“And what do you want in return for all this magnanimous behavior?”
-201-
Shelley Bradley
He cupped her cheek and delved into her gaze. “To love you. For you to love me back. The rest, we’ll plan together. Think you can handle that?”
A long, sigh-filled kiss later, she murmured, “I do.”
-202-
Shelley Bradley
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What would you do?
Trophy Girl
© 2006 Melani Blazer
You're a NASCAR fan...pretty into it, thanks to your dad. You know a lot about the drivers, the tracks, the cars. Even though you try not to, you hear the rumors and see the off-track interviews. You know the reputation of the series champ, bad-boy Zander Torris. You know he's devastatingly good looking, and charming to boot, but with a different piece of voluptuous, blonde eye candy on his arm every weekend, you have zilch respect for him.
The only good thing you see in him is that he's a very generous benefactor for the camp where you're a nurse volunteer.
So when he walks into your clinic, unannounced and unexpected, and asks you—girl-next-door, unglamorous you—to that evening's benefactor’s dinner, what do you do?
Hint, he's not taking no for an answer, so be ready at 6…
Enjoy the following excerpt for Trophy Girl:
Zander's hand rested on the curve of her lower back, making it very difficult to continue fighting against his insistent control of the situation.
The heat from his hand flowed through her, heating her skin, boiling her blood. He looked way too delicious in that dark suit. He'd shaved as well,
a citrusy waft of his aftershave teasing her nostrils, making each of her senses beg for their own samples of this much too virile male.
Why couldn't he be a regular guy? Then she could enjoy, even anticipate building on the attraction she felt. But no, he had to be an untouchable. Someone she could lust after from here ‘til doomsday and never have. Not for real anyway.
As it was, nobody was going to believe he not only asked her to be his date, but he'd taken her shopping for clothes. Sexy clothes. What the heck did that mean anyway? And how could she not respond? She wasn't dead, after all. Still, a small part of her was grounded enough to know that regardless of his final purpose, he needed for her to look good on his arm.
Ah hell. He was right. She hadn't had a man buy her clothes like this before.
The scent of vanilla greeted her as she stepped through the doorway.
Her pump clad feet sunk into the plush cocoa-colored carpet. An immaculately dressed woman rushed up to them, smiling. Yeah, she recognized Zander. That had to be it. Either that or she simply read money in his tailored jacket and charcoal, brushed-silk shirt with same color tie. He could dress, there was no doubt about that. He wore success well.
After the woman had thoroughly ogled him, then made eye contact, attention was turned to Molly. She was simply going to go along with this, unless, of course, he intended to put her in something sleazy.
"Black, yes?"
Molly shrugged and looked up at Zander. He nodded and gave her one of those looks that made her feel like she'd already removed all her clothing. She shivered as his hand brushed her arm, but followed the saleswoman down to the dressing room with careful steps.
The fitting room was the size of a master bathroom, complete with mirrors on two walls, wall hangers for her own clothes and marble counter for her purse. Amazing.
"Mr. Torris has already suggested this for you." Molly followed the woman's long pink fingernail to the very elegant dress hanging on the far wall. Draped on the counter were silk stockings, panties and just below it, a pair of strappy heels. Had he thought of everything?
"He wasn't sure of your size," she said and smiled, her eyes twinkling.
"I think he was pretty accurate describing. But if something doesn't fit, let me know."
"I will."
Okay, she was excited. Hard not to be when being treated like royalty. She slipped into the stockings and dress, sighing as the silk whispered against her bare flesh. Her nipples puckered as the material cupped her breasts, draping elegantly over them. She smoothed the narrow straps over her shoulders, then let her fingers trace down the sides of her curves and rest on her hips as she surveyed her appearance in the mirror. She should have trusted him.
The skirt was layered; the hem uneven. It reminded her immediately of the sketches of faeries in the children's books she kept in her office. It hugged her waist, lying smooth over her stomach. She even adored the neckline, an elegant draping of material that made it sexy, but without showing even a hint of cleavage. One couldn't find dresses like this in regular department stores, that was for sure. The straps in the back crisscrossed. Shame she'd left her hair down so she couldn’t show off the elegant string of black beads that lay draped along her shoulder blades.
