Simply Irresistible
Chapter 1
“I chose the path less traveled, but only because I was lost. Carry a map.” Phoebe Traeger
Maddie drove the narrow, curvy highway with her past still nipping at her heels after fourteen hundred miles. Not even her dependable Honda had been able to outrun her demons.
Or her own failings.
Good thing then that she was done with failing. Please, be done with failing, she thought.
“Come on, listeners,” the disk jockey said jovially on the radio. “Call in with your Christmas hopes and dreams. We’ll be picking a random winner and making a wish come true.”
“You’re kidding me.” Maddie briefly took her eyes off the mountainous road and flicked a glance at the dash. “It’s one day after Thanksgiving. It’s not time for Christmas.”
“Any wish,” the DJ said. “Name it, and it could be yours.”
As if. But she let out a breath and tried for whimsy. Once upon a time, she’d been good at such things. “Fine. I’ll wish for …” What? That she could’ve had a do-over with her mother before Phoebe Traeger had gone to the ultimate Grateful Dead concert in the sky? That Maddie had dumped her ex before he’d dumped her? That her boss — may he choke on his leftover turkey — had waited until after year-end bonuses to fire her?
“The lines are lit up,” the DJ announced. “Best of luck to all of you out there waiting.”
Hey, maybe that’s what she’d wish for — luck. She’d wish for better luck than she’d had: with family, with a job, with men—
Well, maybe not men. Men, she was giving up entirely. Pausing from that thought, she squinted through the fog to read the first road sign she’d seen in awhile.
Welcome to Lucky Harbor!
Home to 2,100 lucky people
And 10,100 shellfish.
About time. Exercising muscles she hadn’t utilized in too long, she smiled, and in celebration of arriving at her designated destination, she dug into the bag of salt and vinegar potato chips at her side. Chips cured just about everything, from the I-lost-my-job blues to the my-boyfriend-was-a-jerk regrets to the tentatively hopeful celebration of a new beginning.
“A new beginning done right,” she said out loud, because everyone knew that saying it out loud made it true. “You hear that, Karma?” She glanced upward through her slightly leaky sunroof into a dark sky, storm clouds tumbling together like a dryer of gray wool blankets. “This time, I’m going to be strong.” Like Katharine Hepburn. Like Ingrid Bergman. “So go torture someone else and leave me alone.”
A bolt of lightning blinded her, followed by a boom of thunder that nearly had her jerking out of her skin. “Okay, so I meant pretty please leave me alone.”
The highway in front of her wound its way alongside a cliff on her right. Far below the road on her left, the Pacific Ocean pitched and rolled, fog lingering in long, silvery fingers on the frothy water.
Gorgeous, all of it, but what registered more than anything was the silence. No horns blaring while jockeying for position in the clogged fast lane, no tension-filled offices where producers and directors shouted at each other. No ex-boyfriends who yelled to release steam. Or worse.
No anger at all, in fact.
Just the sound of the radio and her own breathing. Delicious, glorious silence.
As unbelievable as it seemed, she’d never driven through the mountains before. She was only here now because, shockingly, her mother’s will had listed property in Washington State. More shockingly, Maddie had been left one third of that property, a place called Lucky Harbor Resort.
Raised by her set-designer dad in Los Angeles, Maddie hadn’t seen her mother but a handful of times since he’d taken custody of her at age five, so the will had been a huge surprise. Her dad had been just as shocked as she, and so had her two half-sisters, Tara and Chloe. Since there hadn’t been a memorial service — Phoebe had specifically not wanted one — the three sisters had agreed to meet at the resort.
It would be the first time they’d seen each other in five years.
Defying probability, the road narrowed yet again. Maddie steered into the sharp left curve, and then immediately whipped the wheel the other way for the unexpected right. A sign warned her to keep a look out for river otters, osprey – what the heck were osprey? – and bald eagles. Autumn had come extremely late this year for the entire west coast, and the fallen leaves were strewn across the roads like gold coins. It was beautiful and taking it all in might have caused her to slide a little bit into the next hairpin, where she– oh crap—
Barely missed a guy on a motorcycle.
“Oh my God.” Heart in her throat, she craned her neck, watching as the bike ran off the road and skidded to a stop. With a horrified grimace, she started to drive past, then hesitated.
Hurrying past a cringe-worthy moment, hoping to avoid a scene, was the old Maddie. “Dammit.” The new Maddie stopped the car, though she did allow herself a beat to draw a quick, shuddery breath. What was she supposed to say — Sorry I almost killed you, here’s my license, insurance and last twenty-seven dollars? No, that was too pathetic. Motorcycles are death machines, you idiot, you nearly got yourself killed! Hmm, probably a tad too defensive. Which meant that a simple, heartfelt apology would have to do.
