“Here’s what I suggest,” he said. “From now on, you’ll make sure every attempt he makes to contact my mother ends in failure.”
She pressed her back into the seat of the booth and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “And pray tell how I will achieve that?”
He threw his hands up. “How do I know? Any way you care to, just do it.”
Silence grew between them. Jane’s gaze locked with his and their eyes settled in a clash of wills. Somewhere along the way, he saw her blink, but he didn’t drop his gaze until she finally closed her eyes for a second.
Bringing her hands to her temples, she stared straight at him. “In other words, you’re telling me to sabotage Umberto’s every attempt to contact your mother.”
“That’s right.”
“And if he sidesteps me?”
Michael chuckled. “You really think he can afford to do that?”
Jane gave a small, contrived smile. “I guess you’re right.” She paused, letting the hum and drone of the conversation in the room surround them.
“What if I don’t agree to this?” she said.
He winced inwardly. That’s what he hoped it wouldn’t come to. He didn’t want to employ hostile tactics but it was his mother they were talking about.
He picked up his cup of coffee and took a sip, his eyes never leaving her. Putting the cup back in its saucer, he crossed his arms in front of him on the table.
“Jane,” he said, “I’m sure you know half the business Vista Standard Bank handles comes straight from my clients.” He paused for effect. “As their lawyer, it wouldn’t be hard for me to tell them to take their accounts elsewhere.”
Jane paled and her lips tightened in a nervous gesture. But she didn’t flinch or gasp, and for that he gave her credit. This girl had balls.
“That’s blackmail,” she said softly.
“I don’t want it to come to that, but I will if I have to. Think about it, Jane. Deflect a few calls, invent a few excuses. It doesn’t take more than that.”
She stared at him for a long time, her narrowed gaze travelling over him before coming back to rest on his face. He wondered what was going on in her head, but like any good legal negotiator knew, you should never betray what was going on in your head. So he simply allowed her to peruse him while he settled back and took small sips of his coffee.
As the seconds ticked by, he saw perusal turn to disbelief and finally to something remarkably like spite on her features. Her lips pursed to a tight line, stretching the skin over her cheekbones and making her bone structure appear formidable as the soft shadows in their secluded corner played upon her face.
Michael didn’t flinch, not even when she opened her mouth and said calmly,
“You’re a bloody arse, you know that?”
He acknowledged her comment with a small smile. He had her where he wanted, he knew it. She wouldn’t have been so vehement if she hadn’t thought herself cornered.
“Excuse me, my dears,” Tabitha’s sing-song voice broke through.
They both glanced at the woman who stood close to their table. How long had she been there listening to them? Michael knew this was the least of their concerns right now though. It wasn’t the first time he was called an arse. He’d been called worse, actually. Putting on a proper appearance to greet Tabitha, he watched as Jane sat up straighter and pasted a smile on her face.
The older woman came to a standstill at his side, her hand settling lightly on his shoulder. Facing Jane, she said, “Have you managed to eat anything, dear? Michael told me about your condition.”
He caught the almost imperceptible second when Jane winced and bit her lip before smiling even wider at Tabitha. She was flustered, that was obvious. Why? Wasn’t she used to being in social circles?
“The food was lovely,” she said, the sound of her voice that of a proper debutante addressing her hosts for lunch at the country club. Did she have such background? He found himself wondering.
“Thank you for the consideration,” Jane added.
“It’s a pleasure, dear. Michael was very worried, if I may add.” Tabitha let the sentence hang, and Michael knew it was a ploy to extract a juicy tidbit of gossip.
“Was he now?” Jane wondered aloud, her gaze travelling to him.
He clenched his jaw in reply. So she wanted to play now, didn’t she? What did she think? That she’d make him feel embarrassed by discussing his emotional side with their host? She was in for a surprise then, because feelings and he didn’t mix.
“It really isn’t like him to be so concerned, is it?” Jane further directed at Tabitha.
The woman laughed. “You got that right, dah-ling.” She paused. “Oh, how impolite of me. I am Tabitha, my dear. We haven’t been introduced.”
Jane held her hand out. “Jane Smithers. Pleasure to finally meet the woman behind this renowned eatery.”
Tabitha clasped her hand in both of hers. “So,” she said, “I guess congratulations are of the order.” Her pointed gaze landed on Michael.
Here it comes – the Inquisition.
“Thank you, luv,” he replied, watching Jane’s face paling and her mouth opening before she caught herself and closed it.
Tabitha patted his shoulder. “You must be really happy at this wonderful news,” she said.
Time to aim for the kill and be done with it. “Of course we are,” Michael replied. “Now, Tabby darling, it’s still rather early, and nobody really knows about it.”
“Oh, my lips are sealed. Don’t worry.” She turned to Jane and squeezed her hand. “I am really happy for both of you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must see to my other patrons.”
“It’s okay, darling. We know you’re much in demand here.” He smiled at her and watched as she blushed under the attention.
Tension hung heavy in the air while they both waited for Tabitha to walk out of earshot.
“You let her believe I’m expecting your baby?” Jane finally hissed as she leant forward towards him, anger slashing her cheekbones with a dark stain.
As the sun slowly crept across the flagstone floor, the Queen stirred beneath her silk sheets. The thick drapes were pulled back from the window frames to allow the night sky to show its moon, stars, and planets while breathing cool night air into her chambers. As the rays crept ever closer to the slumbering figure under the silk sheets and exotic fur blankets, it seemed to hesitate. The beam of light considered the figure lying beneath the bedding; her slender, lithe form, skin the color of rich soil, face hidden beneath the cascading raven hair. The sun stopped short of touching the bedposts and seemed to retreat at the recognition of whose chamber it had entered. As the burning orb rose higher into the morning sky, the light faded from the bedroom and slowly meandered its way back to the open window facing east. It lingered at the sill, as if it considered approaching the still figure once more, tempted to bath her in light, but the figure stirred slightly and the last of the light leapt from her presence into the bright morning sky.
The body under the sheets and canopy bed moved again, and in the first moments of awakening she felt it, the presence of a human, a boy bordering on manhood to be exact, a feeling she hadn’t felt in a very long time. Her eyes remained closed, but she rolled over in bed, her smooth skin sliding easily against the slick silk sheets. Her tongue flicked out like a serpent and tasted the power the child brought to her world, and a slow smile opened across her ageless face, still hidden behind her long, rich, black hair.
Slowly sitting up in bed, her hair fell away from her face, only to envelop her shoulders, back, and breasts to become a midnight shawl of hair. She opened coal colored eyes in the still dark morning room, and the smile played across her face.
“What a glorious morning,” Lilith the Dark Queen of Illenduell said in her slightly raspy voice. She stepped from her bed, the cool morning air quickly turning her naked skin to goose flesh. Lilith approached the window sill facing East and the light seemed to shrink from her approach, the darkness enshrouded her; the light avoided her. She surveyed her Kingdom from her tower bed chamber, the highest peak in her castle, Dunkeln’Tocht in the Thorne Mountains.
