightly robotic version of Wagner's 'Ride of the Valkyries' blasted out of her cell phone. She glanced at the phone sitting on its charger on the gleaming granite countertop, then up at the clock over the big stainless steel restaurant-grade range. She registered the time in her mind, then looked back at her ringing phone.

"Shit. Shit. Shit," Deena muttered.

She took a deep breath, pulled her cell from the charger and swept her finger over the touch screen to answer the call. She didn't have to look at the Caller ID, or the photo of the fashion—model—perfect face that popped up on the screen, to know who was calling.

"Hey, Suzanne. I know I'm late. Be there in ten..."

Deena rolled her eyes and held the phone a few inches from her ear as Suzanne Flowers launched into her rant without bothering with 'hellos'.

"Are you always late or are you just operating on special 'Deena time'? No one else seems to have any trouble getting here by eight, and everyone is pretty sick and tired of waiting around for you. I mean, really, how hard is it to—"

Deena put the phone down on the enormous antique farm table that filled the centre of the kitchen. She knew that Suzanne would continue with her tirade, whether or not Deena was actually listening.

Deena had heard the same lecture at least a dozen times over the past four years. That's when Suzanne and a whole gaggle of other 'Barbie wives' had become her neighbours. Six years ago, she'd sold off some of her inherited family farmland for a new high-end housing development. Gigantic homes had begun popping up on the rolling landscape and had been almost instantly snapped up by folks with lots of money and, with a few exceptions, very little depth.

Excerpt From: Musical Beds

Whoever it was that said April was the cruellest month had it wrong, Lydia thought. It was May. Her slow amble through the park, on the way to her first rehearsal after a fortnight’s sick leave, found her ambushed at every turn by chirruping birds, falling petals, laughing children. All this unrestrained joy everywhere, all this rising sap—she should be taking part in it, with her lover. They should be promenading hand in hand along this lakeside, pointing at the swans, feeding the ducks, all between kisses.

But her lover was gone. And so was his other lover.

She had spent the two weeks following Evgeny’s funeral with her parents, suffocated in suburban semi-detachment, watching box sets of American dramas with glassy eyes and a tissue permanently in hand. She hadn’t played her violin once. She wasn’t sure she still could. Milan was in Prague, and there he would stay, and she would never see him again. She had to get used to it. She had to.

She couldn’t.

In the end, her parents had sent her back to London, fearful of her losing her place in the Westminster Symphony Orchestra if they let her spend too long sinking into their couch.

"I know you don’t feel ready, love," her father had said. "But you can’t give up your dream for this. It’s what you’ve always wanted. Don’t let it all go over some fella."

She knew he was right. But Milan was a lot more than ‘some fella’ and the dream seemed to have slipped away from her somehow, its melody mutated into a tuneless jangle.

Her journey took her past the park and the palace. She drifted, violin case in hand, on her way to the rehearsal hall, under a sun that seemed to be mocking her.

In the alleyway alongside the orchestra’s home, a young couple were kissing. She shoved past them. Her eyes filled with tears.

Her vision was still blurry when she reached the top of the steps and barged through the double doors into the lobby.

"Lydia!" A friendly voice, clucky and concerned, greeted her, and suddenly she was caught up in a tight embrace. Her nostrils filled with Armani Diamonds, and expensive fibres brushed her skin.

"Vanessa. Hello." The tears spilled out. She was unaccountably moved by her friend’s warm welcome. She’d had no idea what to expect on her first day back at work—she had feared whispering and averted eyes. This was a huge relief.

"Sweetie. Come and sit down." Vanessa hustled Lydia into the cloakroom and sat with her on the bench until her friend’s exhausted sobs died away. "I’m so glad to see you back. I was really worried you’d had a breakdown or something."

"I kind of did," said Lydia, wiping her eyes. "I kind of still am."

"But you have friends, and you have your music. They’ll see you through. I promise you."

"The music’s been awfully quiet lately."

"Then it’s time to get into the thick of it. Throw yourself into it. Talent like yours shouldn’t be wasted."

Lydia bestowed a watery smile on Vanessa. "I’m just a fiddle for hire," she said. "I’m not Paganini."

The thought hovered in the air between them. That’s more Milan’s style.

Vanessa dismissed it with a shudder.

"You’re wonderful and you should know it. Come on. Let’s forget the past. The future’s waiting for us."

In the rehearsal room, orchestral players milled about setting up music stands and tuning up instruments. There were no whispers or averted eyes, but plenty of genuine smiles and words of welcome. Lydia perceived an immediate difference in the atmosphere. Back before the disastrous central European tour, the orchestra had been a nervous beast—het up and highly strung. Now there was an air of playtime, a sense of freedom. Was it because Milan was gone? Was it really?

Her uneasiness wouldn’t quite fall away, despite the best efforts of her colleagues. Nobody mentioned Milan’s name, but there were a lot of sad and regretful allusions to Evgeny’s fate and polite enquiries about his funeral.

"There are a couple of new people I should introduce you to," said Vanessa, steering Lydia away from some cellists who were getting a little too emotional about the loss of their fellow player.

"That’s the new harpist, Sarah." She pointed out a polished blonde in a scarlet wrap dress, who looked over and smiled one of those professional smiles that don’t reach the eyes.

"Who’s the man on the timpani? What happened to Vernon?"

"He decided to retire early."

"Yes, but who is that?"

The timpanist was tall and rangy, with a mop of dark curls and a face made of shadows and angles. One second he looked like an endearingly gawky student, the next like a warrior poet. He was immediately intriguing.

"That’s...Ben."

Vanessa’s voice had gone all soft and fond. Lydia, forgetting her woes for a moment, widened her eyes, noting the twin spots of cherry red on her friend’s cheeks.

"Do you fancy him?"

"Of course not. He’s young enough to be my son."

"He’s a bit of a fox, though. Don’t you think?"

Excerpt From: Musical Beds

Whoever it was that said April was the cruellest month had it wrong, Lydia thought. It was May. Her slow amble through the park, on the way to her first rehearsal after a fortnight’s sick leave, found her ambushed at every turn by chirruping birds, falling petals, laughing children. All this unrestrained joy everywhere, all this rising sap—she should be taking part in it, with her lover. They should be promenading hand in hand along this lakeside, pointing at the swans, feeding the ducks, all between kisses.

But her lover was gone. And so was his other lover.

She had spent the two weeks following Evgeny’s funeral with her parents, suffocated in suburban semi-detachment, watching box sets of American dramas with glassy eyes and a tissue permanently in hand. She hadn’t played her violin once. She wasn’t sure she still could. Milan was in Prague, and there he would stay, and she would never see him again. She had to get used to it. She had to.

She couldn’t.

In the end, her parents had sent her back to London, fearful of her losing her place in the Westminster Symphony Orchestra if they let her spend too long sinking into their couch.

"I know you don’t feel ready, love," her father had said. "But you can’t give up your dream for this. It’s what you’ve always wanted. Don’t let it all go over some fella."

She knew he was right. But Milan was a lot more than ‘some fella’ and the dream seemed to have slipped away from her somehow, its melody mutated into a tuneless jangle.

Her journey took her past the park and the palace. She drifted, violin case in hand, on her way to the rehearsal hall, under a sun that seemed to be mocking her.

In the alleyway alongside the orchestra’s home, a young couple were kissing. She shoved past them. Her eyes filled with tears.

Her vision was still blurry when she reached the top of the steps and barged through the double doors into the lobby.

"Lydia!" A friendly voice, clucky and concerned, greeted her, and suddenly she was caught up in a tight embrace. Her nostrils filled with Armani Diamonds, and expensive fibres brushed her skin.

"Vanessa. Hello." The tears spilled out. She was unaccountably moved by her friend’s warm welcome. She’d had no idea what to expect on her first day back at work—she had feared whispering and averted eyes. This was a huge relief.

"Sweetie. Come and sit down." Vanessa hustled Lydia into the cloakroom and sat with her on the bench until her friend’s exhausted sobs died away. "I’m so glad to see you back. I was really worried you’d had a breakdown or something."

"I kind of did," said Lydia, wiping her eyes. "I kind of still am."

"But you have friends, and you have your music. They’ll see you through. I promise you."

"The music’s been awfully quiet lately."

"Then it’s time to get into the thick of it. Throw yourself into it. Talent like yours shouldn’t be wasted."

Lydia bestowed a watery smile on Vanessa. "I’m just a fiddle for hire," she said. "I’m not Paganini."

The thought hovered in the air between them. That’s more Milan’s style.

Vanessa dismissed it with a shudder.

"You’re wonderful and you should know it. Come on. Let’s forget the past. The future’s waiting for us."

In the rehearsal room, orchestral players milled about setting up music stands and tuning up instruments. There were no whispers or averted eyes, but plenty of genuine smiles and words of welcome. Lydia perceived an immediate difference in the atmosphere. Back before the disastrous central European tour, the orchestra had been a nervous beast—het up and highly strung. Now there was an air of playtime, a sense of freedom. Was it because Milan was gone? Was it really?

Her uneasiness wouldn’t quite fall away, despite the best efforts of her colleagues. Nobody mentioned Milan’s name, but there were a lot of sad and regretful allusions to Evgeny’s fate and polite enquiries about his funeral.

"There are a couple of new people I should introduce you to," said Vanessa, steering Lydia away from some cellists who were getting a little too emotional about the loss of their fellow player.

"That’s the new harpist, Sarah." She pointed out a polished blonde in a scarlet wrap dress, who looked over and smiled one of those professional smiles that don’t reach the eyes.

"Who’s the man on the timpani? What happened to Vernon?"

"He decided to retire early."

"Yes, but who is that?"

The timpanist was tall and rangy, with a mop of dark curls and a face made of shadows and angles. One second he looked like an endearingly gawky student, the next like a warrior poet. He was immediately intriguing.

"That’s...Ben."

Vanessa’s voice had gone all soft and fond. Lydia, forgetting her woes for a moment, widened her eyes, noting the twin spots of cherry red on her friend’s cheeks.

"Do you fancy him?"

"Of course not. He’s young enough to be my son."

"He’s a bit of a fox, though. Don’t you think?"

Excerpt From: Must Be DoingSomething Right

I want a woman who will drive me crazy in every possible way.

If she loved him in return.

Nathan Waterford slammed the door to his navy blue Blazer and strode across the asphalt into Besta Pizza Around. He smoothed his hand over the lump of bills in his pocket and tucked the insulated pizza bag under his arm.

On a steamy Saturday night in July, he’d rather be in bed with the woman of his dreams, not working to earn a dime he didn’t need. His day job as an estate lawyer paid the bills, but being at the pizza shop got him closer to Courteney, the woman in his heart.

Hell, if he played his cards right, his desires might come to fruition. One day…

Crestline, Ohio wasn’t a teeming metropolis, but Nate and his business partner, Arran Mayes aimed to create the best little restaurant in the quiet farming community. The scent of tomatoes and yeast swirled around Nate, making his stomach rumble. When did I eat last?

Behind the bar, Arran stood drying a beer stein. “Well, you got your wish, my friend.”

As he slapped the silver bag onto the polished wooden bar, Nate glanced at the remaining patrons in the dining room. A couple giggled in the corner booth, while a trio of students wolfed down the last few slices of pizza at the round table under the window. Good times. He remembered being so carefree, before he had to become a man and work for a living.

“And you’re talking about what?” Nate shook his head and leaned on the bar rail. “Get me up to speed.”

Arran sighed and plunked the glass onto the towel. “You missed drama involving your girl.”

His wish? His girl?