Bolstering her courage, she got out of the car clutching her Blackberry, ready to call 9-1-1 if it got ugly. Shivering in the unexpectedly damp ocean air, she moved toward him, her arms wrapped around herself as she faced the music.
Please don’t be a raging asshole …
He was still straddling the motorcycle, one long leg stretched out, balancing on a battered work boot, and if he was pissed, she couldn’t tell yet past his reflective sunglasses. He was leanly muscled and broad shouldered and his jeans and leather jacket were made for a hard body just like his. It was a safe bet that he hadn’t just inhaled an entire bag of salt and vinegar chips. “Are you okay?” she asked, annoyed that she sounded breathless and nervous.
Pulling off his helmet, he revealed wavy, dark brown hair and a day’s worth of stubble on a strong jaw. “I’m good. You?” His voice was low and calm, his hair whipping around in the wind.
Irritated, most definitely. But not pissed.
Relieved, she dragged in some air. “I’m fine, but I’m not the one who nearly got run off the road by the crazy L.A. driver. I’m sorry, I was driving too fast.”
“You probably shouldn’t admit that.”
True. But she was thrown by his gravelly voice, by the fact that he was big, and for all she knew, bad to boot, and that she was alone with him on a deserted, foggy highway.
It had all the makings of a horror flick.
“Are you lost?” he asked.
Was she? Probably she was a little lost mentally, and quite possibly emotionally as well. Not that she’d admit either. “I’m heading to Lucky Harbor Resort.”
He pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head, and be still her heart, he had eyes the exact color of the caramel in the candy bar she’d consumed for lunch. “Lucky Harbor Resort,” he repeated.
“Yes.” But before she could ask why he was baffled about that, his gaze dipped down, and he took in her favorite long-sleeved tee. Reaching out, he picked something off her sleeve.
Half a chip.
He took another off her collarbone, and she broke out in goose bumps — and not the scared kind.
“Plain?”
“Salt and vinegar,” she said, and shook off the crumbs. She’d muster up some mortification — but she’d used up her entire quota when she’d nearly flattened him like a pancake. Not that she cared what he — or any man, for that matter — thought. Because she’d given up men.
Even tall, built, really good-looking, tousled-haired guys with gravely voices and piercing eyes.
Especially them.
What she needed now was an exit plan. So she put her phone to her ear, pretending it was vibrating. “Hello,” she said to no one. “Yes, I’ll be right there.” She smiled, like look at me, so busy, I really have to go, and turning away, she lifted a hand in a wave, still talking into the phone to avoid an awkward good-bye, except–
Her phone rang. And not the pretend kind. Risking a peek at Hot Biker Guy over her shoulder, she found him brows up, looking amused.
“I think you have a real call,” he said, something new in his voice. Possibly more humor, but most likely sheer disbelief that he’d nearly been killed by a socially handicapped LA chick.
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The Heat Is On
Chapter 1
“Oh, yeah baby, that’s good,” she whispered. So good that she wanted more. She couldn’t help herself, she’d never been known for having much self control.
Not when it came to chocolate. Isabella Manchelli loved desserts, all of them.
Especially hers.
Which is why she was talking to them. Licking the last of it off her spoon, Bella then tossed the spoon into the sink, nodding in satisfaction and pride at the tray of little chocolate Genoese sponge squares she’d created. She wasn’t sure of much, but she felt quite positive that the little cakes were her personal best to date. She went to work making up a second batch, knowing her boss Willow, owner of Edible Bliss Cakes And Pastries, would be clamoring for more for her customers as the day progressed.
And the day had a lot of progressing to do. By the very nature of her job, she was routinely up before dawn baking and today had been no exception. At just the thought, she yawned.
That’s what you get for staying up way too late last night …
Having her absolute last one night stand.
Her last, because as much as she enjoyed the occasional social orgasm, she never got as much pleasure out of the morning after. The slipping out of bed, hunting down her clothes from the night before, carrying her sandals so as not to wake him up …
No, none of that ever felt good as good as the night before.
Even if this time, her first in a damn long time now that she thought about it, the night before had been so admittedly terrific that she suspected she was still wearing a grin advertising just how terrific . . .
She angled her stainless steel mixer so that she could use the frame as a mirror and turned her head right and then left, inspecting herself.
Yep.
Ridiculous grin still in place.
She couldn’t help it. Mr. Tall, Dark and Drop-dead Sexy had really had it going on. She’d met him through the local rec center’s Singles Club, which Willow had somehow talked her into. This week had been Eight Dates In Eight Nights. Tall, Dark and Drop-dead Sexy had been her eighth date, and the only one she’d let so much as kiss her.