“What a glorious mourning indeed…”
Jen: This week we welcome Suzannah Safi to Book Talk. Suzannah, will you please share a short bio with us?
Suzannah: Certainly, and thank you for having me here. I live in New York and for many years I worked with numbers, finance, and credit. But eventually my addiction to writing took over seven years ago. Now I am a full time romance author. I am also a promoter; I created Romance Alley on September 14, 2009 you can check it at www.romancealley.suzannahsafi.com a place for authors to benefit and readers to enjoy. My other passion, being a freelance designer; this year I created my own Book Trailer Company, you can visit my company’s website at www.design.suzannahsafi.com
I wanted to do something that I enjoy, have passion for, and I found that writing, promoting, and designing book trailers and covers are my real passion so I am doing that full time and proud of what I’ve accomplished.
Jen: Tell us about Worth Every Breath and where it's available.
Suzannah: My contemporary novel ‘Worth Every Breath’ is available now through The Wild Rose Press. This is the blurb:
When the lovely Annabelle from California takes on a job in York, London as a companion for an embittered, paralyzed Chris MacCloud who has lost his wife in an accident, she finds herself strangely drawn to his savage sensuality. But she must overcome not only his deep mistrust of love, which is inflamed by her uncanny resemblance to his late wife, but also withstand the wicked relatives who are scheming for his fortune.
Little does Annabelle know that at the end of this twisted trail of passion and deceit lies, in the words of a song she has written, "what I'm looking for….it's worth every breath."
Can Chris forget his past, can Annabelle win his trust and teach him to love again? And can she herself learn to forgive and forget?
You can visit my website to read more at www.suzannahsafi.com
Jen: At what age did you discover writing and when were you first published? Tell us your call story.
Suzannah: I wrote a story when I was in high school, and left it at that for a long time, but I started writing seriously seven years ago. End of 2007 I received my first contract with The Wild Rose Press for my novella ‘Worth Every Breath’, the joy of knowing that my baby is going to see the world is indescribable.
Jen: Describe your writing in three words.
Suzannah: Exotic, stimulating, diverse.
Jen: Do you have any “must haves” with you while you’re writing?
Suzannah: A cup of coffee next to me, and slow music in the background, of course not to forget my sweetheart—laptop.
Jen: Do you have a writing routine?
Suzannah: No, I don’t. But, if I’m not writing, I am critiquing, editing, promoting, or researching.
Jen: Do you become attached to your characters and have a hard time letting them go, or are you happy that their story is told and you can move on?
Suzannah: Oh my, I do have a problem letting my characters go. When I’m about to finish one story, although I’m always happy that I reached the end, still I miss them so much that I get sad as well. My only console is that with every new story, I meet other characters waiting for their story to be written. I must say though, I don’t let my characters disappear; I talk about them every chance I get. Sometimes they find me, one of the villains in Worth Every Breath, his name is Damien found me and begged for his story to be written. I hated Damien, and I think he needs to be punished. Finally, he got me to listen to him, and I’m writing his story, but you know what, I have one heroine that will teach him a lesson and tame this rogue.
Jen: Is there a genre that you’d like to write? Is there a genre you’ll probably stay away from and why?
Suzannah: All the romance stories I wrote so far published or in the process, are mixed with different elements or sub-genre. I will not limit my imagination, I won’t allow that.
Jen: Do you do anything special to celebrate a sale, new contract, or release?
Suzannah: Oh yeah! I look for new ideas for marketing lol.
Jen: Most people only dream of becoming a published writer. Now that you’ve accomplished that goal, is there anything else you dream of doing?
Suzannah: Yes, to keep producing more novels. You have no idea what’s dwelling in my head, sometimes I think I’ll have to haunt someone to write my to-be-written-stories after I die LOL.
Jen: Who are some of your favorite authors and books? What are you reading now?
Suzannah: They are more than I could count; I am reading Acheron by Sherrilyn Kenyon.
Jen: What's next for you?
Suzannah: I am working on a Paranormal/horror romance novel, and a paranormal romance series.
Jen: Where can you be found on the web?
Suzannah: My website is www.suzannahsafi.com where you can find all information about me and my books, my news. Also you can find me on facebook, I always welcome new friends.
Jen: Is there anything you’d like to ask our readers?
Suzannah: I would like to say that I thank you for being here, and don’t hesitate to ask me any question, and please contact me on my website; I always welcome your comments.
Thank you all for inviting me and for the interview.
Jen: Readers, Suzannah is giving one lucky commenter a .pdf copy of Worth Every Breath. To enter the drawing, leave a comment or question for Suzannah. Don't forget to either leave your email address in your comment or send a message to contests.bookblog@gmail.com The contest ends on Thursday, December 24.
The muffled opening click of a car door broke the silence, and Trent moved to see the person getting out - more like slithering out - of the SUV.
A slim pair of legs emerged and wobbled uncertainly for a second when the sandal-clad feet hit the asphalt. When the door closed, he saw a short denim dress hugging a tiny frame. Straight black hair brushed the shoulders and the lapels of the collar, and framed a lovely, delicate face.
Trent had to blink a few times. The woman, or the girl, looked like a life-size doll. She stood barely taller than five feet, and was so small it looked like he could encircle her waist with his hands. Her eyes were deep-set and dark, rimmed with dark kohl. Her golden skin was pale underneath her makeup, and she bit her full lips, as if trying to work some color into them.
“Thank God that dog is alive,” she said in a light, youthful voice. “I sure would’ve hated to have killed it. Lucky there isn’t any damage.”
Her voice reminded him of laughter, and the tinkling of fragile crystal flutes. Shaking off the bizarre notion, he focused on her words, and a slow throb built in his blood. The overwhelming feeling settled as a twitch in his cheek, and he winced when a stab of pain shot from his clenched jaw.
No damage? She thought there was no damage? What about his car? “Lady, you just demolished my car.”
Nothing betrayed her cool composure when her gaze traveled to his rental car and back again onto him. “Sorry, but you hit from behind. You’re at fault.”
He opened his mouth to give her a fitting reply, but only a gasp escaped him. She’d stopped dead in the middle of the road, and it was his fault? Was she unconscious or what? “If it weren’t for you, it wouldn’t have happened.”
She pursed her full lips, and her chin jutted out in a fierce way as her hands settled on her hips. She craned her slender neck to look into his face. “Well, I should’ve killed the dog? That’s what you wanted?” she asked. “And you wouldn’t have jammed into my car if you hadn’t been tailgating me.”
“I wasn’t tailgating you—”
“Yes, you were,” she replied with defiance. “And you were speeding, at least a hundred where the limit is eighty.”
He couldn’t believe his ears. “Miss, you were going faster than me, so don’t get on your high horse here.”
“Stop evading the issue. It’s your fault.”
Disbelief strangled his throat as he stared at her. She glared back, not in the least bit intimidated by the fact he towered above her by more than a foot. At the same time, he flinched under her accusing words. Kill the dog. Right - like he’d have wanted to kill a poor animal. What was it about this scrap of a girl that had him so ruffled? A thought struck him, and he voiced it out loud. “Are you even old enough to drive?”