Confused, Nate stared at his ruddy-haired friend. If his memory served him, Courteney Bennett belonged to no man. Nate had seriously considered making a play for the saucy little romance writer. From her chocolate-coloured tresses and her consuming mocha eyes, down her curvy body to the tips of her toes, he longed to make her his. He itched to grasp her hips while driving into her from behind. She turned him on like no other.

Thank God the bar covered the tent in his jeans.

“Don’t look at me like you’re surprised.” Rolling his eyes, Arran picked up a wide mouth wine goblet. “As you know, Courteney and Byron split two months ago. Well, he came back to—” he hooked his fingers in the air, “—make things right.” Arran snorted. “His version of making things right meant parading his new girlfriend, Amber something–or-another, right under Court’s nose. The jerk.”

Excerpt From: My Forever

Lucas pulled into the back parking lot of his business and stepped out into the crisp, pre-dawn air. The sky was clear, though the stars remained hidden behind the glow of city lights. Faint puffs left his mouth on each exhale, but it would warm up later. All in all, it looked to be a good day to have his wine-tasting event.

Unlocking the back door, he entered his liquor store, began flipping light switches and adjusted the temperature on the central ventilation system. When he’d opened the shop five years ago, he’d never imagined it would rake in the kinds of profits he made every month. The endeavour was financially unnecessary—he had enough money saved to fund a sizable army—but what had started out as a relief from the boredom of retirement had quickly turned into a wine connoisseur hot spot.

He was proud of his accomplishment. For the first time in his life, he was doing something that didn’t revolve around death, although it wasn’t always easy. The wine-tasting events he threw every quarter-year were starting to wear on him. As if being here at five o’clock in the morning wasn’t bad enough, the paperwork was downright exhausting.

A draught of cold air blew over him and he looked back to see his favourite employee coming in through the rear entrance. “Hey, kid. You ready for today?”

Kyle gave him a wan smile from a face a little too pale for the weather outside. Concerned, Lucas reached out to grab his shoulder as he walked past but Kyle lowered his head and shied away before he could make contact. The behaviour wasn’t atypical. Lucas suspected that his aversion to touch was due to some type of past trauma, but during the six months that Kyle had been working for him it had only seemed to worsen.

“You’re not looking too hot. Are you coming down with something?”

Kyle adapted a wider, obviously fake smile. “No. I’m fine. Is the shipment here yet?”

Lucas took in the unusually dark bags under the young man’s eyes before answering, “Should be here in twenty. The last one is coming about an hour before we open up but it’s mostly liquor. We’ll have plenty of time to get everything set up before then.”

“Cool. I’ll get started on inventory then. Save you some brain power for crunching the numbers at the end of the day.”

“You’re a life-saver.”

Kyle continued walking, fishing out his extra set of keys for the office from his jeans pocket. As always, Lucas took a moment to admire the sight of the small man’s compact ass through his loose denim. As much as he would like to say he’d hired Kyle based on his credentials, it would be a lie. Kyle had no past employment history. Not even a high-school diploma or GED. But what he lacked in those areas, he more than made up for in customer courtesy and a willingness to work.

Of course, Lucas hadn’t discovered those qualities until after he’d taken the man on. He was more than a little ashamed to admit that it had been Kyle’s looks and attitude that had initially won him over.

Long, reddish blond hair framed intense green eyes and soft, full lips made for kissing. Kyle was fine-boned, almost delicate, but every once in a while Lucas caught glimpses of lithe muscles stretching and bunching on his arms and beneath his occasional tight T-shirt. The top of Kyle’s head maybe came to Lucas’ collarbone. And his submissive demeanour…

Excerpt From: My Forever

Lucas pulled into the back parking lot of his business and stepped out into the crisp, pre-dawn air. The sky was clear, though the stars remained hidden behind the glow of city lights. Faint puffs left his mouth on each exhale, but it would warm up later. All in all, it looked to be a good day to have his wine-tasting event.

Unlocking the back door, he entered his liquor store, began flipping light switches and adjusted the temperature on the central ventilation system. When he’d opened the shop five years ago, he’d never imagined it would rake in the kinds of profits he made every month. The endeavour was financially unnecessary—he had enough money saved to fund a sizable army—but what had started out as a relief from the boredom of retirement had quickly turned into a wine connoisseur hot spot.

He was proud of his accomplishment. For the first time in his life, he was doing something that didn’t revolve around death, although it wasn’t always easy. The wine-tasting events he threw every quarter-year were starting to wear on him. As if being here at five o’clock in the morning wasn’t bad enough, the paperwork was downright exhausting.

A draught of cold air blew over him and he looked back to see his favourite employee coming in through the rear entrance. “Hey, kid. You ready for today?”

Kyle gave him a wan smile from a face a little too pale for the weather outside. Concerned, Lucas reached out to grab his shoulder as he walked past but Kyle lowered his head and shied away before he could make contact. The behaviour wasn’t atypical. Lucas suspected that his aversion to touch was due to some type of past trauma, but during the six months that Kyle had been working for him it had only seemed to worsen.

“You’re not looking too hot. Are you coming down with something?”

Kyle adapted a wider, obviously fake smile. “No. I’m fine. Is the shipment here yet?”

Lucas took in the unusually dark bags under the young man’s eyes before answering, “Should be here in twenty. The last one is coming about an hour before we open up but it’s mostly liquor. We’ll have plenty of time to get everything set up before then.”

“Cool. I’ll get started on inventory then. Save you some brain power for crunching the numbers at the end of the day.”

“You’re a life-saver.”

Kyle continued walking, fishing out his extra set of keys for the office from his jeans pocket. As always, Lucas took a moment to admire the sight of the small man’s compact ass through his loose denim. As much as he would like to say he’d hired Kyle based on his credentials, it would be a lie. Kyle had no past employment history. Not even a high-school diploma or GED. But what he lacked in those areas, he more than made up for in customer courtesy and a willingness to work.

Of course, Lucas hadn’t discovered those qualities until after he’d taken the man on. He was more than a little ashamed to admit that it had been Kyle’s looks and attitude that had initially won him over.

Long, reddish blond hair framed intense green eyes and soft, full lips made for kissing. Kyle was fine-boned, almost delicate, but every once in a while Lucas caught glimpses of lithe muscles stretching and bunching on his arms and beneath his occasional tight T-shirt. The top of Kyle’s head maybe came to Lucas’ collarbone. And his submissive demeanour...

Excerpt From: My Immortal

“Just pretend we like each other. That shouldn’t be too difficult.”

Storm Richardson stared at his partner, Stephanie ‘Stevie’ Persing, across the bench seat of her beloved jet black 1978 T-top Chevy Camaro. She ran her fingers through her dark hair and gave the curls a fluff as her other hand slid across the steering wheel with a lover’s touch. Hell yes, he wanted those hands all over his body.

Stevie checked the mirror and bit her bottom lip. “If we act more like a couple, then people won’t think we’re spying on them.”

If he had his way, he’d force Stevie to stop the car so he could scoop her into his arms.

I already like you. Hell maybe I even love you, Stevie.

Pretending to be her boyfriend wouldn’t require an act on his part. He’d liked her from the moment he saw her five years ago, except she’d made it clear she didn’t mirror the feeling. He assumed she liked him as a friend, but he wasn’t sure. Hell, every moment he spent around her, he smelled her arousal. The problem was she didn’t know his true identity. How could you love someone you hardly know?

He liked her endearing tendency to chatter in excess in almost every situation. Stevie insisted on talking when all he wanted to do was stare at her.

She gripped the steering wheel and her knuckles turned white. Was she nervous? Excited?

“Storm, we’re working the Chatty Catty Club tonight to catch Bruce Tripp in the act. Edie’s ready to rip me apart because we haven’t produced any damning pictures. Doesn’t your friend Falco bounce there?”

Storm frowned and glared out the window at the illuminated main drag of New Haven, Ohio. The neon highlighted the front row of stores and the silvery sidewalk stretching into the distance, but he didn’t need the enhanced lighting.

Being a vampire hyper charged his senses. He could see things at great distances, feel the tiniest pinprick on his supersensitive skin, and hear every conversation in a crowded bar. He didn’t need the work as a private investigator—being immortal gave him a lot of time to save up his resources. Then again, to stay under the radar, he didn’t stick to one profession for more than a few years. Blending in worked just fine, until he met Stevie.

Stevie managed to whip his sense of smell and taste into warp drive. The sweet scent of her fear knotted his insides. He didn’t want her to be afraid when they were on the cusp of catching yet another cheating spouse. What was the true reason for her apprehension? He yearned to climb into her mind and help ease her fears.

For the night to go smoothly, he needed to pull his thoughts away from Stevie and continue mentally prepping. Their current client, the ever-exciting Edie Tripp, was just that—a trip and a pain in the ass. She made his brain ache. She suspected her husband of cheating with his secretary and wanted Storm and Stevie to catch him in the act, or as close to ripping the sheets as possible.

He needed something to get his mind off the pesky woman and the lousy way he was about to spend a perfectly beautiful Friday night.

“So, will Todd be there?” Stevie asked, her voice tinged with annoyance. “You didn’t answer me.”

“Yes, sweetheart. Todd’s the bouncer, and yes, he’ll be there.” Storm smirked. His friend and fellow vampire, Todd Falco, could crush iron with his bare hands.

At the traffic signal, Stevie screeched to a halt. She turned to him and rolled her eyes. “You know what I meant, Storm. Do you think he could get us through the line faster? I hate to wait in heels. Then again, you know how much I hate working in heels to begin with.”

Storm rubbed his jaw, blotting out a smile. She hated anything but comfy sneakers or good old socks. Unfortunately, clubbing required sexy clothing and footwear. Whether she was comfy or not, she looked darn cute jacked up four inches in knee-high boots.

“If we cut in line, honey, then we’ll give ourselves away. The point is to blend in. Don’t worry about the heels. You’ll be able to sit at the bar. Allan’s waiting on you to give you the scoop about our clients.”

Though it was nearly impossible for him to disappear in the crowd; he was a freaking vampire. A bloodsucker and damned sex fiend.

He couldn’t blend in if he tried.

Excerpt From: My Last Dark Day

I drove around the city for maybe an hour. I don’t really know. It could have been longer. I didn’t check when I left, nor did I know what time it was when I pulled up in front of that bar located in the less-than-respectable neighbourhood. I had on a jersey-knit, form-fitting sundress with a gazillion buttons down the front. Lucky for me, it was quality and had side-seam pockets to hold my money, keys and ID. I didn’t think twice about where I was when I strolled inside and claimed a stool at the bar. .If I’d bothered to look around I probably would have found everyone watching me but I didn’t even glance. I was totally focused on the drink I’d ordered. Getting it was all that mattered at the moment.

When the slower-than-molasses bartender finally brought my scotch, he announced it was on some guy I didn’t even bother to look at. I said ‘no’ loudly as I forked over my payment, assuming that would be enough to make it clear that I was out on my own and intended to remain that way. Wrong. It soon became obvious that subtly did not work with this bunch. There was a constant stream of hopefuls who temporarily occupied the revolving stool next to mine. They perched just long enough for me to shoot them down before they scurried off with their tails between their legs.

By my third drink, I was beyond annoyed with their persistence and my rejections showed it. When the bartender leaned across the bar and suggested that it might be time for me to go and that it really wasn’t the place for me, I finally became aware of my surroundings. He was correct. I shouldn’t be there. I definitely didn’t fit in, even less than usual and more obvious than ever. I almost laughed, that’s how out of my element I was. I was in a rough section of town, wearing a pastel pink, low cut, designer sun-dress, drinking top shelf scotch from a bottle so rarely touched it had been coated with a thick layer of dust, alone, shooing away the regulars one after the other with dismissals that were so rude even this bunch had to be offended.