The kiss had been shockingly … wow. Which had led to one thing or another, and some more wow, along with a good dash of yowza, and then … the whole morning after thing.
He’d caught her in mid tip-toe and off kilter, she’d decided to go with her standard protocol for such situations.
She’d told him she was moving to Siberia, and then she’d left.
No feelings hurt, no strings. Just the way she liked it.
So why she suddenly felt a little hollow, a little discontented, she had no idea.
Probably it was all the chocolate on an empty stomach. But possibly not. Possibly, the impossible had happened, and her mother’s mantra – its time to settle down, Bella – was right.
And how disconcerting a thought was that.
Bella didn’t settle well. After growing up one of many in a huge family, she’d taken off soon as she’d been able, loving the silence of being alone. Loving the adventure, the lack of the necessity of planning ahead. It’d been bliss. She still felt that way, still preferred to roam the planet, touching down here and there as it suited her, never staying in one spot too long.
Except this time.
This time she’d landed in Santa Rey, California, the latest stop on the Bella’s Train Of Travels, and she loved the small beach town. Loved the job she’d taken on as a pastry chef at Edible Bliss, in the heart of a most adorable little downtown, only one block from the beach.
She’d been here working for a month now, and things were good. She had a roof over her head, she had pastries to make, and best yet she’d gotten that orgasm last night.
Make that multiple orgasms …
She took a moment for a dreamy sigh. It really was a shame that she’d forced herself out of Tall, Dark and Drop-dead Sexy’s bed after such a fantastic night, because he’d been both sharp and fun, her two top requirements in a man.
He’d also been focused and quietly controlled in a way that suggested cop or military, making her want to break the rules of the Eight Dates in Eight Nights contract and ask him what he did for a living. But they’d been forbidden from discussing their vocation, age, or place of residence until a second date, if a second date came to be.
He’d been the only one to spark her interest. He’d certainly been the one and only to get her to a bed, and in fact, if things had been different, he might even have had a shot at being that reclusive keeper she’d been secretly aching for.
But for her, a keeper was a dream, not a possibility.
With a sigh, she moved through the front room of Edible Bliss, straightening tables and chairs, making sure everything was perfect before she opened them up for business.
She was opening the shades on the windows when she thought she heard a scrapping from the kitchen’s back door. She headed that way, thinking maybe it was Willow a little early. But today was Tuesday, and on Tuesdays Willow took a drawing class at the city college. It was male model day. Nude male model day.
Willow’s favorite.
It wouldn’t be Willow then, no way.
Maybe it was Trevor, the rangy, sun-kissed cutie who worked part-time bussing tables and serving customers when he wasn’t sailing on his house – a thirty-two foot Morgan sailboat.
Walking through the kitchen, Bella peeked out the window in the back door – no one.
So now she was hearing things. Seems that’s what sleep deprivation did to a person. Good to know. Maybe next time she was faced with the prospect of some seriously fantastic sex, she’d say “no, sorry, I can’t, it appears wild monkey sex causes auditory hallucinations in me.”
Shaking her head at herself, she checked the Cannoli batch she had in the oven, waving the heat blast from her face. Needing air, she went to crack open the back door, but it caught on something. She pushed, then squeezed through the space onto the back stoop to take a look, and tripped over—
Oh, God.
A body.
It was a guy, in jeans and a t-shirt, a small bouquet of wild flowers clutched in his fist.
Heart stuck in her throat, she dropped to a crouch and put a hand on his shoulder. “Hello?” There was an odd stillness to him she didn’t want to face. “Are you okay?” Beneath her fingers, he felt warm, but she couldn’t find a pulse. Panic caught her by the throat, choking off her air supply, as did the sight of the blood pooling beneath the man. “Not okay,” she murmured, horror gathering in a greasy ball in her gut – which did not mix well with all the chocolate already there.
She closed her eyes on a wave of dizziness, doing her best not to throw up her previously excellent sponges squares. “Hang on, I’ll call 9-1-1.”
But even as she hit the buttons on her cell phone, even as she stumbled back and stuttered her name and address for the dispatcher, she knew.
The man on her back stoop was beyond needing help.
After being assured by the dispatcher that an ambulance was on its way, Bella practiced the breathing techniques she’d been learning in yoga.
Not helping.
She went to visualization next, trying to imagine herself on the beach, with the calm waves hitting the shore, the light breeze brushing her skin … She had a lot of beaches to chose from, but she went with the beach right cross the street because there was just something about Santa Rey’s long stretch of white sand, where the salt water ‘whooshed” sea foam in on the gently sloping shores, and then “whished” it back out again. She swallowed hard, telling herself how much she loved the contemplative coves, the bluff top trails, the dynamic tide pools, all off the beaten path. Here she was both hidden from the world, and yet doing as she loved. Here, unlike anywhere else in her travels, she felt as if she’d come home.
