Try MISTRESS OF THE STORM,
the third in Terri Brisbin’s sensual trilogy, out now!
E
very possible space in the hall of Duntulm Keep was filled. Many of those who owned land in the surrounding areas attended the early autumn feast hosted by Davin to meet the men from Orkney and take their measure. Though invited to sit at table with him, Duncan declined Davin’s invitation, choosing to sit away from the guests so he could observe them. It seemed the fires of hell had left his sense of curiosity intact when they burned away all the rest, so he listened and learned much about the visitors from the north.
Greeted as cousins, they were related to Davin through the marriage of their grandparents or some other ancestor, and the welcome he gave was warm. Foodstuffs and ale were plentiful and everyone ate and drank their fill. Ornolf placed a bowl and cup before Duncan, bothering him every so often so he would eat and drink. The smoke grew thick as the fires burned lower, offering heat but not much light. The torches and rushlights added what they could, but Duncan could see clearly through the dimness and the haze.
It was a strange effect he’d noticed the last few months, and it served him well in his attempts to watch and learn. He was studying the similarities in appearance between Davin and the one called Ragnar when the woman arrived. The room suddenly grew brighter and the chatter lessened as though everyone wanted to see her at once.
Nothing she wore was ostentatious, but the cut of her gown drew every man’s eyes to her body. He could not identify the material of it, but it draped her curves as though painted over her flesh instead of being a garment. Duncan noticed the tightened nipples of her very full breasts as the gown molded to them and the way it fell into the juncture of her thighs. When she turned to sit down, he and every other man noted the way it hugged her arse, flowing into the indentation of the cleft and outlining her strong legs. Watching her move in it, he did not have to imagine what her body was like—he could see it.
He let his gaze wander over her, waiting for her to be seated so he could see her face.
Something he had not felt in months coursed through him in the moment their eyes met. A heat, a need, a wanting made him ache. Her eyes widened as though she knew her effect, but she looked away when someone spoke her name.
Isabel.
Who was she?
What was she?
How could she cause him to feel the blood heating and rushing through his body when he’d thought himself empty of such things? Duncan shifted in his chair and continued to watch as the attention of those gathered began to drift back to the honored guests. But he realized every man eventually turned back to watch Isabel.
She’d gathered and arranged her hair in a way that made her look well bedded. Its black waves accentuated every move she made and framed the creaminess of her skin perfectly. It was her mouth that sent waves of heat through him; her lips were bow-shaped and red as though well kissed. The blush in her cheeks added to the display—one he could tell was orchestrated carefully for its effect. Tearing his gaze from her, Duncan looked at the people she had followed into the feast.
Strange.
The man and younger woman she’d walked behind had taken seats much closer to their host, while she remained farther away. Was she the girl’s maid? Neither of the women resembled the man in any way for he was as light as they were dark in hair and eye coloring. Duncan thought the women might be related based on the frequent glances they shared, cousins probably, though mayhap even sisters.
But, if sisters, why did they so clearly separate themselves at table?
The meal continued and Duncan resumed his perusal, watching her as she ate the food placed before her, and as she spoke to others, seeming to watch every move made by the man with whom she’d entered. It was only when she lifted her chin, gazed up at the ceiling of the chamber and closed her eyes that Duncan realized he’d seen her before. Searching his memory, he finally remembered where and when.
In the early hours just as the sun rose, when unable to sleep, he would walk the battlements of the keep, gazing down at the sea and the village outside the walls. Several times in the last months he’d noticed her leaving the keep just before dawn, and walking to the south beach.
With nothing more than curiosity to keep his attention, Duncan would watch as she took off her clothes and flung herself into the water. Her practice was the same each time he’d watched—dipping twice under the surface of the water and scrubbing her skin as she did. Then she would plunge down and remain in the freezing waters until he thought she’d perished. He remembered several times when he began counting how long she stayed under the water, wondering if she would rise from it at all.
Over the months he’d witnessed her behavior, the changes within him making any tension he felt as he counted out the seconds lessen until he’d watched in complete disinterest, no matter how much he knew he should be concerned.
Watching the way she tilted her head, he was reminded of the way she looked up at the sun as she walked, sometimes struggling, out of the waves. In the earlier times he’d seen her, he’d thought she might be a selkie or water spirit. But, lately, he observed her actions from an emotional and physical distance—until she lowered her head and gazed at him through her lashes.
That heat seared him again, letting him feel things he’d not felt in months. Was she a selkie risen from the sea or some otherworldly creature capable of giving him back all he’d lost? His moments of disinterested watchfulness were over, for his body and his soul knew she was more than she appeared, and his mind knew he must discover her secrets and their link to his own. Standing, his feet moved before he could think on what words to say or what he wanted. All he knew was that he wanted . . . her.