True, I had set out to do something different this time, but I’d gone overboard to the extreme. I put myself in a position that had already hit the danger zone with no foreseeable way out. I had absolutely no idea what to do. I’d offended just about everyone in the place so I knew no one would be jumping to my rescue, the need for which was becoming imminent. The bartender, concerned though he may be, certainly wasn’t going to abandon his post in order to escort me out to my car safely. What a stupid fool I was! Yes, I’d really done it this time. What on earth had I been thinking, going in there in the first place? Wait, that was the whole problem in a nutshell. I wasn’t thinking. I’d been too busy brooding to pay any attention to the surroundings and I feared I was about to pay for it in spades.

I was sitting there, so absorbed in my internal debate over which of the slim-to-none options was my less-than-good chance of escaping unmolested, that I didn’t notice someone else approaching until I felt a presence beside me. There was now a very fierce-looking man towering over me menacingly, crowding me against the bar.

I’d been wrong to assume the situation couldn’t be more frightening.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked sharply.

“Excuse me?” I snapped, instantly on the defensive out of force of habit.

“Do you have any idea what you put me through?”

I stared blankly, doubting his sanity.

“I’ve been going out of my mind trying to find you,” he stated, attempting to snake his arms around me.

That’s when I panicked. I slapped his hands away. I might even have hit him if he hadn’t captured my flailing arms. “Get your hands off me!”

His grip lessened but he didn’t release me. The entire room’s attention was riveted on us, but no one budged. “Calm down, honey. It’s me.” His thumbs caressed my skin lightly. “I found you. I’m here now and everything’s going to be okay.”

“Huh?” I was thoroughly confused. This powerful man seemed to know me, how I had absolutely no clue, though clearly he thought I should. “Let me go. Who are you?

Whatever the hell is going on in your mind is wrong, so just back off already.”

He laughed. He actually laughed. Long and hard, without any restraint, no attempt to contain it, laughed. That was when it hit me. Which I instantly rejected of course, because no way could he be who I thought he was. Could he? No, absolutely, positively not. Impossible.

I guess something showed in my expression because he said, “Yep, you got it. It really is me. Damn, I’m glad I got here before anything happened to you.”

“I don’t believe it. How?”

“How doesn’t really matter, does it? I did, and that’s what’s most important right now. It might, however, be better to finish this discussion elsewhere,” he said when he noticed the bartender hovering nervously. “Ready to go?”

“Huh? What? You aren’t really suggesting that I leave with you, just like that, are you? I don’t even know you,” I argued stupidly, again out of habit and not actual concern since I knew instinctively I was much safer with him than I would be remaining in the bar alone.

“You’re right. Asking was wrong. What I should have done is to tell you that you are leaving. Now. With me.”

“No,” I balked. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are but I don’t take orders from anyone, especially not men I barely know, so just go away and leave me alone. Bye-bye,” I chirped sarcastically, mustering all my bravado to wave him off before chugging the rest of my drink.

His response was to stare. Or glare, to be more precise—for so long I blushed. And fidgeted. Eventually, he said evenly, “Get off that stool. Now. We are leaving. Do not make me repeat myself because I am angry enough with you already. I will drag you out of here if I have to. Trust me, you won’t like the consequences.”

I gulped nervously, totally intimidated by his sudden fierceness. He meant it. I could tell he really, really did. And he wouldn’t hesitate to do what he’d said if I refused to cooperate. Part of me wanted to resist. He didn’t have any right to order me around like some rebellious kid. He didn’t own me. I was a grown woman, and I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to do. But the rest of me readily accepted his authority. I was on my feet and moving to the door without him needing to say another word. He had issued a command and I obeyed. I had the fleeting thought of how unlike me it was to do so but it evaporated as soon as he slammed the door shut behind us.

“Not so fast,” he snarled, snagging my arm and pinning me to the wall. “I have something to say before we go.”

He paused but I didn’t even consider protesting.

“One, you will not do that to me again—ever. Two, what the hell were you thinking, going in a place like that alone, dressed like you are? Obviously, you weren’t thinking or you wouldn’t have, since I know you have more sense than that. Three, since you do have more sense than that, you have a lot of explaining to do for not calling us as we asked you to several times. Four, do you have any idea how lucky you are that I found you when I did? Do you know what could have happened if I hadn’t?”

I was sobbing. He was so furious, though I sensed it was not entirely for the mess I’d let myself get into. No, some of his anger was from his genuine concern for me. “I’m sorry,” I managed. It was lame but all I could think of to say at the moment.

“I know you are,” he said, softening somewhat and pulling me into his arms. He held me until I was cried out, whispering soothing nothings that I couldn’t really hear. It was more the sound of his voice rumbling in his chest, the warmth radiating from him and the strength of his embrace that calmed me than the actual words. He dried my cheeks with his palms and kissed me gently before separating himself from me. “You’re safe now. You definitely deserve to be punished but I’m still too pissed to make any decisions on that now.” I blinked, accepting without understanding his meaning. “Give me your keys.”

Excerpt From: My Spartan Hellion

Athens, 165 BC

Bones shattered beneath her blade, the warm ooze of blood coating her hand as she twisted her wrist and plunged deep. The man fell clutching his chest, the bright glow of life fading from his eyes like waves retreating from the golden sands of the Aegean.

Lamia did not spare the fallen soldier her pity, or a measure of remorse. The steely glint of determination hardened her gaze and she whipped around, her sword slicing through the air, a deadly warning to the remaining Athenian soldiers to hold their ground. Three of their men lay dead, and those who still lived hesitated on the other end of her blade, their fear wafting so strongly through the air she could taste its bitter flavour upon her tongue.

A dull hum echoed in the distance, the tiny reverberations whispering through her, even as every muscle grew rigid with the sound. Her pounding heartbeat matched the even thud, as steady as the faint clip—clap of horses' hooves, the subtle quiver stirring the dirt beneath her bloodied feet.

The trembling of the earth grew, while a chilling silence descended upon the agora of Athens, which only moments before had bustled with a cacophony of clashing voices and the din of music.

Her gaze remained riveted on the Athenian soldiers who took several tentative steps backwards. They were retreating, the fear in their eyes heightening her own, and her blood turned cold as if ice water now raced through her veins.

Squinting against the bright glare of the sunlight, she scanned the golden horizon, curling her hand tighter around her sword when she caught her first glimpse of the blurry figures in the distance.

A curse trembled in her throat but she clamped her lips tight.

More soldiers—at least a dozen.

Nausea clawed its way into her belly, insistent and violent, forcing her to battle against the bone-chilling fear that wove its way through her body. She could never hope to defeat a dozen men, but neither would she simply lie down and await defeat.

She had survived this long...

A cloud of dust rose like a pre—dawn fog around the advancing soldiers, their sandalled feet stirring up the arid dirt with every step they took towards the public square. These were not Athenian soldiers. Their movements were too efficient, the even staccato of their marching feet far too precise.

Her lids shadowed narrowed eyes as the soldiers drew nearer. Their bronze armour shimmered beneath the rays of the mid—dawn sun, the reflective glare illuminating the flag that bore their distinct crest. Spartans. Her heart beat wildly as if trying to escape from her chest, the dull throb of fear coiling inside her once again.

They had sent Spartans to kill her and she would have laughed had her situation not been so dire, her fate so clearly sealed. She was nothing but a simple swordsmith of the Meshwesh. Yet Attalus had sent soldiers of the finest army the world had ever seen to dispatch her. That he thought she was a dangerous threat to be quickly and efficiently eliminated was clear.

The Spartan soldiers marched forward until they were no more than five body lengths away. Corinthian—style helmets obscured their faces, the ominous masks of sturdy iron revealing only their eyes—all focused, full of determination, and centred solely on her.

A lone soldier stepped away from the phalanx, and, even though he wore the crimson horse hair crest atop his helmet that proclaimed him as their leader, she would have known he was the one who commanded them by his long strides and the confidence of his gait. His powerful build drew riveted gazes, and authority clung to him, surrounded him, emanated from him, as if he owned the entire world.

"Put down your sword," he demanded when he stopped before her, the deep timbre of his voice resonating with unyielding strength. The arrogance of his tone told her he was used to having his commands instantly obeyed.

This dawn he would be disappointed.

She tightened her grip around the hilt of the sword, her bruised knuckles red and chafing beneath the harsh sun. Holding his gaze, she stubbornly shook her head.

"We do not wish to harm you. Simply put down your sword."

She did not trust his assurance that no harm would come to her. After all, Atallus had sent him. She twisted her head from side to side with another defiant shake.

With a certainty, she knew she was going to die, and had she been alone she would have cried at the injustice of it all. She'd done nothing to deserve death, while the one whose hands were forever stained red with blood would probably draw breath for many annos. She blinked at the tears that burned in her eyes as her breath came out in ragged pants, dragging through her lungs. She refused to cry, for she was not afraid to die...not if that was her fate...

The one who'd spoken, the one she'd decided was their leader, turned towards his men then and nodded. His silent command was enough—the phalanx retreated, leaving him standing there before her...alone.

Beneath her breast, her heart did a quick flutter then thundered, sending blood rushing furiously through her veins, filling her with equal measures of dread and determination as she waited.

He faced her again, his clear blue eyes intense as he unsheathed his sword and approached slowly, hovering just beyond her striking range. Gripping her weapon, she began to circle, her wary gaze darting back and forth as she tried to focus both on him and on the men standing behind him. She did not trust them not to attack if she should wound him.

Circling like two caged tigers, they regarded each other warily, watching, waiting for the other to attack.

"Drop your sword!" he shouted again.

"If you are going to kill me, then so be it. I refuse to go back to Attalus."

His gaze flickered and he stilled. "I will not send you back to him. You have my word."

She studied him with narrowed eyes, searching for just the tiniest kernel of deceit shadowed upon his face. He was trying to trick her. As soon as she relinquished her weapon he would strike and she would be dragged back to Atallus where he would beat her, rape her, do whatever else his perverted mind could conjure.

"I do not believe you."

"I speak the truth. You need only to put down your sword."

She wanted to believe him, trust his word that he spoke the truth, but she trusted no one. Lamia shook her head. "No."

Excerpt From: My Spartan Hellion

Athens, 165 BC

Bones shattered beneath her blade, the warm ooze of blood coating her hand as she twisted her wrist and plunged deep. The man fell clutching his chest, the bright glow of life fading from his eyes like waves retreating from the golden sands of the Aegean.

Lamia did not spare the fallen soldier her pity, or a measure of remorse. The steely glint of determination hardened her gaze and she whipped around, her sword slicing through the air, a deadly warning to the remaining Athenian soldiers to hold their ground. Three of their men lay dead, and those who still lived hesitated on the other end of her blade, their fear wafting so strongly through the air she could taste its bitter flavour upon her tongue.

A dull hum echoed in the distance, the tiny reverberations whispering through her, even as every muscle grew rigid with the sound. Her pounding heartbeat matched the even thud, as steady as the faint clip—clap of horses' hooves, the subtle quiver stirring the dirt beneath her bloodied feet.

The trembling of the earth grew, while a chilling silence descended upon the agora of Athens, which only moments before had bustled with a cacophony of clashing voices and the din of music.

Her gaze remained riveted on the Athenian soldiers who took several tentative steps backwards. They were retreating, the fear in their eyes heightening her own, and her blood turned cold as if ice water now raced through her veins.