Better.
But then she opened her eyes and yep, there was still the dead guy on the concrete at her feet.
At least he hadn’t gone belly up in the kitchen, she told herself, taking big gulps of air. The Occupational Safety And Health Administration probably frowned on dead guys in an industrial kitchen.
Oh, God.
Legs weak, she sank to the ground, feeling weird about being so close, but also like she didn’t want to leave him alone. No one should die alone. She set her back to the wall, and brought her knees up to her chest to drop her head on them. She was a practical, pragmatic woman, she assured herself. She could survive this, she’d survived worse.
She could hear the sirens now, coming closer. Good. That was good. Then footsteps sounded from the front of the shop, heavy and steady.
The cavalry.
Paramedics first, two of them, tall and sure, dropping to a crouch near the body. One of them reached out and checked the man beside her for a pulse, then shook his head at the other.
Behind the paramedics came a steady parade of other uniforms, filling the small pastry kitchen, making Bella dizzy with it all.
Or dizzier.
She answered questions numbly and eventually someone pushed a cup of water in her hands. One of Willow’s pretty teacups.
She answered more questions. No, she hadn’t heard any gunshots. No she hadn’t recognized the victim, but then again, she had yet to see his face. No, she hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary, other than a noise that she’d barely even registered much less investigated …
God.
How could she have not have actually opened the door when she’d heard that odd scraping sound?
After the endless questions, she was finally left alone in the kitchen, by herself in the sea of controlled chaos. She backed to the far wall, attempting to be as unobtrusive as possible. She really wished the wall would just swallow her whole. Her legs were still wobbling, so she sank down the wall to sit on the floor, mind wandering.
She wished she’d never gotten out of her bed.
Correction; Tall, Dark and Drop-dead Sexy’s bed.
If she’d only broken her own protocol and stayed with him, then she wouldn’t be here now. And she might have, if she hadn’t been so surprised at how badly she hadn’t wanted to leave his bed.
That didn’t happen often – hell, who was she kidding, sex didn’t happen for her that often — and certainly not during Eight Dates In Eight Days. She cursed Willow for talking her into doing it, but what was done, was done. Besides, it wasn’t like she’d been finding her own dates since she’d pulled up anchor in Santa Rey.
Date one had felt like a Sex And The City episode. Her date, a guy named Bo. A nice enough guy, and at the end of the evening, when he’d leaned in, she’d kissed his cheek.
Bo had taken the gentle rebuff with good humor. “Too fast?”
Relieved that he understood, she’d hugged him. “Yeah. Sorry.”
His smile had never wavered. “No worries. It’s probably because you’re going to pick up and leave again soon, right?”
He said the last as a question, and she nodded. Leaving was what she did. “It’s nothing personal. I just try not to get too attached.”
“Hey, I get it. You don’t want to leave any broken hearts in the midst. Although if it was my heart, I’d just pick up and go with you.”
That had made her laugh. “You’re not the wanderlust type, Bo. You like your routine, and your luxuries.”
“You never know,” he’d said. “I just might wear you down.”
Dates two through seven had been pleasant but nothing to write home about.
But date eight? Holy smokes. Date eight had been Tall, Dark and Drop-dead Sexy, and he’d blown all the other dates not only out of the water, but out of her head as well.
Jacob.
She knew him only as Jacob, since last names hadn’t been given. They’d agreed to meet at a new adventure facility on the outskirts of the county. He’d been there waiting for her, leaning against the building, tall and leanly muscled, dark wavy hair that curled at his nape. Assessing brown eyes that reminded her of warm, melted chocolate when he smiled, which he’d done at first sight of her.
Flattering, since though she was five foot seven and curvy, she knew she was merely average in looks. Average brown hair that was wavy and utterly uncontrollable. Average eyes. Average face …
In comparison, Jacob had been anything but average, oozing testosterone and sex appeal in a t-shirt and board shorts that emphasized his fit, hard body. Sin on a stick, that’s how he’d looked.
For the next two hours they’d bungee jumped, jungle canopied, and jet-skied, none of which were conducive to talking and opening up, but she hadn’t cared.
They’d flirted, they’d laughed, and she’d been in desperate need of both, even knowing he would be nothing but trouble to her heart. She’d had a blast, and afterwards, her car had sputtered funny in the lot.
Jacob had said she had a bad spark plug and that he was a car junkie and had extras at his place. If she wanted, he could either follow her home to make sure she got there okay, and then return in the morning to fix her car, or she could follow him home and he’d fix it now.