"Molly?" Zander called through the door. "What do you think?"
She twirled around, half in wonder, half in disbelief. "Oh my God, this dress is gorgeous."
Without preempt, Zander opened the door and joined her in the room. Suddenly, it didn’t seem so big. She sucked in her breath, wondering if she'd ever get used to how powerful his presence was. His eyes roamed over her, the color darkening even as his mouth spread into a satisfied smile. He looked like the cat who had the canary trapped, and was about to have lunch.
"You're not supposed to be in here!" she cried, backing up and checking to make sure the dress covered everything it needed to. Her bra lay on the floor between them where she'd dropped it in her haste. She hated the heat in her cheeks as his eyes lazily roamed over her, then her discarded clothes, then back to her again.
She may have known who Zander Torris was for damn near a decade, but she'd only met him today. It was far too soon to be sharing this moment—one bordering on intimacy—in a fitting room, no less. Yet she couldn’t deny it. Her nipples had pebbled beneath the soft material the moment his gaze had rested there. Anticipation spun in her stomach, and lower. Never had she felt turned on from a man simply looking at her—fully dressed, at that. Her heart pounded, worried he could see her arousal through her clothes.
"We don’t want to be late," she said, or rather, choked out. What was wrong with her body? Around him it seemed to behave so uncharacteristically.
"I'm not sure I want you wearing that dress." Voice low, matter-of-fact, and sexy as hell. Despite the meaning of the words, her body responded as if was an invitation to strip.
Molly had to pry her eyes from the way the shoulders of his shirt strained when he crossed his arms over his chest. He'd removed his jacket. Yowza.
Concentrate, Molly, look him in the eye. You're eye candy,
not dessert. He's told you as much.
"Wh-why?"
"'Cause it'd be dangerous."
Lord, she knew it was a trap, knew he said it as pure flattery but damn it, it worked. The wicked half smile on his face, the gleam in his eye. He should have been an actor instead of a driver, the man was amazing. "Well, thanks. So, Mr. Hot Shot, what will it be, the dress or my suit. Frankly, I don't care." She shifted her weight, and set about picking up her clothes, hoping to personify the confidence she lacked.
"The dress. What panties are you wearing?"
Her hands instinctively slapped onto her thighs, holding the skirt down. "None of your goddamn business." The tingling in her body pooled between her legs, making her well aware of the silk pressure of the thong's material against her most intimate parts.
Sexy, rich, who cares, he didn't need to know anything about her panties…or lack of. She repeated that to herself at least three times as he studied her.
"Well, I thought I had them pick up a garter and thong, but you're not wearing a thong with that. I'll be right back."
He stepped out, shutting the door behind him with a gentle click.
Words she usually saved for stubbed toes or drivers who cut her off tumbled from her mouth. What had been so wrong with her own black French cut bikinis? Seriously. She was slipping out of the thong—which he'd undoubtedly have to pay for just because she'd tried it on—and was just reaching for her own undies when he came in again.
"Here, I like these better."
These
were low-cut, satin boy briefs with a nearly sheer lace front. He held them like he handled women's panties all day. Hell, he probably had enough experience. Good reminder, she decided as she snatched the scrap of fabric from him and nodded toward the door. "Just because you're buying doesn't mean you get to see them."
He turned around.
Her heart thundered in her chest. She clamped her thighs together, amazed her body found his presence in the room while she was naked under that skirt all the more arousing. "Out."
"Just slip them up under your skirt."
"Don't you dare move or I'll scream rape." She was really more afraid of screaming in other ways, because if he moved, it meant only one thing.
Her body shuddered as she imagined him pinning her against the wall, shoving her skirt up and burying his face in her pussy. She bit her lip to keep from gasping. Her legs felt like putty. Oh, God, how was she going to survive the night?
Alex Rossi leads a double life, and it may cost Grace Nolan her son.