Squinting against the bright glare of the sunlight, she scanned the golden horizon, curling her hand tighter around her sword when she caught her first glimpse of the blurry figures in the distance.

A curse trembled in her throat but she clamped her lips tight.

More soldiers—at least a dozen.

Nausea clawed its way into her belly, insistent and violent, forcing her to battle against the bone-chilling fear that wove its way through her body. She could never hope to defeat a dozen men, but neither would she simply lie down and await defeat.

She had survived this long...

A cloud of dust rose like a pre—dawn fog around the advancing soldiers, their sandalled feet stirring up the arid dirt with every step they took towards the public square. These were not Athenian soldiers. Their movements were too efficient, the even staccato of their marching feet far too precise.

Her lids shadowed narrowed eyes as the soldiers drew nearer. Their bronze armour shimmered beneath the rays of the mid—dawn sun, the reflective glare illuminating the flag that bore their distinct crest. Spartans. Her heart beat wildly as if trying to escape from her chest, the dull throb of fear coiling inside her once again.

They had sent Spartans to kill her and she would have laughed had her situation not been so dire, her fate so clearly sealed. She was nothing but a simple swordsmith of the Meshwesh. Yet Attalus had sent soldiers of the finest army the world had ever seen to dispatch her. That he thought she was a dangerous threat to be quickly and efficiently eliminated was clear.

The Spartan soldiers marched forward until they were no more than five body lengths away. Corinthian—style helmets obscured their faces, the ominous masks of sturdy iron revealing only their eyes—all focused, full of determination, and centred solely on her.

A lone soldier stepped away from the phalanx, and, even though he wore the crimson horse hair crest atop his helmet that proclaimed him as their leader, she would have known he was the one who commanded them by his long strides and the confidence of his gait. His powerful build drew riveted gazes, and authority clung to him, surrounded him, emanated from him, as if he owned the entire world.

"Put down your sword," he demanded when he stopped before her, the deep timbre of his voice resonating with unyielding strength. The arrogance of his tone told her he was used to having his commands instantly obeyed.

This dawn he would be disappointed.

She tightened her grip around the hilt of the sword, her bruised knuckles red and chafing beneath the harsh sun. Holding his gaze, she stubbornly shook her head.

"We do not wish to harm you. Simply put down your sword."

She did not trust his assurance that no harm would come to her. After all, Atallus had sent him. She twisted her head from side to side with another defiant shake.

With a certainty, she knew she was going to die, and had she been alone she would have cried at the injustice of it all. She'd done nothing to deserve death, while the one whose hands were forever stained red with blood would probably draw breath for many annos. She blinked at the tears that burned in her eyes as her breath came out in ragged pants, dragging through her lungs. She refused to cry, for she was not afraid to die...not if that was her fate...

The one who'd spoken, the one she'd decided was their leader, turned towards his men then and nodded. His silent command was enough—the phalanx retreated, leaving him standing there before her...alone.

Beneath her breast, her heart did a quick flutter then thundered, sending blood rushing furiously through her veins, filling her with equal measures of dread and determination as she waited.

He faced her again, his clear blue eyes intense as he unsheathed his sword and approached slowly, hovering just beyond her striking range. Gripping her weapon, she began to circle, her wary gaze darting back and forth as she tried to focus both on him and on the men standing behind him. She did not trust them not to attack if she should wound him.

Circling like two caged tigers, they regarded each other warily, watching, waiting for the other to attack.

"Drop your sword!" he shouted again.

"If you are going to kill me, then so be it. I refuse to go back to Attalus."

His gaze flickered and he stilled. "I will not send you back to him. You have my word."

She studied him with narrowed eyes, searching for just the tiniest kernel of deceit shadowed upon his face. He was trying to trick her. As soon as she relinquished her weapon he would strike and she would be dragged back to Atallus where he would beat her, rape her, do whatever else his perverted mind could conjure.

"I do not believe you."

"I speak the truth. You need only to put down your sword."

She wanted to believe him, trust his word that he spoke the truth, but she trusted no one. Lamia shook her head. "No."

Excerpt From: My Subby Valentine

Mase Briggs watched the group of subs huddled in the corner with a sense of impending doom.

"What’s up?" Jon Pendleton, a fellow Dom, clapped him on the shoulder before plopping into the chair beside him. He’d known Jon for about a year-ever since he’d moved to Seattle. The older man had a focused way with people that easily inspired trust in the younger men at the club. It was also one of the reasons the man made such a great private investigator.

In answer to Jon’s question, he nodded towards the subs crowded around a nearby table. It was still pretty early and the club wasn’t as packed as it would become later. "A group of bored subs with drinking games. Most of them look barely old enough to drink. Are you sure Thom carded them all?" As cute as the group was, that many young, mostly inexperienced men in one place made sweat break out on his brow.

Jeff, his previous sub, had been inexperienced and hadn’t come to Mase about his fears. Instead he’d taken his own life-ending it all in the bathroom with a straight razor while Mase was out buying dinner. Visions of his lover’s blood splashed against the white marbled floor still haunted Mase’s dreams. Jeff was the reason Mase only did public scenes now and kept submissives out of his home. He’d learned his lesson in the worst possible way.

Jon laughed, breaking into Mase’s grim memories. "Don’t worry Mase. Thom’s good at his job-he’s not going to let a baby submissive into the club. All those men are the right age." He examined them carefully before adding. "Barely...but old enough. Besides, I thought you liked them young."

"Not that young. I think they’re working up to some sort of bet. Who do you think will lose?" Mase asked, watching the group, his curiosity bubbling up at their antics. He had no doubt the contest involved a test to see who would be brave enough to submit to him. Enough glances flew in his direction to alert him that he was somehow involved. He’d be more than happy to whip one of them then send them on their way if it would end their speculation over him.

During the past year, Mase had learned that being an accused murderer gave him a dangerous, bad boy appeal. Mase didn’t want to be viewed as a challenge to be overcome or something frightening to survive. Hell, if he had his way, he’d never come to another club but instead be back at his house living in domestic harmony with the sub of his dreams. The only problem was Mase hadn’t met him yet...and he doubted he’d have the courage to take another sub home even if he found him.

Jon propped his head on his hand and watched the group. "I’m sure it will be something original. It’s probably a contest of some type."

It quickly became apparent who had lost when an extremely pretty young man with curly chocolate brown hair stumbled out of the crowd.

"You promised, Kit. You can’t back down now," one of the other subs yelled. Mase couldn’t tell who had shouted, but he had to hold back a laugh as the delicate-looking man made an extremely rude hand gesture. The obviously inebriated sub wobbled his way over to Mase then fell to his knees in a surprisingly graceful move.

"Good evening, Sir." Dark, forest green eyes blinked blearily up at him.

"Good evening," Mase said. The liquor-soaked kid could barely sit up straight but Mase had to admit to being impressed when the sub indeed held his pose.

"May I be of service?" A hopeful note followed the question as the kid tried to focus his glazed eyes.

Mase slid a hand beneath the sub’s chin to hold his head up. The young man’s silky skin felt amazing beneath Mase’s fingers. It had been so long since he’d felt desire for a specific person and not just whoever was handy to sate his cravings.

"What kind of service are you offering?" Not that he’d accept anything from someone so drunk, but he was oddly reluctant to send the sweet thing away.

The sub licked his lips in a motion more nervous than lustful. "Whatever you want, Sir."

"So if I wanted to tie you up and spank you until your ass glows like a stop light, that would be all right?"

The brunet’s eyes glazed over and damned if he didn’t give a full-bodied shiver. "I-if that’s what you want, Sir."

Excerpt from: My Vampire and I

Many years ago…

He lies in the vast, cold mausoleum that has been his resting place for hundreds of years… Marcus Lucius Verano, vampire. Time has neither ravaged his countenance nor his body. His pale, chiselled face is unlined; his black hair shows no sign of gray. He lies as though asleep; a young man in the prime of life—strong, virile, handsome...and deadly.

Deadly, that is, to those who have sought to destroy him, and there have been few who’ve dared. Among those who love and admire him, he is renowned for his powers, his strength, his intelligence, and his beauty.

He has loved completely but once, and that love was taken from him in a heinous fashion—by one he will never forget, nor forgive, no matter how many centuries pass.

In his death-like sleep, he dreams, not of revenge, but of redemption in the arms of one who would love him as no other ever has. He has a vision of such a one…but he must wait, for this one has not yet born. Still, the face in his vision becomes tantalisingly clear to Marcus in his repose—young, fresh-faced, with golden hair, and laughing blue eyes, he moves through the vampire’s netherworld with a confidence born of unsullied youth.

The vampire awakes and rises from his bed of marble. As he strides from the mausoleum into the darkness of the night, the vision haunts him and will continue to do so for many years to come.

But now he hungers for the lifeblood that will sustain him, and so he pushes from his mind all thoughts that would distract him from the hunt. His eyes scan the darkened streets; he waits and is rewarded by the sound of footsteps and a voice tipsily singing an old drinking song.

He smiles and steps out in front of the man who looks up at him without fear. The vampire’s green eyes hold his in a calm and steady spell.

He inclines his head slightly. “Good evening…”

“And to you, sir. Can I be of service?”

“You can indeed, sir…I need but a little of your blood…”

West Hollywood: Present day

If there was one aspect of life I liked, better than anything else, it was when five o’clock came on a Friday and I could skip out of Carter’s Colonial Bank and head for Mo’s, my favourite watering hole. There I would meet my friends, Mark and Kevin, and we would knock back a couple of martinis, before deciding on where to eat. Except, this particular evening that starts my story held something that, even in my wildest and most bizarre imaginings—and that’s saying something—I could never have anticipated. You see, it was the start of a rollercoaster ride that, quite literally, changed my life forever.

I’m a horror movie freak. In my opinion, there’s nothing quite like a good horror story to get me going—I mean, sexually. There’s something about the adrenaline rush that comes from being scared out of your wits—it always makes me hard. Could it be because I was born on October thirty-first —Halloween—and a Scorpio?

Anyway, I’ve seen just about every horror movie ever made—some terrific, some so bad… Actually, I kinda like some of the bad ones too. My favourite vampire was Frank Langella…sexy, even better than Brad Pitt, and a long way from being the monster conjured up by Bram Stoker in the book Dracula. That baby gave me nightmares all through my teens. My favourite werewolf was Michael Landon in I Was a Teenage Werewolf. He was so darned good looking before he grew the whiskers and the black nose... I would drive my mom and dad wild, always wanting to stay up for the late night horror flicks. I’ve got quite a collection of those old movies and still get a kick out of them.

I’d heard through the grapevine that Mark, knowing my fondness for all things spooky and weird, was planning to throw a ghoul party for my twenty-fourth birthday. Everyone had to come in costume—the more far out and scary the better. Even before he officially told me, I had begun planning my own costume. I was going to cheat and not be scary—just fabulous! No dumb Frankenstein’s monster mask for me!

I’d been working out pretty hard at my gym on Santa Monica as of late, so I figured whatever I designed, it should show some skin. I mean, why hide what I’d been working so darned hard on? Oops, sorry…my one-track mind. Anyway, I had decided to be a devil—a golden devil. All I’d wear was a gold lamé bikini. The rest of me would be all me—with some golden touches. Gold boots and gold horns atop the golden hair with which I am naturally blessed would complete the ensemble. Oh, one more thing, a golden trident. I decided against a forked tail—that just might get in the way or someone might stand on it or—well, a lot of things could go wrong with a tail. Right?

When the big evening arrived, and I stood in front of the mirror, having lightly sprayed my body with some gold sparkly stuff, and I thought to myself, Roger, you look great! Something about the golden sheen of your body makes your newly toned muscles look sleek and firm. I was kinda turned on just looking at myself. I smiled smugly. The bulge in my bikini added a certain ‘je ne sais quoi’…whatever.

