The Bliss Factor

Table of Contents

 

 

 

“A great story, nonstop action, snappy dialogue, witty humor, and chemistry between the hero and heroine that is white-hot. I’m very happy to give
Packing Heat
the highest possible recommendation.”

“This action-filled novel will knock your socks off with intense chemistry and intrigue that holds your attention from the first page. An awesome read!”

“[A] fast-paced thriller . . . Action-packed romantic suspense.”

—
Midwest Book Review

 

 

“Humor and witty repartee are sure signs that you are reading a McCall romance.”

—
Romantic Times
(4 stars)

“This story is a keeper . . . Don’t walk but run to the nearest bookstore and pick up
Ace Is Wild
.”

 

 

“The characters are smart and witty, and the chemistry between them is crackling, making the happy ending well worth the wait. I can hardly wait now for her next book.”

—
BellaOnline

 

 

“An amusing romantic suspense thriller starring a delightful pairing of two souls.”

“A fast-paced bumpy ride with some surprising twists and turns that keep you on the edge of your seat. The chemistry between [Jack and Aubrey] was HOT.”

“A fast-paced story full of suspense and excitement. Sure to get your pulse racing and keep your interest all the way through.”

 

 

“Smart, sexy, and fun, McCall knows how to deliver!”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Suzanne Enoch

“A terrific new voice in romantic suspense: snappy dialogue, nonstop action, and sexy writing.”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Lori Foster

“Penny’s writing is pure fun!”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Ruth Ryan Langan

“Lots of witty dialogue and some laugh-out-loud funny scenes.”

ALL JACKED UP
TAG, YOU’RE IT!
ACE IS WILD
PACKING HEAT
THE BLISS FACTOR

 

 

 

 

DOUBLE THE PLEASURE
(with Lori Foster, Deirdre Martin, and Jacquie D’Alessandro)

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

 

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

THE BLISS FACTOR

 

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / February 2010

Copyright © 2010 by Penny McCusker

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-18487-5

 

BERKLEY
^®
SENSATION Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. BERKLEY
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SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

 

 

“Yeah, c’mon, milady, move yer arse.”

Rae Blissfield gave the loudmouth behind her a baleful look. Not surprisingly he sported full facial hair and Robin Hood tights. Thankfully he had a big enough belly to hide what his tunic didn’t. She stepped forward, handed the buxom wench her admission ticket and walked through the stone entry arch of the Michigan Renaissance festival in Holly Grove, knowing it was going to get worse than grown adults sporting mock homespun and bad British accents. A lot worse.

And boy was she right.

Quasimodo, hump, gimlet eye, rags, and all, handed her a booklet and a map, but she couldn’t go anywhere because she had to wait for the Queen of England, waving regally to her lowly subjects, to parade by. Her Majesty was followed by her ladies-in-waiting, court jesters, bag-pipers, tradespeople with signs hawking their wares, and an assortment of kooks wearing costumes from four different centuries and every socioeconomic group imaginable, including leprous beggars.

It wasn’t all bad, Rae told herself, taking a mental stab at optimism. It was early October, Indian summer, and the sun was shining in a cloudless blue sky. The air was the kind of crisp that followed a week of rain, and although she should have been thrilled to be outside in a wooded grove instead of stranded in an office staring at a computer screen, really she was in hell.

Hell was populated by crowds of tourists gnawing on roasted turkey legs, and otherwise sane artisans wearing medieval dress in a desperate attempt to unload wooden swords and plastic Celtic crosses on consumers caught up in medieval fever. Hell was women who thought it was attractive to have their breasts cinched up to their clavicles, and men who hadn’t thought through all the ramifications of an outfit that included a short tunic and tights.

Rae had on a cream linen suit, the skirt a perfect inch above her knee, and bone-colored pumps with a sensible heel, and she was the one getting the weird looks. But then she’d always felt out of place at these things, even as a kid wearing whatever getup her mother had dredged up out of her imagination—which could have been anything from a fairy costume, complete with gossamer wings, to the rags of a fourteenth-century beggar. The woman could have been a successful costume designer, but instead she chose to live in hell.

As always this thought made Rae roll her eyes and smile indulgently at the same time. Despite her residual childhood resentments she loved her parents. Why else would she take an afternoon off with quarter-end rapidly approaching? Now if she could only figure out where they were.

The place was a maze of food stands, small stages where comedians or dancers performed, and booths with vendors selling everything under the sun. Annie Bliss would be painting faces or braiding flowers into wreaths. Nelson Bliss would be selling the beautiful hand-screened textiles her mother designed and he made. Rae did their taxes every year, and only because she ignored her father’s tirades about the demon government. Amazingly they did all right, very little overhead, traveling around in a camper, more often than not parking in some friend’s yard between shows. It wasn’t right for her, but it suited her parents.

She pulled out Quasimodo’s map and unfolded it, working her way through the place in an efficient, methodical manner, until she came to a crowd that stretched from one side of the wide dirt path to the other. And it was all women. That didn’t pique her interest; she was a goal-oriented kind of girl, and her goal was finding the Blisses and getting back to work. It barely registered that most of the women were in advanced stages of hormonal upheaval, staring slack-jawed, fanning themselves, sighing. One glimpse of sweaty, flexing muscles, and Rae made the fervor unanimous. She was focused, not undersexed.

She lifted onto her toes and managed to spy a carefully banked fire within a shedlike opening, decorated with intricate metalwork pieces and medieval weaponry, and filled with a half-naked man. A tall, bare-chested, rugged-looking man with dark, shoulder-length hair and arresting blue eyes. Of course, it took her a minute to get to the eyes. No sense rushing things, she thought, dropping her gaze to the dirt floor of the shed and working her way up over knee-high boots with homespun britches tucked into them. He wore a leather apron over the britches—disappointingly—but the scenery improved from there. Six-pack abs, pecs the size of dinner plates, and biceps she couldn’t have spanned with both hands. His neck was corded, his face was square-jawed, and then there were his eyes, bright blue and laser sharp against his black hair and tanned skin.

He looked up, their gazes met, and Rae felt it all the way to her toes, where it boomeranged back up and clamored for notice in body parts she ought not to be thinking about. Those body parts would only get her in trouble, and anyway, her feet seemed to be in charge at the moment because she found herself standing between the front of the crowd and a wooden railing with no idea how she’d gotten there except that raw impulse had had something to do with it. She didn’t usually let impulse anywhere near her. But she wasn’t moving. She’d look up her parents, she told herself, just as soon as she found her way out of those impossibly blue eyes.