72 Hours
© 2006 Shannon Stacey
The Devlin Group: A privately-owned rogue agency unhindered by red
tape and jurisdiction.
Grace Nolan walked away from the Devlin Group carrying Alex Rossi's child in her womb and his bullet in her shoulder. But a ghost from the past has kidnapped her son, Danny. The ransom—Alex Rossi.
To get her son back, Grace will have to step back into the life she'd left behind and reveal her secret to Alex.
With vengeance for his mother's murder nearly at hand and a deadly substance on the loose, the last thing Alex Rossi needs is to find himself at the business end of Grace's gun. Now the clock is ticking as they race to save a child and stop a madman bent on destruction.
But Alex has a secret of his own, and it may be the ultimate betrayal.
Enjoy the following excerpt for 72 Hours:
Something’s burning
. The thought hit Grace Nolan a mere second before the alarm shrieked.
“Hold on!” She ripped off her headset, then pounded down the stairs.
Dammit, this couldn’t happen again. She’d worked so hard to make sure it wouldn’t.
The room was quickly filling with smoke, and Grace grabbed a potholder. She yanked open the oven door and took out the smoking
cookie sheet. With a curse, she dropped it into the sink and turned on the tap.
The pan popped and warped as the chocolate chip briquettes slid into a black, soggy mess in the sink.
“Crap!” she yelled at the smoke detector, flapping a towel under it to clear the smoke.
She could disable any security system known to man, and sell the CIA its damn own secrets, for chrissake. Why the hell couldn’t she bake a decent batch of cookies? A boy should come home from a long day in second grade to something warm and homemade with love.
When the alarm had chirped its last chirp, Grace rummaged through the cabinet for the Chewy Chips Ahoy. After tossing a few on a plate, she shoved the package back behind the bran flakes and glanced at her watch. Just enough time to wrap things up with Carmen before she poured Danny’s milk.
“Forget to set the timer again?” Carmen Olivera asked after Grace retrieved the headset.
She nodded, then shrugged at the Latin beauty in the high-definition video screen. “I think I forgot the vanilla, anyway. Do they taste the same without the vanilla?
“Do I look like Betty Crocker? You need to get out more,
chica
.”
If only she could. “Who’d have thought motherhood’s harder than infiltrating Russian military installations?”
“Honey, I
know
it is. Why do you think I run so fast from men?”
“Because they usually have badges from some alphabet agency or another, and want to see you in an orange jumpsuit?”
“That too. You should come back to us, babe. Can you believe Gallagher and I are staying at the freaking Plaza Royale?”
“I’ve been to the Plaza Royale. And I quit the agency eight years ago, Carm. When are you going to believe me when I tell you I’m not coming back?”
“Never. You know the Devlin Group—we
never
give up.”
“Yeah, like Mounties, only a little more juvenile, and a lot more delinquent. And speaking of delinquents, how’s Gallagher doing lately?”
Carmen rolled her eyes. “Not too happy about being the hired muscle, but Dev didn’t have anybody else available. Pretty good money just to hang around and make sure nobody kills me, if you ask me.”
“Damn straight,” Grace agreed. Sean Devlin had founded a very lucrative business brokering assignments for the loose network of international freelancers specializing in just about anything. His primary focus was assisting government agencies whose hands were tied by red tape, but he certainly didn’t do it for free.
“Like hanging out pool side’s such a hardship for him,” Carmen was saying. “You’d think he’s on vacation for all the attention he’s paying me.”
“Based on some of his previous jobs, I’d say this is pretty close to vacation for him.”
“Knowing my luck he’ll try to cut the power to the camera bank and set off the fire alarm instead.”
“What’s the job?” Grace asked, knowing Carmen would tell her if she could, shrug it off if she couldn’t.
“Some pencil pusher from a biochem company got it into his head to sell a sample of a new biotoxin to the highest bidder.”
“Wow! I hope you brought good gloves.”
Carmen pulled her sable mass of hair into a sleek ponytail. “A very unsexy, but surprisingly flexible hazmat suit, actually. It makes blending