Read Tame a Wild Bride, a Western Romance Online
Authors: Cynthia Woolf
‘Til death parted them, she was his and his alone.
Certain she’d been lost to him forever, the shock of spotting her again in LoDo, a lower downtown section of Denver, nearly brought him to his knees.
His brain tried to tell him he was mistaken.
She had more curves than he remembered.
Her hairstyle and clothes were different.
The others were different, too.
He shook his head against the monster’s treacherous whisper.
He refused to listen.
Couldn’t listen. This time, when his angel smiled at him, his soul recognized her.
Somehow, some way, his fractious God had been appeased and given him yet another chance.
The past seven days were hell.
Watching her.
Wanting to take her.
Knowing he couldn’t screw up and lose her again.
Tonight, his preparations in place, she’d return to his side where she belonged.
And this time, he wouldn’t let her go.
Breathing slow and measured through the full-face ski mask he’d bought at a thrift store, he sucked in a lungful of musty stench.
In this uncommon late-May heat wave, he was sweating bullets but the wool soaked it up before it could sting his eyes.
The itching would drive him insane, though, if she didn’t come home from work soon.
The LoDo sports bar where she waited tables closed almost an hour ago.
She couldn’t have gone on a date at two o’clock on a Thursday morning, could she?
Three times he’d entered her ground floor apartment after she’d left for work, and he’d seen no sign she was involved with anyone.
No jockey shorts mixed with her panties in the hamper.
No extra razor.
The food in the refrigerator wasn’t enough to feed a cat, let alone her and a boyfriend, and the only scent on her pillows was floral.
The sole message from a male on her answering machine had identified himself as a special research librarian from the Denver Public Library reminding her to pick up the copy of “The Warwick Genealogy” she’d requested.
That doesn’t mean she isn’t still involved with him, the almighty scion of Thorne Enterprises.
She’s probably crawling into his bed like a whore right this minute, letting him do things to her, making her scream….
Screams.
Blood.
Death.
“No!
Stop!
That didn’t happen,” he whispered. “That was a mistake!”
Was it?
The insidious question lashed him from the dark place in his pounding skull.
He rejected the smirking voice, the vivid images.
Think of something else.
Anything else.
Forgetforgetfor—
A car alarm screamed in an outlying parking lot and dragged him out of his fugue.
His eyes cleared.
The pain behind them eased to a level he’d learned to carry over the years.
He took a deep breath to smother his panic.
Soon, he would kill the nightmares forever.
Patrick Thorne would die and the secrets with him.
But the contractor hadn’t been punished enough yet.
Before he finished, he’d ruin Thorne’s reputation, his livelihood, and destroy everything he loved most in the world.
Just as Thorne destroyed our life.
The man must die! Now!
Restless to escape its bonds the monster shifted, but he pushed it back into the shadows and locked it down.
Retribution was almost at hand, but not tonight.
This night was about her.
Where the hell was she?
There!
Her tennis shoes slapped the sidewalk as she approached.
He caught a flash of uniform—shorts and sports shirt, both too tight for decency.
Then she walked out of the weak light that pooled across the commons into the dark well that led to her door.
Her building superintendent had replaced her broken porch light this morning, but he’d smashed it again.
He smiled when she cursed someone named Ronnie.
With a jingle of keys, she passed the niche he’d carved for himself in the shrubs.
A punch of adrenaline surged through him, made him lightheaded with anticipation.
He shook the buzz from his head and crashed out of the bushes with more noise than he intended.
Her head snapped left.
She shot a glance over her shoulder.
Her eyes widened.
She lunged for the safety of her door.
He chased after her, grabbed her by the throat.
A squeeze of her windpipe cut off her scream.
He didn’t want to damage her too much.
He just needed to get her alone.
To atone.
To give him another chance.
With her soft body pressed against him, he groaned with pleasure.
It had been so long!
For a moment he forgot his purpose, lost in the new scent of her, in the innocent softness of her curves against him.
Her breasts were full beneath his forearm.
The sweet curve of her bottom cradled his stiff penis.
With another groan, his grip relaxed.
She screamed.
Struggling, she broke loose of his hold.
Shit!
Reaching out, he snagged her long ponytail and yanked her back hard.
With his other hand, he strangled her next scream into a whimper.