I stuffed my driver’s license and some money from my billfold into my boot, and I was ready to go, go, go. My friend Kevin was to pick me in approximately five minutes—just giving me time for a quick belt to put me in the party mood, so to speak.

The doorbell rang. Kevin’s early…? I wondered with some disbelief. Kevin’s never early, but there he was, wearing a white sheet and nothing else. He flashed me, just so I was sure. Jeez. That was scary! Kevin’s a cutie, with big brown eyes and auburn hair he keeps really short, almost military length.

“You look good,” he said, leering at me. Kevin had been trying to get into my pants ever since I’d met him, telling me I’d love his big dick. I liked him, I really did, just not in that way. He eventually got the message but still couldn’t resist the odd innuendo or pass. Like right then, as I turned to lock my apartment door, he pinched me, hard.

“Kevin!”

“Sorry, I couldn’t resist…your butt looks great in that bikini…very tempting.”

Hmm…Well, that was a compliment, I guess. “Thanks,” I said, slipping the key into my boot. “Okay, let’s go, so you can frighten all the boys at the party.”

Excerpt from: Duet in Blood

Saturday night and I was home alone again. With a heavy sigh, I tossed the book I’d been reading to one side and rolled off the couch I’d been lying on for the past three hours. I gave a mighty stretch then headed for the kitchen. Pulling a beer from the refrigerator, I popped the cap and chugged about half the bottle’s contents in one go, before exhaling a long breath of satisfaction.

“Damn good,” I muttered then gulped back the rest of the beer. After tossing the bottle into the trash can, I ambled back into the living room and threw myself back down on the couch.

I was bored and pissed that another lonely evening loomed ahead of me, one of the many I’d endured since my ex, Robert, had left. I wasn’t going to give in to wondering what had gone wrong—again. I’d turned that particular subject over and over in my mind countless times, until even I was tired of it. And every time, I came up with the same answer—I had most probably just bored Robert to death.

It had all seemed so great at the start. We both had so much in common. We liked the same kind of music, enjoyed Italian food, hiking, tennis, movies—and the sex had been so damned great…for me, anyway. In my mind’s eye, I could see Robert’s sleek, smooth body, lightly tanned, firmly muscled. He wasn’t exactly a gym bunny, but he exercised there enough to keep that delectable physique tight and taut. He’d felt so good in my hands…so warm and sensual. Now someone else was caressing that body, kissing those plump lips—

Jesus Christ! I was doing it again.

“Let it go!” I yelled, jumping to my feet, tears of frustration springing to my eyes. “Let him go. He’s not coming back.”

“I’m not coming back.” Those were the last words Robert had said, just before stalking to the door of this very room and slamming it behind him. I could still hear the resounding crash of finality as the door had been banged into its frame with such force, the walls had shuddered, and I’d heard the angry voices of the neighbours yelling, “Cut it out!”

I’d stood in the centre of this room, stunned into disbelief that he had really left me. Left me for someone he’d met at the gym, someone who shared his interests. Someone who wasn’t content just to stay home every night, but who knew how to enjoy life. Someone like me, before I met you, Robert, I’d thought. Funny thing was that I had known it was going to happen. I don’t know how or why, but I’ve always had this innate knowledge of when something life-changing was going to happen to me. Several times throughout my life, I’ve had premonitions of events that have later taken place. Like when my father died so suddenly…

“Shit,” I muttered, wiping my eyes. “I’ve got to get outta here.”

Maybe Rhonda who lived in the apartment above me would like to take in a movie. Rhonda had been so terrific to me when Robert left, spending hours just talking to me, telling me Robert was the loser, and it wouldn’t be long before I’d realise that and start dating again. Even though I hadn’t believed a word of it, I valued the encouragement and the friendship. But who was I kidding? It was Saturday night, and Rhonda would be out painting the town all shades of red.

Walking quickly into the bathroom, I turned on the hot shower spray. Maybe if I spruced up a little and went out for a drink, I might run into a friendly face—maybe even someone I knew. There had to be one or two friends left somewhere. That’s the trouble with committed relationships, people you used to hang with suddenly disappeared—especially the single ones.

What happened to Ron? I wondered. We used to spend so much time together…good times, too. I wondered if he still managed that Italian restaurant—I must have his number somewhere.

Drying myself, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I’d be twenty-five in three weeks and apart from the ‘melancholy baby’ aura, I guess I still looked okay. I’m just a little less than six feet. My hair is reddish blond, thick and wavy. My eyes, when they’re not bloodshot from crying, are a clear, light blue, and my mouth is full and wide.

Robert used to call it truly kissable. Pushing that thought from my mind, I tried smiling. It looked more like a grimace. Gotta perk up if you want someone to pass the time of day, or night, with you, I told my reflection. After applying a spicy deodorant and a splash of cologne, I pulled on a pair of my favourite blue jeans and a black cotton tee. Shoes or boots? Sneakers, I decided.

I spiked up my hair up a bit, picked up my keys and billfold then headed for the door, wishing I felt more into this than I really was. * * * *

The Blue Moon was fairly crowded when I sauntered in, trying to look cool and unattainable.

“What’ll it be?” The bartender gave me an appraising look. He was cute.

“Michelob light.”

“Comin’ up.” He smiled as he passed the bottle across the bar. He let his fingers linger on mine for just a second as he took the five I proffered, and I grew warm. I smiled back at him, before moving away into the crowd, my eyes scanning the people around me while I looked for a familiar face. A strange sensation stole over me, and my senses came to full alert. Someone, somewhere near, was waiting for me.

I shivered slightly as I looked around, and that’s when I saw him, standing in a far corner. Tall, built, wide shoulders, dark, almost black hair cut short, military style. He wore a white tee that showed his honed physique to great effect, and even from where I was standing, I could see he had the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen on any man. They were startlingly clear grey eyes, and when they met mine across the crowded room, I felt myself go slack-jawed with awe. He didn’t look like he should be standing alone in a gay bar—he was way too good looking to be on his own. I hung back, expecting some other dreamboat to come out of the men’s room at any moment and make a beeline for him. Amazingly, that didn’t happen. Even more amazingly, he smiled—at me.

I thought I heard a voice whisper in my mind, “Come to me.” That might have been my imagination, but I wasn’t about to wait for a second invitation. As if in a trance, I made my way to where he stood waiting, that same smile lifting the corners of his mouth—a mouth I wanted to plant one on before I even got halfway across the barroom floor.

“Hello.” His voice was low, husky and slightly accented. “My name is Joseph.”

“Hi, I’m Micah.”

He held out his hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Micah.”

I took his hand and held it, liking the feel of his cool fingers. “Likewise,” I murmured, feeling slightly entranced by his steady gaze. Was it my imagination or had there been a slight pulse of energy flowing between us as we clasped hands? With some reluctance, I released him from my grip.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” he said.

“I…I’ve been out of circulation for some time.”

“Ah…” He gave me a knowing look. “A painful parting?”

“You could say that.” I liked the compassion in his beautiful eyes—eyes that were not just grey but more a kind of silver. “Can I get you a drink?” I asked. “Your glass is empty.”

“Thank you.”

We walked to the bar. The bartender, seeing us standing side-by-side, practically fell over his own feet as he rushed over. He beamed at us. “Same again, guys?”

“Please,” Joseph said, smiling at me.

“Red wine…and a Michelob for you, right?”

“Right.” I glanced at Joseph. “I think you’ve made a big impression on our friendly bartender.”

“Really? I thought it was you he’s in a sweat over.” v “In a sweat? No, it’s definitely you he’s hot for.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Have I made an impression, big or small, on you, Micah?”

“Yes,” I found myself saying. “Yes, you have.”

“Good.” Joseph smiled at the bartender who delivered our drinks. “Thank you, Bob.”

Bob grinned up at him. “Cheers, guys. These are on the house.”

“So, you know him,” I remarked after we’d thanked Bob, and he’d turned away to serve another customer.

“Only from my being here. He’s a friendly soul. He makes me feel welcome, and sometimes, when the bar is quiet, we have lively debates.”

Lively debates. I had a feeling Bob the bartender would have preferred something else lively. “You come here often, then?” I asked.

“Fairly often. When I’m visiting Los Angeles…”

“Oh, you don’t live in LA?” I felt a sudden twinge of disappointment.

“No…but I have business here, at times.”

“So, where do you call home?”

Instead of replying, Joseph leaned closer. “You have some foam on your lip.”

Before I could get my tongue to it, he ran a feather-light touch over my top lip, tracing the outline with his forefinger. The sensation was like an electric tingle. His eyes locked on mine, he inserted his finger into his mouth and slowly, sensually, licked the foam from his finger. I felt myself getting hard.

“Paris,” Joseph said.

“Huh?” I stared at him.

“That’s where I call home. Paris.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” I stared at him as if mesmerised. “So you’re French.”

“German, actually, but I have lived in Paris for some years now.”

“Paris… I’ve never been there.”

“It’s beautiful,” Joseph murmured, his eyes still locked on mine. “Would you like to come home with me?”

“To Paris?” I croaked.

He chuckled. “No. At least, not tonight. I have a suite at the Plaza.”

“Oh…” Dummy. “I…I knew that,” I stuttered. “I mean, not the suite at the Plaza…but…uh, that you didn’t mean Paris…uh, tonight…oh, crap.”

Joseph laughed lightly. “You look most becoming when you blush, Micah.”

I bet. Becoming? Who uses words like that anymore?

“You don’t believe me.” He touched my hand. “More than just becoming—adorable.” His touch became a firm grip. “So, would you come home with me tonight?”

“Yeah.” I squeezed his hand. “I’d like that…very much.”

Excerpt From: Blood Resurrection

France, 1425

Bernard

So that you don’t take me for a hallucinating idiot in some of the things I have to tell you, I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Well, not so little really—maybe quite important. I’m a vampire. Yes, it’s true. Please don’t shudder with fear. I’m really quite a nice fellow, and I promise I won’t take any bites out of your neck or suck on…your blood. Well, not unless you say ‘go ahead’, first.

My name is Bernard Fournier—yes, I’m also French, but please don’t hold that against me, either. A French vampire, I hear you saying. What else is he going to confess to us before the story’s end? Lots of things, actually, some good, some not so good, and some quite terrible—but, I must not get ahead of myself.

My life began, some six hundred years ago, in a little village in the south of France. The name of it is irrelevant, for it no longer exists—it being just one of those long forgotten casualties of the wars that have raged off and on throughout the centuries, before and since I was born.

I was born a bastard, the product of ravishment by pillaging knights, thrown into a rubbish heap by my less-than-doting mother then discovered by an old woman digging for scraps of food. Amazingly, she didn’t eat me but handed me over to some monks who baptised me to redeem me from sin and gave me the name Bernard. They raised me after a fashion, using me as a slave to fetch and carry then when my prettiness began to show through the grime and filth I was covered in due to their neglect, they abused me. Truth to tell, I had no idea as to what I looked like or why I had suddenly become an object of lust. I had never seen my reflection. Such a thing as a mirror was not hung in the monastery stable.

Not an impressive start to anyone’s life you might say and I would have to agree. So is it any wonder that my mind was consumed with thoughts of escape, and sometimes, with revenge? Many times, I would lift my eyes and look beyond the monastery walls to the fields and forests that lay so near, and yet so far, with their promise of freedom. Escape was impossible, however, for the good monks fettered me securely at night and, in the daytime, tied a length of rope to my ankles, long enough to not impede me in my chores but not quite long enough to enable me to run through the monastery gates.