“I’m twenty-four years old, for your information,” she spat out.
“Jeez, that’s supposed to make me feel better?” he retorted. What difference did it make if she was legal? Other than she could be held responsible for the accident.
“My car is damaged, and it’s your fault.”
Her dark eyes grew even darker as they narrowed on him. Fire - or ice - burnt in them. Her voice however dripped with frost when she said, “I thought British men were supposed to be courteous.”
“I beg your pardon?” He couldn’t believe it. She’d done it again - he was struck speechless.
Her hand fluttered before her in an evasive gesture as she shook her head. “You know, proper British manners. Can’t say you’ve shown any so far.”
“How do you know I’m British? Does it read not-from-Mauritius somewhere on my face?”
“Your accent,” she replied. “You speak just like Hugh Grant.”
Hugh Grant? That pasty-faced pin-up? “Thanks. That’s a very positive compliment.”
Trent had the pleasure of seeing his sarcasm unsettle the unnerving Miss Know-it-all. Her chest rose and fell in rapid succession as she glowered at him.
“You’re so...” she paused and seemed to look around for the proper word. “Obnoxious,” she spat out a few seconds later.
He’d been called many things in his life, but this one was a first. And coming from a tiny lady like her, he didn’t know whether to laugh or be annoyed. It was a long time since he’d had such a verbal joust with someone. He had to admit it was as stimulating as it was unnerving. But dammit, he had no time to ponder upon that. He was getting late. And he itched to shut that busybody up.
“Jeez, that’s incredible,” he said. “A pretty head as yours came up with such a big word. I sure hope you won’t get a nosebleed from too much brain activity—”
He stopped short when he noticed something on her face. Horrified, he stood there, his jaw slackening as his mouth hung open.
“What?” she asked.
He pointed at her face. “Your nose. It’s bleeding.”
Connacht, Ireland 916 AD
I shall marry this woman, Dægan Ræliksen decided. It had been over a fortnight since he first followed her through the green meadows to the waters of the River Shannon, watching her intently. Observing her seemed to give him great pleasure, and every day he would anticipate her arrival, secretly longing to hold her in his arms. Only lately did he grow impatient with his desire for her that this day, he settled on, would finally be the day he’d put his suffering to an end and make her his wife.
She stood amid the knee-high grasses and flowers in a long white flowing tunic, hemmed with an embroidery of vibrant gold at the ankles and wrists. The sleeves were long and tapered. The bodice mildly followed the curves of her dainty torso, blooming into a tasteful neckline that allowed just a slight hint of cleavage to show before a single jeweled brooch, under her chin, fastened a matching cloak at her shoulders.
In days passed, her tunics included colors of deep crimson, indigo, and sometimes an earthy beige, but today’s choice, he noted, was his favorite. She embodied the very likeness of a beautiful Valkyrie, save for her lack of weapons and fair hair. Her color was distinctly dark with shades of auburn glistening like radiant sunlight upon long russet curls. Her skin was smooth like fresh buttermilk and her smile, like a cool drink of water. She stood no taller than his shoulders, but she easily filled the empty space in his heart, if not the entire expanse of his mind for the past weeks.
By her attire, Dægan could only guess her to be an Irish maiden of wealthy descent. This, too, excited him, for in contrast to her befitting nature, she was rugged and spirited, riding her stallion as well as any of his mounted hirdmen to this specific place every day, yet still looking elegant upon it.
In the long hours that she had spent alone, no man had ever summoned or demanded her presence. He found this quite odd, for she was old enough for bedding and young enough for bearing solid, healthy sons. She came and went as she pleased, heedless to the fact that she was the object of another’s longing. Instead, she would often sing, tickling his heart with her exuberant voice, an Irish ballad that danced in his soul.
He was unexpectedly mesmerized by her, chained to the very thought that she could be all his if he only dared to make his presence known. That, in itself, would prove to be the most difficult, for he dreaded that his countrymen’s reputation as savage foreigners would precede any valiant attempt at meeting civilly. He was a handsome man with a persuasive charm, or at least he was told so by other women who had fancied him. Yet he knew an effective come hither approach would not be enough to swoon the innocent soul before him.
He had pondered his options last night over a scanty dinner of roasted rabbit, and had come up with the idea of “saving her” from the rampant run of a conveniently spooked steed. It could be done easily enough, assuredly changing her views of a savage foreigner to that of a hero, and quite possibly obtaining the affable encounter for which he so wished. But now, by midmorning, the idea seemed utterly ridiculous. There were too many possibilities for things to go wrong. The horse could rear and topple her from its back. He could have difficulties even catching up with her horse once it fled. Or worse, the horse may not even spook at all.
Discouraged, Dægan continued to gaze through the trees and brush at his enchanting maiden, wanting so desperately to step out and make himself known. But how? How could he show his face without frightening her?
He did know a little bit of Irish, given that he had made his home off the west coast of Ireland for the past two years. Being a merchant, he also needed to know enough of the language to make certain he was getting a good trade for the spices he had imported from the southern lands. He could even boast smooth-tonguing a few endearments in the beautiful lilting Gaeilge, but he knew this woman only had to look at him to know he was not Irish.
Every idea, no matter how promising it seemed, had its pitfall. He could only close his eyes and pretend to exist in a different world. And how grand a world he could envision behind closed lids; a place where they could meet without apprehension, smile without pause, and converse without falsehoods. What he wouldn’t give to make that world a reality…
But as Dægan opened his eyes in weary disappointment, he caught his breath to find her walking closer to him. His body became rigid, his heart raced, and only then did he notice just how fiery his blood could run through his veins. The distance between them was diminishing slowly with each of her steps and he had not a plan for with to remedy this turn of events.
Fleeting ideas swarmed his brain like dancing bees. ‘Tis too soon in the day for pilfering and much too foolish to be thinking it. The only halfway respectable idea that came to mind was to lie down and fake an injury. Perhaps he could say he’d fallen from his own horse, appearing helpless and pitiful, conceivably someone in dire need of care and kindness. But for some reason, he did not drop to his back and put that plan into motion. He sat frozen, only staring as she stopped a few feet from him to peer blindly into the thicket.
“Who’s there?”
Her voice was like springtime; genuinely sweet with a pleasant, melodic tone that could very well warm a chilled soul after a long daily Erin rain. It was with this thought that he drew in a slow breath, catching her airy spiced scent that sifted between the summer green leaves of the hedge plant separating them. And he wondered if Valkyries smelled as good as she did.
Suddenly, from behind her, Dægan could see several dark figures emerging on the shores of the River Shannon. Although their distance was too far, he managed to make out that they were not alone. Coming closer were three more longboats flaunting red and white sails. He did not recognize the men, but he knew from the shape and adornments on the prow that they were like him, Norse.
By this time, four men had pulled the vessel out of the water and others were descending from each side. Their numbers were large and men who came in sizeable fleets were not usually merchants, but hirdmen who were following their chieftain into a devastating raid for booty—or worse yet—war!