She’d looked at him for a long moment, ultimately deciding that no guy who looked as good in that ridiculous bungee protective gear as he had — and he had looked GOOD — could be a bad guy.
Naďve? Not really. Just damn lonely. Besides, she assured herself, she knew just enough self defense moves to feel comfortable. She could always knock his nuts into next week if she had to.
And then there was something else, the biggee — he was different. He had that air of undeniable control, that raw male power radiating from him that made her feel safe in his presence. Safe from harm, but not necessarily safe from losing her mind over him. She might not know his last name or what he did for a living, but she knew she wanted him.
So she’d followed him home.
She’d called her own number and left a message. “If anything has happened to me, check with Jacob, sexy hunk, and mystery date number eight.”
But nothing had happened to her that she hadn’t initiated.
He’d changed her spark plug. And there on his porch, she’d given him what she’d intended as a simple goodnight peck.
He’d returned it.
Then they’d both gone still for one beat, their eyes locked in surprise. And then the next thing she’d known, she’d been trying to climb up his perfect body.
And she meant perfect, from the very tips of his dark, silky hair all the way down to his toes and every single spot in between. Just thinking about it gave her a hot flash.
He’d actually resisted.
The thought made her want to smile now. He’d really tried hard to hold back, murmuring sexily against her mouth that there was no need to rush things, they could go out again sometime.
Sometime.
She’d lived her life doing “sometime”, being laid-back and easy-going, not keeping track of anything, much less something that mattered.
She was working on changing that.
Not that he could have known any of that, but for once she hadn’t wanted sometime, she’d wanted right then. She’d needed right then. It’d been so long, she’d been taking care of her own needs for so damn long …
Startling her out of her own thoughts, there was new movement outside the pastry shop as the ME was finally ready to have the body removed. Once again, Bella set her head down on her knees, feeling a wave of emotion for whoever the guy had been, for his family, for whoever would grieve him.
A pair of athletic shoes appeared in front of her, topped by faded Levi’s, and she closed her eyes, not up for more unanswerable questions. She heard a rustle and knew the owner of said shoes and jeans had just crouched in front of her.
When she peeked, she saw long legs flexing as he set his elbows on his thighs and waited on her.
He finally spoke. “You okay?”
Wait a minute. She knew that voice. It had coaxed shocking responses from her only last night, and she lifted her head, wondering if her mind was playing tricks on her.
Nope, it was Tall, Dark and Drop-dead Sexy, no longer wearing board shorts and a relaxed, easy grin.
Instead, he wore a light blue button down that emphasized his lean, hard body, the one that had taken hers to heaven and back.
The man she’d told that she was moving to Siberia so he wouldn’t come looking for her.
Oh, God.
She really wished she’d have picked any other location than Siberia, because he had a detective’s badge on a hip, and he was either carrying a gun on his other hip or was very happy to see her, which she sincerely doubted given the expression on his face.
Gulp.
“Hey,” she whispered with a little smile.
He returned the little smile, his eyes warming, but he didn’t “hey” back.
Yeah.
She’d had it right last night. She was in trouble with this one.
Deep trouble.
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Instant Temptation
“Why are you here?” she asked. Not exactly a friendly a greeting as say Nolan would have received, but her reasons for not being comfortable with TJ were as complicated as everything else in her life at the moment.
His eyes said he’d registered her tone and was thinking about smiling. “You going to invite me in?”
Ah, he speaks. But no. Hell, no. That would be like inviting in the big bad wolf. She shook her head and simultaneously swallowed another bite of ice cream, which naturally went down the wrong pipe, and as the cold ache exploded behind her eyeballs, she choked.
Stepping in close, way too close for comfort, TJ ran a hand up her back, patting her between the shoulder blades as she coughed and gasped.
“Brain freeze?” he murmured, his hands still on her, which was disconcerting enough, but added to that, he brushed against her with all those tough muscles, the ones that could make a nun ache to touch him, and in spite of her current and regrettable lack of a sexual life, she was certainly no nun. If she were, she’d be excommunicated for the thoughts she was having.
Yeah, she had brain freeze, and not just from the ice cream. “Back up,” she wheezed. “Give me space.”
He obligingly took a step clear of her, managing to get inside her apartment as he did, because after all, he was a slippery, wily-as-a-fox Wilder. Their ancestors had created the wild, wild west, emphasis on the wild, wild. In fact, it was rumored that the Wilders were responsible for the addition of the second ‘wild’. That tendency had carried down through the generations, each subsequent Wilder doing his best to live up to the name, most ending up in jail or six feet under. Somehow though, the current generation had escaped the worst of the bad genes, or at least outgrown them.