Don’t miss DEAD ALERT by Bianca D’Arc,
coming next month . . .
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
“I
’ve got a special project for you, Sam.” The commander, a former Navy SEAL named Matt Sykes, began talking before Sam was through the door to Matt’s private office. “Sit down and shut the door.”
Sam sat in a wooden chair across the cluttered desk from his commanding officer. Lt. Sam Archer, US Army Green Beret, was currently assigned to a top secret, mixed team of Special Forces soldiers and elite scientists. There were also a few others from different organizations, including one former cop and a CIA black ops guy. It was an extremely specialized group, recruited to work on a classified project of the highest order.
“I understand you’re a pilot.” Matt flipped through a file as he spoke.
“Yes, sir.” Sam could have said more but he didn’t doubt Matt had access to every last bit of Sam’s file, even the top secret parts. He had probably known before even sending for him that Sam could fly anything with wings. Another member of his old unit was a blade pilot who flew all kinds of choppers, but fixed wing aircraft were Sam’s specialty.
“How do you like the idea of going undercover as a charter pilot?”
“Sir?” Sam sat forward in the chair, intrigued.
“The name of a certain charter airline keeps popping up.” Matt put down the file and faced Sam as his gaze hardened. “Too often for my comfort. Ever heard of a company called Praxis Air?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“It’s a small outfit, based out of Wichita—at least that’s where they repair and maintain their aircraft in a company-owned hangar. They have branch offices at most of the major airports and cater mostly to an elite business clientele. They do the odd private cargo flight and who knows what else.
They keep their business very hush-hush
, providing the ultimate in privacy for their corporate clients,
or so their brochure advertises.” Matt pushed a glossy tri-fold across the desk toward Sam.
“Looks pretty slick.”
“That they are,” Matt agreed. “So slick that even John Petit, with his multitude of CIA connections, can’t get a bead on exactly what they’ve been up to of late. I’ve been piecing together bits here and there. Admiral Chester, the traitor, accepted more than a few free flights from them in the past few months, as did Ensign Bartles, who it turns out, was killed in a Praxis Air jet that crashed the night we took down Dr. Rodriguez and his friends. She wasn’t listed on the manifest and only the pilot was claimed by the company, but on a hunch I asked a friend on the National Transportation Safety Board to allow us to do some DNA testing. Sure enough, we found remnants of Beverly Bartles’ DNA at the crash site, though her body had to have been moved sometime prior to the NTSB getting there. The locals were either paid off or preempted. Either option is troubling, to say the least.”
“You think they’re mixed up with our undead friends?” They were still seeking members of the science team that had created the formula that killed and then turned its victims into the walking dead. Nobody had figured out exactly how they were traveling so freely around the country when they were on every watch list possible.
“It’s a very real possibility. Which is why I want to send you in undercover. I don’t need to remind you, time is of the essence. We have a narrow window to stuff this genie back into its bottle. The longer this goes on, the more likely it is the technology will be sold to the highest bidder and then, God help us.”
Sam shivered. The idea of the zombie technology in the hands of a hostile government or psycho terrorists—especially after seeing what he’d seen of these past months—was unthinkable.
“If my going undercover will help end this, I’m your man.” He’d do anything to stop the contagion from killing any more people.
Sam opened the flyer and noted the different kinds of jets the company offered. The majority of the planes looked like Lear 35’s in different configurations. Some were equipped for cargo. Some had all the bells and whistles any corporate executive could wish for and a few were basically miniature luxury liners set up for spoiled celebrities and their friends.
“I’d hoped you’d say that. I’ve arranged a little extra training for you at Flight Safety in Houston. They’ve got Level D flight simulators that have full motion and full visual. They can give you the Type Rating you’ll need on your license to work for Praxis Air legitimately.”
“I’ve been to Flight Safety before. It’s a good outfit.” Sam put the brochure back on Matt’s desk.
“We’ll give you a suitable job history and cover, which you will commit to memory. You’ll also have regular check-ins while in the field, but for the most part you’ll be on your own. I want you to discover who, if any, of their personnel are involved and to what extent.” Matt paused briefly before continuing. “Just to be clear, this isn’t a regular job I’m asking you to do, Sam. It’s not even close to what you signed on for when we were assigned as zombie hunters. I won’t order you to do this. It’s a total immersion mission. Chances are, there will be no immediate backup if you get into trouble. You’ll be completely on your own most of the time.”
“Understood, sir. I’m still up for it. I like a challenge.”
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