Dægan reacted with lightening speed and pulled the Irish maiden to the ground before she could say another word.
Her captor was a brawny brute in his prime, just as weighty as he was tall, and without much effort he stifled her screams of terror with a simple hardened hand to her mouth, while his other hand matched her frantic squirming. His legs pushed hers to the ground and held them there like they were nothing but the meager limbs of a child.
He was strong. Oh, God, how he was strong! But she refused to give in, and threw wide her mouth, biting the bulge of skin on his palm that lay across her lips.
Dægan retracted his hand from her vengeful jaws, and in an instant, she catapulted her forehead into his nose, a maneuver he had not expected a woman to know. The pain in his face was severe, and he dropped his head, giving way to the blood that started to flow from both nostrils and down around his mouth.
She tried again to wiggle free, but he seemed to almost collapse upon her, limiting her chances of profiting from her clever defense. His body was heavy and hot against hers, his hair stringing in her face as he drooped limply at her neck.
Dægan felt as if everything around him was going black, and whatever remained in his tunnel-view, was in complete vertigo. Despite the slip of consciousness that was rushing through him, he could still feel her relentless thrashing beneath him. He tightened his hold on her, grasping for strength as if his very will to stay coherent were cinched around her fragile little wrists. The only thing that kept him from dozing into a helpless sleep was the acute awareness of his own blinding agony, for it had now become his only incessant thought. He forgot the woman, her sweet alluring voice, her carefree mornings, and her lighthearted dances amidst the tall flowers of the Erin meadow. All he knew now was the pain in his face and the indignant wrath that followed right behind it.
A deep moan escaped him, and it was in that moment, when she had turned her head to avoid his bloody face, that she, too, saw the accumulation of more men coming ashore. I shall die this day, she thought.
Read More......
Ring. Ring.
Her heart pounded frantically. Jolene pushed her covers off and jumped out of bed, her gaze on the clock. Four o’clock in the morning. She had a caller. Horror pulsed through her veins, and then she grabbed her purse.
It can’t possibly be him.
Come on, Jolene, answer it.
Her hands shaking, she dug in her purse pulling out the cell phone and flipping it open. “Hello.” He’d blocked the caller ID.
“What took you so long, Jolene?” a muffled voice asked.
She tightened her grip on the cell. No. How did he get this number?
“Come on, speak to me. I know you’re there,” the whisperer said in a low raspy voice. “Don’t make me come in there.”
“What do you want?” He knew where she was. How could he? “How did you get this number?” she demanded, rubbing her palm on the pale floral bed cover. Was he outside? She wanted to hang up, but that never worked. He’d call all night then.
“Jolene, I’m disappointed in you. You were around too many people tonight for me to get to you.”
She rose and walked to the window, feeling cold in spite of her olive green cotton pajamas. If only he’d talk in a normal tone, she might recognize the voice. “Why are you harassing me?” she asked, sliding the light green curtain aside so she could peek out. There weren’t any new cars parked on the street, but he could’ve parked anywhere and be outside the house.
“I thought we were friends. Don’t you like it when I tell you all the things I’m going to do to you?” He cackled loud and long.
His maniacal laughter sent shivers up her body, and she wrapped her free arm around her waist. Did she know this person? Surely, she didn’t know anyone like this except for Les. That guy was just downright crazy. Quiet.
She held her breath and listened. Was he still there? No sound. He must’ve hung up. Softly, she started to close her cell.
“Don’t hang up on me, Jolene.”
Startled, the phone slipped out of her grasp, but she scrambled to catch it. The darn thing hit the thick beige carpeted floor. Down on her knees, she grabbed the cell, putting it to her ear.
“Hello.” The buzzing told her she’d lost him. What would he do now? Call her back. She stared at the phone, her shoulders hunched, and the tendons in her neck tightening.
After a few moments, she rose, went to her bed and climbed in pulling the covers around her. She knew she wouldn’t sleep, but she didn’t want to wake her sister or call her brother to talk to him. This was her problem to take care of. She would call the police later this morning and make a report.
Ring. Ring.
Jolene grabbed the phone; she knew it was him again. She’d made him mad by hanging up on him even though it had happened accidentally. Without saying anything, she listened, hoping it wasn’t him.
“Don’t ever do that again.”
The loud click told her he was finally gone. Her hand shook so badly she could hardly reach the oak end table to lay her cell on it. She’d never sleep the rest of the night. She had to figure out who this person could be.
The only person she knew this crazy was Les, but she didn’t know how he could’ve gotten her numbers. She’d never met him before tonight.
Pulling the covers over her head, she burrowed deeper into the bed. She’d always been afraid of the boogie man, and now he was really after her.
At last, we are off! Lord, it is good to have the feel of a ship beneath my feet again. It has been too long!
I have climbed the mast, swinging myself into the air. Twenty feet below, things wheeled and rolled beneath me. I felt my stomach heave. What a glorious feeling!
Father yelled for me to come down before I killed myself. But as usual, I have ignored him. I love these heights. I love the feeling of the boat, rolling side to side with the wind. I love the feeling that I may fall to my death. For how can one ever really enjoy life if you are not always living constantly at its edge? That's the place I most want to be.
Already I am thinking on what we may see this trip. How my heart goes out to all those poor boys left behind in London: farmers who must rise each day to milk the same infernal beast, butchers who spend their days bloody with dead carcasses, blacksmiths who must pound over and over the same shape into their iron. Other than being a prince, there is nothing I would rather be than an explorer. It is a grand life. One never knows what to expect -- white bears with huge fangs, fish as big as my own vessel, savages that cannot speak my tongue. These are the wonders I have seen on my last voyages, and God willing, there will be more this time around.
Before we left today, I was forced to attend church with the rest of the crew and their families at St. Ethelburga's. (Father feels God should be on our side before we leave the harbor, but I would say the crew below me is more godless than God-fearing.) My mother sat near me, expecting as always for me to provide a good long snore in the midst of that blasted priest's long-winded prayers. Truly, the man must take lessons on how to bore a person to death. But today, I did not sink into a stupor. No, today, I spent the hour recalling each and every minute of last night.
This is the first time I can ever remember that I have actually been a little sad on leaving London. I know it is all due to Isabella. I have wooed many a girl before, but never one quite like her. Mostly, I find girls mere distractions, but there is something wonderfully wild about Isabella. And so today, I am praying that she will be waiting for me at the end of this voyage. Who could have ever guessed that I may be longing more for the kiss of a girl than the good company of my mates after those many long months at sea?
Lord, I hope it is a cheerful crew this time around, for a serious lot can make a voyage dreadful dull. Already I have been aboard ship, making mischief. I have hidden a cask or two of ale from the cook. He will roar when he thinks we are short, and give it good to Henry King, who is responsible for loading provisions. Oh, how it will delight me to watch them argue -- with Henry insisting he brought the required number of casks aboard and Cook insisting that he did not. I hope the others will join in the fun when I let them in on the secret.