For the most part.
Didn’t mean he wasn’t up for taking advantage of a situation. “I didn’t invite you in, TJ.”
He just smiled.
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Slow Heat
Chapter 1
Confucious say: “Baseball wrong – man with four balls cannot walk.” ~Author Unknown
She’d read somewhere that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, but Samantha McNead knew better than that – in certain men the stomach was aiming just a bit too high.
Wade O’Riley was one of them.
The best defensive catcher in major league baseball, he had women lining up to meet him wherever he went.
And it wasn’t home-cooking that they wanted to give him either.
Not that Wade seemed to mind. Nope, even with all the constraints that went with the new big, fat, multi-million dollar contract he’d just signed for Santa Barbara’s expansion team The Heat, the guy seemed oblivious to pressure. Laid-back and easy-going, he took everything as it came, with a grain of salt and a slow, knowing smile that let everyone in on the joke.
Because life was one big funny to Wade.
Sam appreciated that, she just didn’t live it the way he did. Didn’t know how. As the publicist for the Heat, as one of the few females in a man’s world, her life tended to be more work than fun lately. Hence her mission today.
The limo pulled up in front of Wade’s big, beach cottage-style house, perched on a bluff over the ocean. From the backseat she could see the waves froth and pitch.
Much like her stomach.
In the work aspect of her life, she was extremely comfortable. That was a given. She’d been raised by men; her father, her uncle, her brother, cousins, all tough, implacable, unforgiving alpha males. Failure had never been an option, which translated to being very good at whatever she tackled. Unfortunately for her more womanly parts, all she’d tackled lately was the job.
A job she loved with all her heart, but sometimes she yearned for more. Maybe one of these days a guy would sweep her off her feet and then into bed, but it wouldn’t be today, and it wouldn’t be with the guy she’d been tasked with babysitting.
The Heat had played last night. It was the first week of April, and it’d been an exhibition game, a prelude to their season opener on Sunday. They’d played the Padres, and it’d turned out to be surprisingly down and dirty. Wade had hit a homer in the second inning, then been harshly walked in the third when the pitcher had hit him in the thigh with a throwaway pitch. The game had gone two extra innings, until past midnight, when the Heat had finally won on Wade’s double, so Sam expected him to be exhausted and probably sore as hell. Maybe she’d even have to pull him out of bed.
The thought brought concern, and a secret tingle to those womanly parts she’d been neglecting.
Nice to know they still worked.
As she reached for the limo door handle, Wade’s front door opened, and six feet of rugged, leanly-muscled male stepped out in Levi’s and an untucked blue and white striped button down. A gust of wind molded his clothes against the body that tended to make Sam’s tongue stick to the roof of her mouth.
Wade stopped to slide on his sunglasses, the picture of a California surfer, all easy-going, laid-back charm.
He’d been a rock star in another life, Sam was convinced, and she purposely let out a breath and leaned back, reminding herself he was just a guy. A flawed guy at that, though certainly none of his flaws happened to be showing at the moment.
He moved across the lawn in an unhurried, sexy stride, all scruffy gorgeousness, and opened the limo door, letting in the chilly April afternoon air. With one hand on the roof, the other on the door, he bent down, peering in through his Prada sunglasses, merely arching a brow when he saw her.
Couldn’t blame him. They weren’t exactly on speaking terms.
His sun-kissed light brown hair was either styled messy today on purpose, or he hadn’t bothered with a comb. His face sported at least a day old beard so she was going with the no comb theory. He should have looked sloppy and unkempt but nothing about him ever looked anything less than God’s gift. She’d seen him in uniform, in designer suits, in work-out gear, in all sorts of things including absolutely nothing, and he always looked perfect.
Especially in the nothing.
“Hey,” he said in that low, slightly raspy voice of his, the one that never failed to immediately put her back up.
And/or turn her on.
“Hey yourself.” He hadn’t limped, and he sure as hell didn’t look exhausted. The opposite, she thought a little breathlessly as his deceptively lazy gaze raked her in from head to toe. Deceptively, because behind that beach bum front of his lay a sharp as hell wit.
Given their . . . tense relationship at the moment, she didn’t smile.
And though he usually smiled at anything female, neither did he.
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Storm Watch
The living room and kitchen lights weren’t on, but she saw a light coming from down the hall. She turned back and fought the front door closed. “Dustin? Cristina? Anyone home?”
In answer, a shadow came down the hall. A very tall, built shadow, over six feet. But here was the thing — Dustin wasn’t six feet. Plus he had a long, lanky runner’s body that tended towards skinny.