For eighteen terrible years, I lived thus, wondering why the God the monks prayed to several times a day and praised as the Almighty Saviour did not care to save me. What had I done to deserve this wretched life? I asked Him each night as I knelt in the stable straw that served as my bed.

I had long since become immune to the vile advances of the monks, merely lying passively as they had their way with me, not even protesting when they would beat me afterward for being the temptation they could not resist. When left alone, I would lie on my back, staring up at the stable’s wooden roof, and imagine myself being able to fly away from this place of torment. If only I could escape, I thought, and never have to look again at the cruel and leering faces of the men who brutalised me, I would forego any desire for revenge. To be free of them and their hypocrisy would suffice.

* * * *

Perhaps God did hear my silent pleas after all, for it came in the form of a tall and handsome man, who arrived at the monastery late one night, requesting shelter from an impending storm. The monks and I had been busy shoring up doors and windows, getting the livestock inside and bringing enough food and water indoors to last them until the storm abated. The previous year, they had been confined within the chancery walls for three days. I, of course, had not been permitted to shelter there and had to huddle inside the stable, listening to the howling winds and lashing rain and wondering what would happen to me should the stable be carried away in the gale.

I watched with interest as Prior Hubert conversed with the tall man who had a military bearing and was dressed in fine clothes. Greedily, the Prior snatched the coins the tall man offered him then ushered him indoors, away from my sight. A moment later, one of the monks bade me to take the man’s horse to the stable and bed him down for the night.

The horse was a fine steed, its saddle and trappings of the best quality, and I handled all of it with care as I stowed them away in a corner of the stable, before preparing to brush the horse down. In the distance, I head the rumbling of thunder, heralding the storm’s approach.

“That’s all right…” A deep, melodious voice behind me made me jump. “I’ll take care of him.”

Excerpt From: Bound in Blood

Madrid, Spain: 1635

With considerable interest and excitement, Count Enrique Galvez watched the young man who had just entered the Grand Salon of the Palazzo de Granada. Tall, wide shouldered, with a mane of dark, almost black hair, and dressed fashionably in a coat of dark-green silk, the man exuded confidence and finesse. He would have been a stand-out in any social gathering, but here, amongst Madrid’s nobility and jaded elite, he was magnificent.

Galvez was quick to make himself known. As soon as the man had been announced as Señor Carlos Galeano and greeted by his host and hostess, Galvez hurried across the room to where he stood making polite conversation.

“Your servant, Señor Galeano.” The count bowed slightly. “I am Count Galvez, and I bid you welcome.”

Carlos stared at the handsome count appraisingly. He had heard of him, and what he had heard were reasons not to seek him out as a friend. Still, garbed in a fine suit of blood-red silk, his dark-blue eyes alive with humour and mischief, Galvez seemed a suitable choice with whom to spend a few minutes of amiable conversation.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Count.” Carlos returned Galvez’s smile and bow. “Now, perhaps you can show me where I can quench my thirst.”

“Indeed I can.”

Galvez tucked his hand under Carlos’ elbow and steered him across the crowded salon to where servants poured wine into large crystal goblets. Carlos could not help but notice the admiring stares he received from both men and women as they passed, nor the sometimes wary looks those same people cast upon his companion. Galvez picked up a goblet from one of the trays and handed it to Carlos with a quizzical lift of his left eyebrow.

“Red. Is it to your liking?”

“It is. Salud, Count.”

“Salud.” Galvez picked up another glass and, with a sultry smile, raised it. “To your health.” His gaze locked on Carlos’ golden-brown eyes. “And please call me Enrique. These endless formalities seem redundant nowadays.”

The men sipped their wine then Carlos looked around the salon for a familiar face. “Ah, there she is,” he said, relieved to see his cousin, the Lady Andorra, chatting with a group of dignitaries on the other side of the room.

Galvez frowned. “You know the Lady Andorra?”

“She is my cousin.”

“Ah.” Galvez looked at Carlos from under his lashes. “She shares your beauty—a pity she does not also share your charm.”

Carlos stiffened with shock at the man’s rudeness, but before he could utter the angry retort that sprang to his lips, the count chuckled and touched his arm. “The Lady Andorra does not care for me and makes no bones about it. I see her coming this way, so I shall leave you immediately, although temporarily, and avoid her ire.” He turned on his heel and disappeared into the noisy throng.

Carlos watched with awe as his cousin glided across the floor towards him. The Lady Andorra was a woman of unsurpassed beauty. Regally tall, she wore a gown of some golden gossamer like material that shimmered and drifted about her body as though it were a part of her. Her pale creamy skin and startlingly large dark eyes under a luxurious fall of black-as-midnight hair made her the envy of every woman in the room and the object of lust for every man. But if these men and women had known Andorra’s otherworldly beauty hid a dark secret, their envy and lust might have turned to sudden fear.

“Carlos, you have been here all of two minutes, and already, you have conversed with that charlatan, Galvez.” Andorra’s eyes held reproof mixed with concern. “The man is not a worthy companion for you.”

“And good evening to you too, my cousin.” Carlos lifted her cool hand to his lips. “May I say you look more beautiful than ever?”

“You may.” Andorra melted under her cousin’s charming smile. She tapped him gently on his chest with her fan. “But please beware of men like Galvez—and the company he keeps. The Comte d’Arcy is a friend of his.”

“Who?”

“A degenerate who, it is rumoured, dabbles in the black arts.”

Carlos shivered with mock fear. “Oh, then by all means I shall avoid their company. One should be very afraid of those who dabble in what does not exist.”

He grinned, and Andorra tapped him again on the chest—this time harder. “Do not laugh at me, Carlos. Galvez and d’Arcy are reprehensible scoundrels and should be barred from attending these soirées. “

“My dear cousin, if you were to bar every scoundrel from attending, this room would be near to empty.”

Andorra managed light laughter. “You may be right about that, Carlos, but there are scoundrels—and then there are men like Galvez and d’Arcy. Just be careful, is all I ask.”

Excerpt From: Blood Lure

Hungary 1810

Jared Lantos was in a hurry. He had promised his father he would attend that evening's meeting of the Elders, and he was late, or was going to be late if the damned carriage driver didn't get a move on. Truth be told, he hated the meetings, and only attended out of familial duty, added to the fact if he didn't show up, his father would rant on for hours about dereliction of duty and insubordination, ad nauseum. If only to spare his mother those tantrums, Jared attended the meetings as often as he could.

Jared was a lawyer, and a busy one, something his father had yet to understand. Janos Lantos had never quite grasped the idea his son had important clients who just might need his services more urgently than an Elder meeting.

Elders, he thought grimly. An arcane society that had no place in modern Hungary. A group of men who dabbled in the black arts, who gave all their time and money to the furtherance of communing with the dead, and as far as Jared knew had not once conjured one spirit. He shook his head in frustration. Another wasted evening lay ahead, listening to nonsense, watching the old codgers nod sagely as if they understood every silly word spoken. Surely they did not believe every worthless spell and incantation cast by the Head Elder, whom Jared considered no better than a street hawker of tawdry baubles, would actually bring forth good fortune for all present, arming them with magical shields to ward off those who would do them harm. Yet, sadly, Jared knew that was exactly what they did believe, his father included.

Ah well, tonight would be the last time he would attend one of these asinine affairs. It was his intention to inform his father that, as of next month, he would be moving to Budapest to take up a position as a partner in a larger law office. A far more prestigious company than the one in which he was presently employed.

He stretched his long legs out in front of him and gazed at the passing scene from the carriage window. The open window brought in a warm breeze that ruffled his long golden hair. He glanced at his fob and sighed. Yes, he was late, and there was little he could do about it. The carriage shuddered, throwing him to one side as it came to an abrupt halt.

"What is it, cabbie?" he yelled, straining to see what had caused the sudden stop.

"Body in the street, sir"

A body? He climbed down from the carriage and walked towards the small crowd gathered around a prone figure on the ground. The victim looked to be young, a young man, his clothes of a decent cut and material. Not a vagrant then?

"Is he dead?" he heard someone ask.

"Looks like it," came a reply. "Just waiting for the militia."

"Stabbed, he was"

"No one's safe these days."

"Robbers and murderers everywhere."

Jared suddenly felt as though he were being watched. He looked around the assembled crowd and caught the eye of a tall, handsome man who smiled at him and raised a hand to the brim of his hat in salute.

Do I know you? Jared wondered, returning the man's smile. Perhaps they'd met at one of the many business soires he'd attended recently, but surely he would remember one as comely as this. The man moved towards him and touched him gently on the arm. A visceral thrill coursed through Jared's body at the man's touch.

"We"re not needed here," the man said, steering Jared away from the crowd and into a darkened alleyway. A door opened, and they stepped inside. A long hallway stretched before them, dimly lit with a faint pinkish glow, and lined with several doors. "Here" The man pushed open a door and stepped aside to let Jared enter. Jared did so without thought, without fear, even though he found all this to be very strange. A tiny prickle of excitement, of anticipation, coiled on the nape of his neck.

The man removed his hat and cloak, signalling that Jared should do the same. As if in a blur, he was suddenly standing so close Jared could taste the man�s sweet-scented breath on his lips.

"I have need of you, my beauty"

Excerpt From: Blood Lust

Tommy Cordain was depressed. He knew he shouldn’t be, but for the life of him he just couldn’t shake the feeling of despondency he’d woken up with, and now couldn’t dispel.

"Damn it," he muttered, pouring himself the third cup of coffee of the morning. His mood might have been lighter if his lover, Andrew Berés, was there with him, but Andrew wouldn’t be up and about until later in the day—and therein lay the problem—or at least, one of the problems.

Since Andrew had left New York and moved in with Tommy their relationship had grown stronger than Tommy had ever dreamed it would. He’d never been in a monogamous relationship before, had never felt like committing himself to only one person, until he met Andrew. And Tommy had never been happier.

So what was the problem?

Andrew was a vampire.

But that wasn’t the problem. Well, if Tommy was really honest with himself, hell yeah, it was the problem. Because, until Andrew had come into his life, Tommy had been okay with the prospect of growing older. Not that he’d really thought about it that much. His parents were older, and they still enjoyed an active life, taking trips, even going line dancing every week. Somewhere in the back of his mind he’d figured that when he was their age, late fifties, he’d probably still be going to the gym, take the occasional hiking trip, go swimming, jogging, all the things he did now. He’d look older, but that didn’t matter, did it?

Well yes, it kinda does, ’cause Andrew won’t look older—will never look older.

Andrew would always look like he was in his mid—twenties, the age he’d been when he was changed—younger than Tommy was now. Andrew was over two—hundred years old, yet sometimes Tommy felt older than him, and in reality, at twenty—nine, he was. Andrew had told him that with regular infusions of vampire blood, he would age much more slowly than a normal human—he might even live to be a hundred, perhaps a hundred and fifty years old without much change in his physical appearance. And in the ecstasy of their love making after Tommy had discovered what Andrew really was, all of that had seemed just fine—fantastic even—but now, he wasn’t so sure.

Tommy had been drained almost to the point of death by Lazlo Marek, Andrew’s devious uncle, and he’d been saved by drinking Andrew’s powerful blood. That rich essence had already added several years to Tommy’s life, something he’d thought incredible at the time, but now, it didn’t feel right.

What about his parents, his friends, those he would lose over the years—and wouldn’t they at some point wonder why they were aging and he was not? How could he explain that away? There was also the fact that Andrew couldn’t meet any of his buddies for lunch, couldn’t go to the ballpark with him, couldn’t go for a swim in the ocean, unless it was a moonlight swim.