Below me, I can see Nicholas Syms trying to go about his work. His face seems a bit green -- not used to the seas, from the looks of it. I wonder who he truly is. I have sailed with the crafty Nicholas before, and the man below me is not he. It will be good sport spending this journey on a mission of discovery. His story must be interesting to have to pretend to be another. Of course, Father will never notice. He hardly pays the crew any mind, so intent is he on the voyage itself.
Aha, I can see the spires of Westminster Abbey far in the distance. The shore is rolling away from us quickly, and the smell of salt is strong in the air. The seagulls circle our boat, sending out their insistent cries. The wind is in my face. And I am satisfied by my kiss from Isabella last night. A drink of ale tonight, a good night's sleep in my hammock rocked by the waves, and the look on impostor Nicholas's face when he finds I have sewn all his shirtsleeves and necks together. Lord, what more could a seventeen-year-old boy like me want?
Mr. Barclay expected her to cook a fine feast for his wedding. Her pa wanted her long gone. And all she wanted was the chance to spend what could be her last holiday with her ornery pa.
Men! Ellie Jo broke off a piece of burned crust and stuck a finger into the warm filling, scooping up a bit to taste. She would not think of Reid Barclay beyond the role of her employer. In fact she didn’t want to think at all right now.
She scooped a bit of filling in her mouth like a lad who’d just filched a pie off a windowsill. As soon as the pungent tastes exploded in her mouth she moaned her pleasure.
Past the telltale charring, it was a cross between mincemeat and raisin. Far better than she’d hoped to achieve. Why, if she’d been able to add a meringue to it-and if it hadn’t scorched-this pie would rival one of Grandma Kincaid’s molasses pies.
“You all right?” Reid asked, startling a gasp from her.
How could this man sneak up on her unawares? Not that it mattered. Now that she knew he was an arm's length away her entire body began that unwanted tingling again.
There was no dignified way she could get to her feet, so she remained seated. “Other than smoking out your kitchen and burning dessert, I’m just dandy.”
She poked two fingers into the pie again and stuffed the sticky filling into her mouth. Hopefully her uncouth manners would prompt Reid Barclay to leave her in peace. Or in this case, leave her to wallow in her personal misery.
You’re doing that all wrong,” he said. “Let me show how to make short work of that pie.”
Reid plopped down beside her on the small bench, his boot heels scraping the floor as he extended his long jean-clad legs the same direction as hers. She’d expected his black boots to have fancy stitching, but they were plain and the leather looked supple, thanks to the shine evident of frequent polishing.
Like an exuberant kid, he poked his long fingers into the sticky filling and scooped a large finger-full to his mouth.
Though she was typically quick to instruct others on proper etiquette, she couldn’t seem to get her mind and mouth to work together. Reid Barclay was to blame, for each time he stole another bite his broad shoulder brushed hers and sent energy jolting through her.
Energy of the most titillating kind.
Heavenly days, the fact he was her boss and affianced didn’t penetrate her mind. Neither did the fact that her pa had recently rustled his prize stallion and was holed up right under Reid’s nose, or that Reid would sooner see the old man hang.
Right now as he sat beside her helping himself to another taste of her charred molasses pie, he looked for all the world like a cowpoke. A very tempting cowboy.
Blurb:
When a mate is worth waiting for.
Fane Baron is a Reign warrior—a sanctioned killer charged with hunting down the rogue vampyre cats of the Sovereign Kind. Haunted by memories of stalking his best friend and afraid the same contagious addiction will consume him, Fane makes a drastic decision; he’ll stop taking blood. He knows the consequences of his decision, the problem is, can he live with himself once he meets her…?
Edy Adair is in a predicament of her uncle's making. A few days from her first change to a panther, already dealing with the clawing emotional turmoil of being in heat, she’s headed on a short flight to Arizona with the vampyre cat of her dreams. Only problem, he isn’t the mate chosen for her by her parents. The fact is he killed her cousin!
Excerpt:
Edy Adair’s face lit with excitement as she hurried across the tarmac. This would be her first real estate deal. Uncle Thomas had called at the last minute to say she’d be making the trip alone and it took longer than they both expected to bring her up to speed. She added to that by taking extra time to assure her hair and makeup were perfect.
Her parents were concerned because her twenty-second birthday was the day after tomorrow, an important age for all Kind.
The plight of her people was attributed in part to the prophet Ezekiel and the angel Gabriel who, it was said, created vampyres. She had heard the stories as she grew up about scrolls written by the prophet that would free them from the vampyre curse. Ezekiel wrote this prophecy during his twenty-two years in Babylon. All Kind went through their first change at the age of twenty-two.
In just two days, she’d be panther for the first time and Edy couldn’t wait. Pain would be involved but she was prepared, and her mate would help. Her cat paced inside of her. It knew freedom was near. Soon she’d crave release.
She wasn’t anxious to become a vampyre.
The Elders still searched for the hidden scrolls that they hoped would rid them of their blood-thirsty half. But for now it couldn’t be avoided. It was part of who they were.
What kept her kind strong and gave them long life was blood taken in the way of the vampyre.
This made Edy think about her chosen mate. It would be his blood that sustained her. Her parents liked him and she was okay with their choice. She’d known him most of her life and they were good friends. She just wished he excited her more.
She knew she’d be back in plenty of time for the mating. She already felt the effects of being in heat. The fire that flared up inside of her was compounded by the fact that it settled right between her thighs.
It was an itch she couldn’t scratch.
Edy focused on the two men by the plane. All thoughts of her mate slipped to the back of her mind. Her uncle told her to trust Fane, he’d take good care of her. She knew he was Reign and he would be her pilot for this trip. But her uncle didn’t tell her how damned good looking he was.
She recognized the Kind prince, Nikolaus, so the magnificent creature beside him must be her pilot. Her inner cat started to purr like a motor. Wow, this guy is hot!
Close to six and a half feet tall with hair as black as a moonless sky, he wore it in a braided ponytail that hung down his back. The white shirt, partially open, clung to him in the heat and managed to accentuate a mat of dark hair on his broad chest.
Definitely panther.
The shirt couldn’t mask the muscles bunched beneath it. His leather pants strained against thighs that belonged to an athlete. She wondered how much better he’d look if he didn’t scowl.
Was she that late? She picked up her pace dragging both bags behind her. Edy was glad of the extra time spent on her appearance. She looked damned good in the dress she wore and hoped Fane would notice. Not quite normal business attire, it was one of her favorites. It gave her confidence and made her feel feminine. The discarded outfits littering her bedroom floor were a distant memory.
* * * * *
“Damn, why didn’t Patrik tell me this? A female. Hell, this is going to be a long trip.” Fane’s panther felt his distress and scratched at his insides for release.
“Everyone understood about Sans,” Nikol replied. “He was a transgressor. You did what needed to be done. No one blames you. You need to stop blaming yourself. She’s very young and probably won’t know you. You were bound to run into the family sooner or later. Anyway, an hour in, let her do her thing, and an hour back. I’ll probably see you on the compound tonight.”