Truth was, Dustin looked like Harry Potter all grown up, complete with the sweet and kind characteristics — not like his body had been honed into a lean, mean, fighting machine.
Such as the one heading towards her.
Uh oh.
And he kept coming, in tune to the house shuddering and moaning around them, like something out of a horror movie, and she reminded herself that horror movies made her laugh. But she instinctively stumbled back a step, tripping over her own two very wet feet and—
Landed on her ass.
She’d been doing Taebo for at least five years. She should be able to kung-fu his ass, all she had to do was stand up and execute a round-house kick—
Except the shadow crouched down to her level. “Are you okay?”
The question only further scattered her brain.. Why would a bad guy ask her if she was okay? “Keep your mitts off me.”
“Okay.” He lifted them in surrender. “Are you the woman who called? The one who needs help?”
Dawn had barely broken, and with no lights, he was still nothing more than a dark outline of a man. A very tall, built man that she blinked up at. “How did you know I called?”
“Because I was trying to get to the phone. I couldn’t find it, and then when I did, the battery was dead.”
He didn’t sound like a bad guy. He sounded like a sleepy, slightly irritated guy who’d been woken up, his voice low and raspy.
“You hung up too fast,” he told her.
Yeah, definitely irritated.
And also, oddly familiar. Who the hell was he?
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Instant Gratification
Chapter 1
Hot and bothered, and not in the good way, Dr. Emma Sinclair switched the sign on her father’s medical clinic from Closed to Open. It was eight a.m. sharp, and out of habit, she braced herself to be bombarded.
Not that that was going to happen, not here in Mayberry, USA.
Excuse her– Wishful, California. Nothing so simple as Mayberry. Not with the coyotes and bears she knew roamed around the property on a daily basis. She heard the coyotes in the early mornings, their eerie howls making the hair on the back of her neck to stand straight up. Even more disconcerting, she’d caught sight of them watching her from the woods lining the property, their hungry eyes making her miss the streets of New York, where the worst predators were grumpy, demanding homeless people.
She hadn’t actually seen a bear yet, but everyone who came through her door had a bear story, so she figured with her karma, it was only a matter of time. Not in a hurry for that, she booted up the computer behind the front desk, remembering with a fond sigh the hustling bustling rush of her
Manhattan ER, where she literally ran her entire shift; bagging and defibbing, resuscitating, whatever came her way, with sometimes little more than caffeine in her system.
Yeah, she’d had it all in New York, a promising career with a great 401K, a fantastic sublet near Central Park, a great shift in one of the best ERs in the country . . . it didn’t get better than that.
But it certainly got worse.
A world away from her world, Emma was now on the other side of the country, deep in the California Sierras, pining for Starbucks and Thai take-out. Pining for crowds, traffic, and late trains, that’s how homesick she was. She missed having a myriad of take-out menus taped to her empty
refrigerator, her next meal a simple phone call away.
No one delivered in Wishful. Worse, there was no fast food period, no drive-thrus, nothing unless she wanted to drive the thirty plus miles to South Shore, Lake Tahoe — which meant that she, a professional water burner, was in danger of starving to death.
Or at least getting to within five pounds of her pre-med school weight.
Yeah, she missed so much, but what she missed most was her mom, who after being invincible and raising Emma on her own while working her fingers to the bone as an RN, had done the unthinkable.
She’d died of one of the few things that Emma hadn’t been able to fix
– cancer.
Throat tightening, Emma moved through the front room of the old Victorian-turned-clinic, a place that had been decorated in the eighties with country chic and hadn’t changed much except for the equipment, and some of that was questionable. She opened the country blue, duck-lined curtains, letting in the mid-June sun. She wondered what the day would bring. The usual bee string? Or maybe for kicks and giggles, a stomach flu.
The problem was people in Wishful saw her as Doc’s little girl, not a real doctor. They acted as if she was just the key keeper, someone to drop some gossip with, or maybe to talk about her father her least favorite thing to talk about.
God, what she wouldn’t give for a cardiac infarction or an MI, something she could really sink her teeth into, but the more serious cases weren’t coming her way because people here didn’t seem to trust that a real doctor could be so young, or have a vagina.
When the front door opened, the silly ceramic cow chime above it jangled, and in came a man, supporting another. Wishful wasn’t that big, and after being here for two months, Emma had met quite a few of the locals, including the Wilder brothers. TJ Wilder, tall and big and broad, assisted
his equally tall and big and broad brother Stone, who was covered in equal parts mud and blood, dripping both all over her floor.
He was limping and grimacing in pain at least until he saw her, at which point he swiped his face of all expression, going testosterone stoic. “Hey,” he murmured. “What’s up, Doc?”