And those were definitely great. The two of them under a starlit sky, swimming out as far as they could, then floating in each other’s arms, buffeted by gently rolling waves. Sometimes Andrew would hold him and they would skim over the surface of the ocean, locked in an embrace, their naked bodies fused as one. Oh God, yeah, the sex was always the best. Each and every time better than the time before, if that was possible. Andrew was beautiful, his body perfect in every way, his face one that any artist would long to capture on canvas, his hair like black silk, his eyes...

Yeah, he’s the hottest guy I’ve ever been with. I’m so damned lucky to have him in my life, but I can’t overlook the fact that one day he’s going to leave me behind.

Tommy wasn’t arrogant, but he knew he was no slouch in the looks department. He’d been told numerous times he was hot. He kept his quarterback physique in shape with regular workouts—the rigours of his job as a firefighter demanded he be at his best, physically and mentally at all times. Yet he knew the day would come eventually when all that would fade.

I’ll become baggy and saggy and my vampire boyfriend will start lookin’ around for the young and the hung...

"Tommy?"

The sudden call from the bedroom made him jump. Andrew was awake?

"What’s wrong?" he asked, pushing the bedroom door open. "Did I wake you?"

"Yes. Your anxious thoughts entered my consciousness. Come sit by me."

Tommy walked quickly through the darkened room and sat on the edge of their bed. "Sorry," he mumbled.

Andrew reached up and cupped Tommy’s face with a cool hand. As always, Andrew’s touch induced a shiver of ecstasy in Tommy and he turned his face into Andrew’s palm and kissed it gently.

"Sorry I woke you."

Excerpt From: Blood Talisman

The tall, dark-haired man stood outside the Los Angeles Central Library gazing up for a moment at the imposing Egyptian-themed edifice. Artfully illuminated at night time, each carefully carved symbol of the ancient world stood out in stark relief against the white-stone walls.

A wry smile touched his handsome, finely featured face as he contemplated the fact that the setting at least was appropriate for what he sought. The world of antiquity might just hold the key to unlocking the mystery he was determined to solve. Much of what he wanted for his lover and himself, might rely on the answers, positive or negative, he was convinced he would find within a certain tome housed somewhere in the archives of this building.

In just a few minutes the library would close for the night. He wasted no time, quickly passing through the main doors into the cavernous marble-lined entry hall. He smiled at the security guard, knowing that he was about to tell him, 'Sorry, we’re closing'. Instead, the guard returned his smile—the power behind those ice-blue eyes immediately making the guard forget that the tall man dressed in a full-length black leather coat who now strode past him with purpose towards the door that plainly read ‘No Admittance’ had actually pushed it open and had disappeared.

The guard stood to one side as the library’s employees and a few stragglers exited, then he locked the doors and walked over to the security desk. Apart from the routine checks he would make periodically he would stay at his post until he was relieved at midnight by the graveyard shift.

Andrew Berés descended the flight of stairs leading to the underground archives. It was dark, the power having been turned off in any unnecessary areas of the library. Not that it deterred Andrew. He could see in the dark better than any cat, or bat, for that matter. His vampire vision could pick out anything within the murky recesses of the basement.

If I were the Talisman of Ardocan—where would I hide?

If not the Talisman itself—and it did seem unlikely that it would actually be among the artefacts and documents piled high before him—at least some mention of it, be it myth or reality. Somewhere here, there must be some clue, a cross reference perhaps pertaining to its existence, or non.

Andrew’s laser-sharp vision seared through the closed document boxes and crates, negating some as useless, pausing over others that looked as though they might be interesting, before dismissing them and moving on to the next box.

Marcus Verano, the most powerful of all vampires, had told Andrew he feared the Talisman did not exist, and at the time Andrew had been prepared to accept Marcus’ scepticism, yet the demon Dakar had insisted that it was indeed real. If Andrew were to doubt either man’s word, it would certainly be that of Dakar—a devious and treacherous demon, now dead. Dakar had inhabited Andrew’s lover’s body then had tried to seduce Andrew himself, all the while betraying his king by gathering a rebel force to usurp Kardis and take control of the Underworld region Kardis governed.

Yet hope, mingled with some doubt, remained in Andrew’s heart.

His lover, Tommy, was a brave and beautiful man with whom Andrew wished to spend the rest of his existence. But Tommy was mortal and worried that as he grew older Andrew would leave him for someone younger. Despite Andrew’s protestations to the contrary, he knew that in Tommy’s darker moments that fear still existed, and with it a wish that Andrew, too, was mortal, and that they would grow old together. Something that, as the months had passed, and their love had become stronger, deeper, Andrew had longed for with all his heart.

Tommy had offered to give him his lifeblood, had pledged to accept the ‘change’ despite the fact he would be distanced from his family and friends, something Andrew knew tore at Tommy’s heart and conscience. Because of his lover’s willingness to sacrifice his closeness with those he held dear, Andrew was determined to at least try to find an alternative.

He had not mentioned his quest to anyone, not even to Tommy. Why build up hopes within him if the search should prove fruitless after all? Nor had he told his best friend Jared Lantos, although he knew Jared would not judge his actions. Jared also had a mortal lover. Although frowned on by certain segments of vampire society, it was not all that unusual for vampires’ companions to be human. A regular infusion of vampire blood kept a mortal’s youthful appearance, delaying the aging process and giving him or her many more years of life. But they were not immortal, and eventually a decision would have to be made…

Andrew paused in his search and a shudder ran through his body. The thought of losing Tommy was not something he could accept, nor the desolation he knew he would feel as keenly as a wooden, silver-tipped stake to his heart.

There must be an answer! Somewhere in all of this there must be a clue, however small, however remotely connected to the Talisman itself. Something to give hope…

Despair filled him as he neared the final row of boxes. Perhaps Marcus was right after all, and Dakar would be proven a liar, perpetuating the demon reputation for evading the truth at all costs. Or perhaps, his search—though fruitless here as it had been in New York and Washington D.C.—should continue in some other archive—in Paris or Athens or—He paused again, a flicker of recognition dancing before his eyes.

The word, Ardocan.

Excerpt from: My Vampire Lover

West Hollywood: Present day

On the morning of the night I met the man who would forever change my life, my brother, Jonas, had called me to say he and his husband, Ted, would be in town for a couple of days over the weekend—and could they stay over at my place?

“Sure,” I told him, “and maybe you’d both like to go dancing Saturday night.”

My brother is two years older than me, and at thirty, he’s already been in a five year relationship with Ted. They live up in Portland but come down to LA about twice a year—usually on short notice, like the time I’m talking about. That was okay though, because, until I met him, I really didn’t have a life. Oh, I had friends, boyfriends on a couple of occasions, and a fairly decent job managing a small Italian restaurant.

It just all seemed kind of pointless at times—a dead end, if you will. I would become restless or listless when I gave too much thought to it, so I tried not to.

Jonas was always on about me moving up to Portland—a much healthier town that LA, in his opinion. Maybe he was right, but I liked LA—the noise, the crowds, the endless traffic. It was alive, vibrant, and to me, home.

After hanging up the phone from my long talk with my brother, I started to get ready for work. I was lucky—I could walk there from my apartment on Rugby. No traffic snarls for me to contend with. La Fortuna, the little restaurant I managed just off Santa Monica, was a bustling place, and sometimes we’d stay open a little later to accommodate some of our slower diners. I always hate to be rushed through a good meal—and I wouldn’t do it to my customers.

This particular night, though, was kinda slow, so I told the chef and the waiters they could take off early, and I’d lock up by myself. After counting out the bank deposit for the following day and stowing it in the night safe, I headed for the door then saw him.

He stood at the window reading the menu. Tall, about my height, a slender, athletic build, thick, dark hair combed back from a delicately boned, pale face. His eyes—I couldn’t see the colour in the dark—fixed on mine as I gazed at him through the door window, and he smiled, a shy, somewhat weary, smile.

I opened the door. “Hi,” I said. “Sorry, we just closed.”

He nodded. “I understand you have a very interesting wine list,” he said, with a trace of an accent…French, perhaps.

I smiled. “The owners pride themselves on it. Perhaps, another night you can sample some of their specialties.”

“Why not tonight?”

Without my seeing him move, he was suddenly standing very close to me, and I was staring into his midnight-blue eyes, my jaw feeling a little slack.

“Uh…sure,” I said, stepping back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”

“Thank you.” His bare arm brushed mine as he entered, and I felt a tingle like an electrical charge pass over my skin. He wore a tight black T-shirt, black straight leg jeans that enhanced his slim build, and a pair of black cowboy boots. The man in black, I thought, admiring the perfect curve of his butt and itching to put my hand there and stroke it. He smiled at me, and I had the uncanny idea that he knew exactly what I was thinking.

“Nice place,” he said. “Every time I pass by, it’s always looked very busy.”

“Not tonight,” I said.

“No. That is why I came. So I could see you.”

“See me?” I gulped slightly. “Oh, you want a job or something? We’re actually not hiring right now, but—”

He laughed lightly. “No, I don’t need a job. I just wanted to meet you. I have been admiring you from afar for some time.”

“You have?” I gaped at him, unsure how to react to that statement. No one had ever admired me from ‘afar’ before—at least, not anyone I knew of. I’m okay looking, I guess…six feet, one hundred eighty pounds, chestnut brown hair, hazel eyes. I don’t work out regularly, but I run and that keeps me in shape.

“Why do you act so surprised?” he asked, sitting at one of the tables and returning my stare with a smile that could only be called thrilling.

“I’m not used to people saying things like that, I guess.” I moved to the bar. “Can I get you a glass of this week’s house specialty?”

“If it is red, that would be very nice.”

I tried to stop my hand from shaking as I poured his wine. Pull yourself together, I told myself. He’s just a guy—a little strange—but a guy, nevertheless.

“Won’t you join me?” His dark eyes bored into mine as I leaned forward to put his wineglass on the table.

“Uh…sure.” I poured myself a glass, then sat at the table opposite him. “I’m Ron, by the way,” I said, holding out my hand.

“Jean-Claude.” His hand was cool and dry, his grip firm.

“I thought you sounded French,” I told him, pleased with myself.

“It’s amazing how one’s accent clings, even after so many years away from home.”

“How many years could that be? You’re still young. Are you here for studies?”

“No. I am here by necessity. I was exiled from France many years ago.”

“Exiled?”

“Well, let us say, self-exiled.”

“Oh yeah, we get a lot of that in the States,” I said, not knowing what I was talking about.

He chuckled. “Am I making you nervous?”

“No, not at all.” I picked up my wineglass. “Cheers. I hope you like it.”

“Salud.” He raised his glass in salute then took a long sip, closing his eyes and savouring it in his mouth before swallowing.

Excerpt From: My Yakuza

He didn’t have much time. Shiro wanted to pound Matsumi-san’s head into the shiny, red-lacquered bar top. Instead, he remained passive, watching Matsumi-san drain his second bottle of beer.

Lava-lamp style lights swirled across the bar as two girls in a suspended cage lip-synched to the pop singer Shakira high in one of the corners. Matsumi-san swayed to the music. Shiro signalled the bartender who brought them another round. The price of two more drinks included more snacks. This time, they received a small platter of sliced fruit.

Matsumi-san’s face went slack. “This strawberry. It reminds me.”

Shiro strained to hear over the loud music. Friday night. Tokyo was hopping. Everyone was in the mood for love, booze and karaoke.

“What does it remind you of?” Shiro asked in his half-baked Japanese.