The likelihood of his name cropping up around the family dinner table was zero. The subject of transgressors had always been taboo. Even though it could happen to any one of them, the Kind avoided the topic like the plague. It was a weakness none of them wanted to acknowledge.
The time to let it go had long passed. But his fear of transgressing didn’t relinquish its hold on him. He had stopped taking the blood as often as he should to maintain his powers and soon it would be evident.
“Yeah, you’re right.” Fane watched anxiously as Edy approached the plane. She was a knockout and he felt his panther change direction. It no longer prowled. It started to purr and the beast waited as she walked towards him.
When she got closer, he saw that kohl lined her sparkling green eyes and gave her an exotic look. Black as ink hair was worn tousled and short. It surrounded a face of stunning beauty. Her cheeks glowed with that just-made-love flush. Small, rounded breasts looked so right on her tall, slender body. Hips that curved sweetly above the longest legs he’d ever seen. They went on and on.
She exuded sex appeal like an expensive perfume.
Mark found several of the things on Minnie’s list. The eBay auctions had a couple days to go, so he added them to his watch list.
“I heard you have a new boss at the tax place,” Bryce said, tracing the broken edge of his fingernail along the wood grain on the table. “Is she pretty?”
This was it. This was why Bryce was badgering him. Why he thought Mark might need an extra ticket to the race.
Mark made some notes on his list before answering. “Yeah, some uptight career woman from the big city. She spends all day tapping away on her laptop.”
“A woman, huh? Is she hot?” That would be the only thing that concerned Bryce.
Mark sighed. Like Bryce hadn’t known the new manager was a woman. Leslie had been in town less than twenty-four hours. Enough time for Bryce to learn her measurements in Carterville. “She has brown hair she wears all twisted up and I’ve seen more curves in plank of wood. I’m not asking her out.”
“I wasn’t suggesting it.” Bryce shook his head; then he rocked his chair forward and leaned toward Mark. “You could use a date to the race.”
Mark considered elbowing Bryce in the nose. “She wouldn’t be interested. In me or the race. I don’t think her shoes have even touched dirt.”
“How long do you think she’ll last here?”
Mark shook his head. “I think she wants to get back to headquarters as soon as possible. She won’t be in town one minute longer than she’s required to be.”
“If the Ladies know that maybe they’ll leave her alone,” Bryce said.
“I’d be happy if they left me alone,” Mark mumbled, closing the window on the screen and tossing the golf pencil back into the scrap paper basket.
“There’s only one way to make that happen,” Bryce reminded him.
“I’m not dating anyone just for their sake.” Mark stood and pushed his chair in.
“At least you don’t have to worry about them setting you up with your boss. If she’s leaving town, they won’t be interested.”
Mark wasn’t sure anything short of death would dissuade the Ladies, but it did give him hope.
This was a very bad idea, Cassie thought.
She looked at her slightly swollen ankle. She could limp up the hill. “Ah, Evan, you don’t have to carry me anymore....”
Black eyes speared hers, ending any vote of doubt. One last jostle, then he turned, military-style, and marched up the steep slope to the motel. He wasn’t even breathing hard when they arrived at the top.
Amazing.
She was winded from being carried.
“What room?” he asked tersely.
“This is far enough...one-oh-five. It’s in the back.”
For a minute she thought he’d drop her and drag her by the hair, caveman style, he looked so dangerous. When they reached the door he took the key from her hand and cleared the threshold, still trapping her in his arms.
The door slammed shut.
In pitch darkness, Evan placed her in the center of the small loveseat.
Humph. The MRT officer had no need of infrared goggles with his night vision.
The end table light flashed on, momentarily blinding her.
Where’d he go?
Every drape in the room fluttered, as if someone moved in the inky darkness. Then she heard running water.
“Where’s the first-aid kit?” Evan’s voice boomed from the bathroom.
“In my backpack. In the closet. I can handle it from here.”
No way was she going to allow him to continue.
Crash...
What was that sound?
It came from outside.
She stood up, and nearly fell to the carpet from the shock of pain up her leg, but her spine tingled, forcing her to hobble over to the window.
Nothing but cars in the parking lot, but the creepy feeling persisted. The water shut off in the bathroom, so she drew the curtains closed and hopped back to the couch. No need to let Evan know she was slowly loosing her mind thinking she was hearing and seeing things.
Evan came out of the bathroom with one dry towel wrapped around his neck and another folded in his hands, dripping. She balanced gingerly on one foot. He frowned.
Tempted to laugh at his expression, she thought better of it and bit her lip.
“You better let me tend to your ankle,” he said, moving toward her, “otherwise, you won’t be able to stand let alone walk or canoe. Tony will be disappointed.”
Tony...? Disappointed...? Canoeing...?
When did she forget about her plans for tomorrow?
When the superhero picked her up and left her brains on the sidewalk. Good thing she’d sworn off Godiva-eyed blonds. “I can take care—”
A firm tap on her shoulder toppled her back onto the cushions.
“I need to examine your ankle...to make sure it’s not broken.”
Before she could protest, he’d knelt at her feet.
His hands lifted her foot from the floor, removed the blown-out flip-flop and tossed it over his shoulder. His fingers circled her ankle, he looked into her eyes, and squeezed.
“Does it hurt when I do this?”
Hurt? You’re killing me, she wanted to shout.
Besides the bolt of pain, she felt his warm touch all the way up her leg, to her already moist panties.
He waited for her answer.
“No. Not a bit.”
Those hot-poker fingers slid lower.
She squinted anticipating the pain.
Carefully he flexed her foot, all the while watching her face.
She couldn’t hide her wince.
How was she ever going to get out of this one?
The truck seemed to feel its way over the red dirt road. Although he had not returned home in the past twelve years Mike navigated each crook and gully as if he had been here just yesterday. A barbed wire fence still separated the ranch from the road, but when he came to the gate, it was off its hinges, rusting in the tall weeds. The branded wood sign that read Circle Y was swinging by its chain from one end of the frame work that he passed under. He drove slowly over the cattle grid, bumping and swaying.
The bank had never been able to sell the foreclosed land and it had sat, deteriorating slowly. With each gust of wind that blew across it, the dirt shifted, helping the ranch seem more desolate. Tumbleweeds danced, twirled and weaved in the wind, like straw ballerinas who finally sacrificed themselves on the barbed wire.
The house was silhouetted with the moon in back, but still he could see that the windows were boarded up. For a moment, in his mind’s eye, he saw his folks; Dad sitting out on the front stoop, in his rocking chair, corn cob pipe in his hand, and a hound dog or two at his feet. Mom, out in back, in her white linen apron, hanging freshly laundered sheets on the line, and himself as a toddler stumbling and bumbling along chasing horny toads and getting under her feet at every opportunity.
Shaking his head, to clear the memory, he drove forward, picking out the remains of the old barn just down a way. It was barely standing; just a skeleton of planks held together with rusty nails, chicken wire and cobwebs. A few old rusting tractor parts and tools still clung to the work bench and walls, a vice stood open, probably rusted solid. He pulled in and shut off the engine.