“Do that again,” he grated, “I’ll use my knife.”
The honed blade was secure in his pocket but she didn’t know that.
“I have money,” she croaked.
“Three hundred.
Tips.
In my pocket.
Please!
Don’t—”
“Shh.
Don’t fight me.
Shhh,” he crooned into her hair.
He tugged a chloroform-laced rag from his pants pocket and fitted it over her nose and mouth.
“Just give me another chance, Angel, and everything will be fine.”
This time she’d make the right choice because, God only knew, he’d truly go insane if he had to kill her all over again.
SNEAK PEEK
WHILE YOU WERE DEAD
by
CJ SNYDER
Kat Jannsen didn’t cry the day they buried Maxwell Crayton.
Plenty of others did.
Mourners gathered four and five deep around the long, flag-draped coffin.
Even more had packed the church, but Kat skipped the God part.
She stayed back by a tree, feeling out of place, uninvited, unwelcome and wondering about the flag.
Military?
What other secrets had he kept?
Kat couldn’t say why she’d come.
Except she’d loved him, as she’d never loved another human being in her life.
So much hope about to be buried in that coffin.
So many dreams.
So much despair left behind.
His actual death shouldn’t have made a difference.
He’d been missing for two months before he died.
He’d tossed her away like a used Sunday paper three months before that.
Now Kat shivered in the cold, sleeting rain.
She gave her head a vicious shake, warding off the tears that threatened for the first time in days.
She straightened her shoulders.
You will not cry.
She had no right to attend the family’s service, but she represented someone who did.
Her gaze darted over the ring of mourners.
They were folding the flag.
In just moments she’d know.
They’d give the flag to Miriam, the sister who’d raised him.
Miriam.
Kat’s baby’s one chance at a sane life.
Anguish wrenched her heart.
Sorrow for Max, sorrow for this baby she already loved too much to keep.
Kat fought her tears so she could see the woman who held her future—her child’s very life—in her hands.
The soldier stopped in front of an older woman and Kat frowned.
Miriam was forty-three, fifteen years older than Max.
This woman looked a decade older than that.
Too old?
No.
She couldn’t be too old.
Women had babies in their forties all the time.
Bereavement might make her look older.
An even older man supported Miriam, his arm strong and sturdy around her shoulders.
Five others surrounded them, forming a protective half-circle around the couple.
Two nephews, Max’d said.
Nephews with wives, or at least girlfriends?
Grown nephews?
The woman turned her head in response to something her husband said and Kat caught her breath, nearly undone by the naked pain on the face that so closely resembled Max’s own.
The resemblance was nearly as close as that between her own mother and herself.
So this was Miriam.
So much grief.
She must have loved her brother very much.
But Kat hadn’t expected her to be so old.
She’d pictured a warm, loving younger couple.
For just a moment, she sagged back against the tree.
It’s never easy, Kat.
Max’s words, and before that her mother’s.
Words to live by.
Why would she expect this to be any different?
You don’t have a choice, Kat.
Unless you damn your sweet baby before it even draws a breath.
All true.
No choices, no options, except to entrust her innocent child into the hands of fate.
No.
Better to trust Miriam.
More movement at the graveside.
Mourners began to greet Miriam and her husband.
Time to go.
Kat wouldn’t intrude today.
But soon.
There wasn’t much time.
Available now at Amazon.com:
SNEAK PEEK
GNOME ON THE RANGE
By
JENNIFER ZANE
“I’m not sure which one I want. I didn’t realize there were so many choices!”
The woman wasn’t on the hunt for a new car or juice boxes at the grocery store. Nope. She wanted a dildo. I called her type a Waffler. Someone who contemplated all options before even attempting to make a choice. Because of Miss Waffler, I had ten different dildo models spread out across the counter. Glass, silicone, jelly and battery powered. She needed help.
That’s where I came in. My name is Jane West and I run Goldilocks, the adult store in Bozeman, Montana, my mother-in-law opened back in the seventies. Story goes she named it after the fairytale character when a mother bear and her two cubs walked down Willson right in front of the store the week before it opened. She called it fate. Or it could have been because her name is Goldie, so it made sense. I started working for her when my husband died, a temporary arrangement that helped her out. Three years later, things had turned long-term temporary.