“She is sweet, like fruit.” Matsumi-san poked at the delicate sliver of strawberry that was cut into a perfect heart shape. “Siono can make a man forget everything. Her lips are like wine, her tongue so sweet…like this strawberry.”

Dude, this is my mom you’re talking about. Shiro took a deep breath, hiding his disgust for the inebriated, middle-aged office worker, and waited. The music thumped a little louder through the bar’s four rooms.

They’d just opened the fourth room right above them. A hypnotic disco beat made Shiro’s foot inadvertently tap against the leg of his barstool. At the age of twenty-three, the disco era had bypassed him. His generation was hotwired to different times, so his body’s response to the music surprised him.

Young couples clustered in corners, up against bars and by the door. Half of the glazed-eyed men were being catered to by whores. Beautiful, alluring women, but whores all the same.

“She’s so beautiful,” Matsumi-san crooned. “Her laughter is like the river.” He moved his hand in a wavy gesture.

Oh, brother.

“Can you remember the name of the hotel?” Shiro asked again.

Matsumi-san was a sweaty guy. He palmed liquid from his forehead.

“Blue lights out front. Many blue lights.” He stared into space. “Many. That’s what I remember.” His eyes grew huge as he turned back to Shiro. “Is it true she is dead, Shiro-chan?”

That’s what Shiro had been told. He had no idea if it were true, except it seemed unlikely that Siono would just disappear. Shiro noted the colloquial form of his name and felt a sudden burst of excitement. The guy was going to remember.

Matsumi-san clapped his hand on Shiro’s arm.

“Hotel If. That was the name!”

Matsumi-san was so excited, he jumped from his stool, his hand raised high, sloshing half his beer in the air.

Hotel If. Man, how hard could it have been to remember that?

Shiro thanked him in gentle tones, catching the Masta’s eye. The man who owned the bar nodded. He had assured Shiro that they’d find a suitable female companion for the lonely guy, once he received Shiro’s signal.

With genuine feeling, Shiro thanked Matsumi-san again and took off.

“Blue lights, remember that. Right in the middle of town!” Matsumi-san called out after him.

It had stopped raining, but the seat on his bosozoku was wet. No matter. He had, at most, ten minutes before Shun’ichi’s goons missed him. He jumped on his motorbike, hitting the street. He swung his helmet onto his head as he took the first corner sharply. One street, then another flashed by him. The half beer he’d had made him dizzy as he skidded and swerved through rain-slick streets from one brightly lit hotel to the next.

And there it was.

He stopped, one foot dropping to the road as he stared at the entrance of the Hotel If, watching a giggly young couple enter. Just one of the dozens of love hotels in Tokyo’s Shibuya district, he’d finally found it.

For days he’d snatched moments between his message drops, trying to find Matsumi-san, the man who’d last hired Shiro’s mom for a couple of hours of love. For the first day, Matsumi-san had played coy. Tonight he’d confessed he had seen her and had also heard that Siono had disappeared right after their tryst.

Hotel If. Shiro felt the emotion catching in his throat. It was just where Matsumi-san said it would be, right in the centre of the love hotel district off Dogenzaka Street.

Shiro lost count of the number of drinks he’d poured into the guy these past couple of nights, trying to get answers.

He gripped the handlebars of his bosozoku, drinking in the blue lights surrounding Hotel If. The sky felt heavy, perfumed with fresh rain that threatened to unleash its force again.

This was the last place his mother had been seen alive. He switched off the engine and removed his helmet. The cool night air fanned his warm, damp skin.

Why had Siono come here? Why this place? Matsumi-san said she was the one who had selected it.

“I saw her ad in the newspaper. She met me at the bar. We had some drinks. We had some love…” No…how had he put it? We had some rest.

Now that was a quaint way to describe fucking. What had he expected by coming here? His mother lying in a battered heap in the lush landscaping out front, calling his name? A trail of blood? Her ghost pointing a long finger in the direction he should look? Physical evidence? A note? God…it was all so hopeless. If she had been there…he caught himself looking at the name of the hotel again.

If. How apt. If she had come here. If she had died here…if she had been here at all there would be no way of proving it. He’d waited a long time to overhear snatches of a conversation and Japanese was his third language. He wasn’t learning his mother tongue quickly. He glanced around. Encouraged by the distant chatter of strangers, he swung his leg over the seat. He walked towards the entrance. There were signs out front. Two different prices—one for resting for two to three hours and double for staying the night.

Photos of the available rooms, decorated in surprisingly attractive ways, were lit up by a light box just inside the lobby. He was both impressed and dismayed. Guests had complete privacy because they clicked on the box for the room they wanted and money went into an automatic cash machine. He stepped into the well-lit hallway. Small pockets of tropical flowers and plants surrounded each doorway. Some had lights on, some didn’t.

He went back to the light box again. Half of the room photos were dark. He checked room number two against the darkened entrance ahead of him. Both were dark. It was ingenious. He was certain it meant the room was occupied.

Which room had she been in, if she had been here?

Shiro walked outside again, taking time to sort through his emotions. He should never have let Siono come here. Fool! How could I have stopped her? He raged against the forces that had separated them—her fantasies and the mysterious Yakuza who had spirited her away to Tokyo. Siono had lived and breathed the city, even when Shiro was a toddler growing up in Honolulu. She always said she would take him back there. In Tokyo, the sun was bigger, better, brighter. He knew she was dreaming from the movies he saw.

Then came the Japanese businessman who’d booked her for the night. Shiro had known his mother was a prostitute. She worked intermittently, but with Shiro in his final year of college and preoccupied with his own life, she’d drifted back into bad habits.

He begged her not to go with the guy to Tokyo. He tried to tell her he had a bad feeling. He’d read the papers. She was a prostitute. Businessmen like the one who wanted to lure her away, often turned out to be Yakuza who trafficked a stream of hopeful women to Japan each year as virtual sex slaves.

“You have no romance in your soul,” Siono had said. “Didn’t you ever see Pretty Woman?”

No, he hadn’t. Unless it involved manga, anime, or smooth John Woo-style action sequences, he wasn’t interested.

Siono tried to tell him all men wanted a whore they could redeem. She was convinced Shun’ichi Harada loved her and wanted a better life for her. So, his mom had fled Honolulu.

What she found was exactly what he’d feared. She had been put to work as a prostitute. She seemed upset at first but, she’d told Shiro, she felt she had an edge to the other hookers. She was one of the few Japanese women working the streets. Most were blonde, Korean or Filipina. She felt she had a special place in Shun’ichi’s life.

She had called Shiro twice more, the last time to say she’d escaped her Yakuza’s clutches. She was coming home.

“How did you get your passport back?” he had asked her. She’d cried when she told him Shun’ichi had taken it from her.

“Never you mind,” she said. “Mahape a ale wala‘au.”

That was Hawaiian for let’s not speak of it. Sort of the tropical equivalent of a great big elephant sitting in the living room. His mother had said it often, starting with why, when Shiro was five, his Hawaiian-born father had abandoned them. He grew up being Jawaiian as they called the half-Hawaiian, half-Japanese kids. Now, he was proud of his heritage. Unlike his mom, Shiro loved Hawaii. He missed the scent of his beloved islands, the smell of flowers on his skin. Tokyo sure was nothing like she had told him.

Siono never arrived home. She never called again. His maternal grandmother received a call from a man saying that Siono had died. He said she’d fallen out of a hotel room window. Death, he’d said, was immediate. Grandma had started to ask questions, but the man hung up.

Excerpt From: My Yakuza

He didn’t have much time. Shiro wanted to pound Matsumi-san’s head into the shiny, red-lacquered bar top. Instead, he remained passive, watching Matsumi-san drain his second bottle of beer.

Lava-lamp style lights swirled across the bar as two girls in a suspended cage lip-synched to the pop singer Shakira high in one of the corners. Matsumi-san swayed to the music. Shiro signalled the bartender who brought them another round. The price of two more drinks included more snacks. This time, they received a small platter of sliced fruit.

Matsumi-san’s face went slack. “This strawberry. It reminds me.”

Shiro strained to hear over the loud music. Friday night. Tokyo was hopping. Everyone was in the mood for love, booze and karaoke.

“What does it remind you of?” Shiro asked in his half-baked Japanese.

“She is sweet, like fruit.” Matsumi-san poked at the delicate sliver of strawberry that was cut into a perfect heart shape. “Siono can make a man forget everything. Her lips are like wine, her tongue so sweet…like this strawberry.”

Dude, this is my mom you’re talking about. Shiro took a deep breath, hiding his disgust for the inebriated, middle-aged office worker, and waited. The music thumped a little louder through the bar’s four rooms.

They’d just opened the fourth room right above them. A hypnotic disco beat made Shiro’s foot inadvertently tap against the leg of his barstool. At the age of twenty-three, the disco era had bypassed him. His generation was hotwired to different times, so his body’s response to the music surprised him.

Young couples clustered in corners, up against bars and by the door. Half of the glazed-eyed men were being catered to by whores. Beautiful, alluring women, but whores all the same.

“She’s so beautiful,” Matsumi-san crooned. “Her laughter is like the river.” He moved his hand in a wavy gesture.

Oh, brother.

“Can you remember the name of the hotel?” Shiro asked again.

Matsumi-san was a sweaty guy. He palmed liquid from his forehead.

“Blue lights out front. Many blue lights.” He stared into space. “Many. That’s what I remember.” His eyes grew huge as he turned back to Shiro. “Is it true she is dead, Shiro-chan?”

That’s what Shiro had been told. He had no idea if it were true, except it seemed unlikely that Siono would just disappear. Shiro noted the colloquial form of his name and felt a sudden burst of excitement. The guy was going to remember.

Matsumi-san clapped his hand on Shiro’s arm.

“Hotel If. That was the name!”

Matsumi-san was so excited, he jumped from his stool, his hand raised high, sloshing half his beer in the air.

Hotel If. Man, how hard could it have been to remember that?

Shiro thanked him in gentle tones, catching the Masta’s eye. The man who owned the bar nodded. He had assured Shiro that they’d find a suitable female companion for the lonely guy, once he received Shiro’s signal.

With genuine feeling, Shiro thanked Matsumi-san again and took off.

“Blue lights, remember that. Right in the middle of town!” Matsumi-san called out after him.

It had stopped raining, but the seat on his bosozoku was wet. No matter. He had, at most, ten minutes before Shun’ichi’s goons missed him. He jumped on his motorbike, hitting the street. He swung his helmet onto his head as he took the first corner sharply. One street, then another flashed by him. The half beer he’d had made him dizzy as he skidded and swerved through rain-slick streets from one brightly lit hotel to the next.

And there it was.

He stopped, one foot dropping to the road as he stared at the entrance of the Hotel If, watching a giggly young couple enter. Just one of the dozens of love hotels in Tokyo’s Shibuya district, he’d finally found it.

For days he’d snatched moments between his message drops, trying to find Matsumi-san, the man who’d last hired Shiro’s mom for a couple of hours of love. For the first day, Matsumi-san had played coy. Tonight he’d confessed he had seen her and had also heard that Siono had disappeared right after their tryst.

Hotel If. Shiro felt the emotion catching in his throat. It was just where Matsumi-san said it would be, right in the centre of the love hotel district off Dogenzaka Street. Shiro lost count of the number of drinks he’d poured into the guy these past couple of nights, trying to get answers.

He gripped the handlebars of his bosozoku, drinking in the blue lights surrounding Hotel If. The sky felt heavy, perfumed with fresh rain that threatened to unleash its force again.

This was the last place his mother had been seen alive. He switched off the engine and removed his helmet. The cool night air fanned his warm, damp skin.