Here will be a good place to die. Popping the lid off the aspirins he palmed a handful of little white pills into his mouth and chased them down with a swig of liquor from the whiskey bottle. Tears ran down his face as he stared at the photograph of Caleb and Seth, still in their pajamas, sitting around the Christmas tree a few months ago. My boys, oh my boys. Slowly but surely his eyes closed. He sunk sideways into the passenger seat. The ball cap slipped from his head and the bottle fell from his grasp.
He opened his eyes. If this was hell it smelled an awful lot like vomit. Choking, coughing he sat upright. The spew was dried and stuck to his face and t-shirt. Wet hair was plastered to the side of his head from the cold sweat he had been in all night. Outside the wind continued to howl and light flickered in through the broken slats of the barn. Another day. Still alive. What a failure.
Getting out of the truck he walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. Bending over he picked up the puke covered ball cap, and used the bill to scrape the chunks off the seat. He flung the floor mat into the dirt, followed by the ruined cap. The remaining aspirin rattled around and the whiskey bottle rolled under the seat. They could be left there; a reminder of his botched attempt. After removing as much of the dried vomit as possible he rolled the window down.
He unzipped and peed over behind the tailgate of the truck. His kidneys ached. Climbing back into the cab he turned the engine over, and put the truck into first gear. Edging forward he pulled out of the old ramshackle lean-to barn, and headed back out past the house without even a sideways glance. This place had killed his parents but rejected him. He needed to be on the road. Down the highway was Albuquerque and beyond that Phoenix. It had been a mistake to come back here; too many ghosts and memories. Without a backward glance in the mirror he peeled out off the cattle grid, leaving behind the desolate shadows of the ranch in a cloud of dry dust.
To read an excerpt, visit Kate's website at http://www.catemasters.com/wildernessgirl.html.
Jen: This weekend we welcome Sandra Sookoo to Book Talk. Sandra, will you please share a short bio with us?
Sandra: I’ve been writing since I was a kid. I love to read and loved the fact I could create my own stories and my own worlds and characters whenever I wanted. So far, it’s been an awesome ride and can’t wait for what’s next.
Jen: Tell us about THE HAUNTING OF AMELIA PRITCHART and where it's available.
Sandra: My next book to be released is called THE HAUNTING OF AMELIA PRITCHART. It will be available for purchase on September 30, 2009 with The Wild Rose Press. http://www.thewildrosepress.com
Jen: At what age did you discover writing and when were you first published? Tell us your call story.
Sandra: I started writing at the age of ten, but it wasn’t until I turned 36 that I signed my first contract. It wasn’t for lack of trying. Getting a book published is a very tough thing to do. It’s more than writing a story. There are mechanics and nuisances to learn, etc. I’m at a very good place right now. After being rejected by countless publishers and agents, I finally got my first break with a couple of short novellas: FOODIE’S GUIDE TO KITCHEN MAGIC (available now with Lyrical Press http://www.lyricalpress.com) and the above mentioned THE HAUNTING OF AMELIA PRITCHART.
Jen: Are there any other writers, published or not, in your family?
Sandra: No, I’m the only one crazy one of the bunch—well, crazy with writing, that is.
Jen: Do you have any “must haves” with you while you’re writing?
Sandra: Usually, I need background noise: tv, tunes, whatever. Only if it’s a demanding scene do I need total silence. Definitely have to have a bottle of water nearby.
Jen: What’s the most challenging aspect of writing? Easiest?
Sandra: The most challenging aspect for me is wrapping up the final chapters and being sure my current book is as good or better as the past ones. I’m hoping for better because we all need to improve. Of course, edits are a pesky issue too…The easiest part for me is writing. I love it. I’d rather do that than anything.
Jen: What’s the most rewarding aspect?
Sandra: Getting reader/reviewer feedback (if it’s good!) I love it if people enjoy something I’ve written
Jen: Do you become attached to your characters and have a hard time letting them go, or are you happy that their story is told and you can move on?
Sandra: Sometimes I do get attached, but by the time the end of a book comes up, I’m more than ready to move on. Leave my characters and their baggage in the book LOL
Jen: If you could travel back in time for one year, what time and place would you choose? And if you could only take 3 things with you, what would they be?
Sandra: Turn of the 20th century. Awesome time for America. Three things? Advil, “time of the month” related items, and Dove chocolate. Every time traveling girl’s emergency kit, right? LOL
Jen: Do you do anything special to celebrate a sale, new contract, or release?
Sandra: Not really. When I signed my first, my hubby came home and said “that’s nice” and I still had to cook dinner. It’s generally like that with each new contract. But that’s okay. Bigger things mean bigger celebrations.
Jen: Most people only dream of becoming a published writer. Now that you’ve accomplished that goal, is there anything else you dream of doing?
Sandra: Absolutely! My dream is to attract an interested agent and maybe see one of my books in print. I love the e-book industry because all authors now have a shot to live their dream. For the next 2-3 years, I plan to grow and strengthen my writing, keep telling stories, sub to my publishers, but the long-term goal is to swim with the big players. Everyone needs a dream.
Jen: What's next for you?
Sandra: I’m currently revising an historical novel to re-sub, and gearing up to do edits for a Christmas story for this year. In the meanwhile, I’m always writing. Stay tuned!
Jen: Where can you be found on the web?
Sandra: My website: http://www.sandrasookoo.com and I can be found on Facebook and Goodreads. Feel free to drop by!
Jen: Is there anything you’d like to ask our readers?
Sandra: What would you like to see in a romance?
Jen: Thank you Sandra for stopping by the blog this weekend.
Sandra: I am holding a contest of sorts. It will be at my book launch yahoo group. I'll be available for chatting from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. EST on September 30. Throughout that time I'll be giving away 3 goodie bags from 3 random drawings.
Group address: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/sandrasookoobooklaunchparty Folks will have to join in order to chat and be eligibile for drawings. This group is strictly for my book launches.
Excerpt from the Introduction:
Understanding the maritime threat requires an historical review of criminal and terrorist elements. A closer look at the methodologies of terrorism gives greater insight to the maritime condition as it stands today. Some threats have remained for years; others are practiced daily in far away places, distant from the comfort we call our homeland.
This book will not pretend to provide answers to all of the threats we face – only provide greater magnification for understanding. Prevention comes by recognizing the possibilities and then developing sufficient contingency plans. Circumstances currently exist allowing the possibility of terrorist actions within our borders. Far too often, we allow these opportunities by living in denial, or by yielding too much latitude to groups opposed to responsible societal control.
Click here for more information on Terrorism and the Maritime Transportation System at Amazon.com.
She pressed her back to the door, holding her mouth with one hand to muffle her breathing. Thankfully, no indignant person leapt from the large tester bed. She leaned against the door and listened as the footsteps continued past her door and the earl's rooms. Who could that have been? If it was the captain, why had he not stopped? Putting a hand to her heart to calm herself, Patience peered into the room, her eyes adjusting to the moonlight laced faintly through the window. She slowly and cautiously circled a long chaise-lounge in the darkened room while holding out her left hand to guide herself to the wall which she thought must adjoin the earl's room.
She leaned an ear to the silk damask wall and with her senses tuned for sound, she strained to hear. A moment passed and then another. She held her breath and waited. Nothing. Were the walls too thick for the convenience of eaves-droppers or would-be spies?
If only she had not fallen asleep. She shook her head and sighed, regret as unfamiliar to her as poverty to a king.
Patience straightened up with an idea. Perhaps the captain had not yet arrived for their rendezvous? A puff of wind just then wafted a ribbon of white curtains into the room. The upper housemaid must have forgotten to close the window.
The window. Might she be able to hear something if the earl’s windows remained open? Not willing to give up yet, she hurried across the room. In her haste, she stubbed her toe on a small chest at the end of the bed. A knuckle in her mouth helped to stifle a moan as she rubbed her sore toe while hopping on one foot. Clumsy must be my middle name.
Had anyone heard the noise? After a few uneasy minutes and no one barged into the room, she sat on the chest in relief, her toe still throbbing. All remained quiet, though she did not want to examine exactly how long her luck or the silence would last. Her heart might give out before then. At last when she felt she could move safely, she limped to the window and drew the white drapes aside. Clouds paraded past the moon dulling its white light. The night offered damp possibilities as Patience contemplated her next move.
When she stuck her head out the window, she discovered the earl’s windows still open. Her moment of glee was cut short quicker than wind to a flame. The distance seemed too great to learn anything of value. She perched on the window sill, her nightdress and wrap smoothed underneath her, her toes curling against the cold stone, her chin resting on her hand. Disappointing. It was times like these that Patience Letitia Mandeley had no idea what she was doing. She was not normally the adventurous type, but she had to do something to help Rupert.
“If we had met under different circumstances, you wouldn’t be questioning me if I did things for you.” Ryan wished he had met her under different circumstances. From the moment he saw her in the bank, he wanted to get to know her.
“But we met while you were robbing a bank. And then you helped to kidnap me.”
“You were kidnapped because you couldn’t mind your own business.”
“So you’re saying it was my own fault?”
“Hell! Why couldn’t you have just minded your own business? Why did you have to try to be heroic?” He wasn’t sure if he was angry at her or at himself.
“You seemed like a nice guy and I thought you needed help.”
He laughed and turned to look at her. “But now you know I’m anything but a nice guy.” Ryan walked back to her and sat on the bed next to her. “I bet now you really do wish someone had pulled the trigger when the gun was pointed at my head.”
“I... I don’t wish harm on anyone.”
Damn it, he thought, why couldn’t she just be a vicious bitch? Why couldn’t he find something about her to dislike? “Yeah. You aren’t the type that would want someone hurt. And you don’t deserve any of this that’s happened to you.” He watched her quietly for a moment then he put a finger under her chin and made her look at him. “I really would like to kiss you... for real.” At her frightened look, he quickly added, “I won’t force myself on you. I’m asking for your permission.”
Her look of fear quickly turned to puzzlement and then resignation. “Alright.”
Ryan didn’t hesitate. He wound his fingers in her long brown tresses and pulled her to him gently for a kiss. He was ecstatic when he felt her lips part slightly and he took full advantage. He caressed a shoulder and ran his palm down her arm. Deanna lifted her hands to his shoulders and rested her palms there. It just felt natural. She was surprised by how much she was enjoying the kiss but worried that he might press for more.
Finally he reluctantly broke the kiss. “Your burger is getting cold.” Ryan sounded even more irritated than before. He walked away from her again. She wasn’t the only one confused, he thought. The kiss had been everything he had expected and a whole lot more. He had been hoping he would be disappointed. If only he had met her under different circumstances. If only she could feel something for him besides contempt. “Thank you for the kiss.”
Somewhere in Afghanistan
The Afghan mountains had never been Tech Sergeant Dallas O’Halloran’s favorite part of the world, even before he’d had the bad luck to be on a Chinook shot down by an insurgent RPG not far from here.
But he’d survived that experience and it wasn’t like he got to choose the missions. Nor did he have any control over the torrential rain that was pounding down like bullets, causing rivers to overflow their banks, creating mudslides, and turning the ground he was slogging through into a quagmire.
An Air Force Combat Controller, he was accustomed to operating at the sharpest point of the spear. The CCT motto was “first in, last out,” and since Hollywood didn’t make movies about them, like they did those showboat SEAL frogboys or Delta Force hotshots, very few civilians knew they existed.
Which was just the way Dallas liked it.
Tonight he was on a joint mission to rescue a downed pilot and Aussie photojournalist reportedly being held captive by members of the Taliban.
It had been slow-going as they plodded, stumbled, and crawled across mountains once traveled by Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, and Marco Polo.
The town consisted of maybe fifty mud-brick houses which climbed the hillside, house nearly on top of house. Smoke from woodstoves rose through vents in the roofs and even through the rain Dallas could smell the odor of dung from the goats baa-ing in the distance.
They were met at the perimeter of the town by a barefoot, toothless scarecrow of a man sporting the traditional long beard who claimed that the prisoners were no longer where the intel had placed them.
Dallas and the SEALs exchanged an “it figures” look.
After more conversation, the old guy took a stick and drew a rough map in the mud of where they could supposedly find the prisoners.
“Could be a trap,” one of the SEALs warned.
Apparently sensing their distrust, the man assured them, in broken English, that he was “Not Taliban!”
Which could be true.
Or not.
“Any guy who’d turn traitor against his own people wouldn’t have any compunction about lying to U.S. forces,” Dallas said.
“We’re going to risk it,” the team leader decided.
Unlike his last debacle of a mission in these mountains, the raid went off like clockwork. Armed-to-the-teeth Rangers and Marines, looking intimidating as hell, as if they’d just leaped out of a Rambo flick, didn’t end up firing a shot.
With a lot of shouting, the SEALs kicked open the door of the house, handcuffed the occupants, then clamored down stairs into a mud-floored cellar and found the journalist – whose legs were both broken -- tied to a support post.
After strapping him onto an evacuation board, another contingent located and untied the pilot, who, other than some really ugly bruising, two missing front teeth, a cut over his right eye, and a flight suit that stank as if it had been dragged through goat dung, appeared to be in pretty good shape for someone who’d been held prisoner for three long weeks that must have seemed like years.
“What kept you?” he asked mildly.
The raiding force was on the ground less than twenty minutes.
Intent on getting the former hostages to safety, Dallas lowered the imaginary cone of silence that helped keep him in the zone, effectively shutting out the shouts, wails from the townspeople’s women, curses from their men, along with the ear-blasting rotor noise from the helo he’d called in.
Which was why he never heard the rapid fire click-click-click of a camera shutter.
Two days later Dallas’s rain and mud-streaked face ended up plastered on websites and the front pages of newspapers from Seattle to Singapore. And everywhere in-between, along with the damn rescued journalist’s over-the-top “first-hand” account of the event.
With his cover effectively burned, Dallas O’Halloran’s illustrious ultra-secret Spec-Ops career had just turned to toast.