Ah, finally. Finally something more than a nosy neighbor bringing a casserole and gossip while the real cases went all the way to South Shore. Finally something more than poison oak, something right up her ally, and she moved in to help support Stone, pulling his arm over her shoulder, grabbing
his hand to steady him. He had big hands, tough and scarred, much like the man himself even before whatever had happened to him today. “First room,” she directed TJ, bypassing the front desk, turning toward the hallway which held two examination rooms. “What happened?”
TJ opened his mouth, but Stone beat him to it. “Nothing. I just need a few Band-Aids.”
“Really.” Without her and TJ’s support, the guy would have slid to the floor. But she was well used to stubborn patients, the majority of which were always of the male persuasion. She figured it had something to do with carrying a penis around all the time. “So you can walk on your own then?”
Stone managed to arch a brow in her direction, though only one because the other was slashed through, and bleeding down his lean jaw. “Why would I do that, when having you hold me is much more fun?” He gave her more of his weight, which she estimated at approximately one hundred and ninety pounds of solid muscle. “You’re softer than old Doc Sinclair,” he murmured.
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Double Play
Holly flew backward and hit the ground hard enough to rattle every thought right out of her head. “Fother mucker,” she muttered, lying still on the prickly crabgrass, listening to the creek beat up the rocks as she took mental stock. Arms? Still in place.
Legs? Also still in place.
Her head? Not quite sure–
“Did we kill her?” came a horrified whisper.
“Back up, guys.” This was Pace’s low, calm voice. “Give her some room to breathe.”
“Are you sure she’s breathing? Pace, give her CPR!” Chipper said urgently. “Hurry!”
Holly had the strongest urge to keep still just to see if he’d really do it, but her body wouldn’t play along, because what if there were ants on the grass? Plus she could feel her hair was a complete mess again, and worse, it was entirely possible that her skirt had flown up. She opened her eyes and locked gazes with Pace, his dark with all sorts of things, with concern leading the pack. His hair was windblown and tousled, and he was frowning, and . . . and she had to admit, he sure was something to look at, even with all that bad attitude.
“Anyone have a sweatshirt?” he asked over his shoulder.
When everyone just shook their heads, he unbuttoned his shirt, and oh good Lord, shrugged out of it, bunching it up to slip beneath her head like a pillow.
Don’t look at him, she told herself. Don’t look—
She looked.
Sweet Jesus.
Smooth tanned skin. Hard sinew. And those shoulders were broad enough to block the sun from piercing her eyes. And then there were those six-pack abs . . .
“CPR?” he asked politely with a hint of irony, the lean, carved lines of his face making him look incredibly tough, and incredibly handsome.
Yes, please, she thought. “Don’t even think about it.”
“You about done napping then?”
“Ha.” What was it about his voice? And those eyes . . . Now that she was lying still and he was staring at her, she could see they weren’t filled with just that sharp edge and a good amount of trouble, but something else, too. Something dark and soulful, something that she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but whatever it was, it mesmerized.
“You have a good goose egg going,” he murmured. “Your head hurt?”
Yeah, now that he mentioned it. As she sat up, he slipped his arms around her to help. Arms that were warm and hard as they tightened on her to hold her still.
Against him.
Oh boy. His chest was smooth and warm and hard as stone, and she wanted to both touch and nibble.
And lick. Could she pretty please lick?
“Holly?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you all right?”
She could hear genuine worry in his voice. Interesting. As was her body’s reaction, which was an urge to curl in and cuddle.
Cuddle.
She never cuddled.
She was too busy to cuddle. “Yes. I’m fine.” She struggled to get up, but again he held her still.
“Give yourself a minute.” He was also irritated, which was really unfair, because she’d almost had that ball.
Okay, she hadn’t almost had that ball.
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Instant Attraction
“Live life balls out,” Katie Kramer whispered to herself every night, even though she didn’t own a pair, hoping the mantra would keep the nightmares away.
It hadn’t.
Death and destruction and horror still dogged her every single sleeping breath. Until tonight that is. Tonight she’d miraculously been nightmare free. So when she opened her eyes in the middle of the night, she felt . . . confused. She wasn’t screaming about the bridge collapsing, about being
trapped in her car, hanging upside down by her seatbelt fifty feet over the side of a cliff with flames licking at her . . .
Which meant something else had woken her. And whatever it was, she wanted to kill it for interrupting the first solid sleep she’d had in four months.
There was a fatal flaw with this logic, of course. Because most likely it hadn’t been an it, but a someone.
She wasn’t alone.
Not prone to hysterics or drama, she shook her head in the dark. She’d locked the cabin door. She was safe. Plus, she wasn’t in Los Angeles anymore. After the accident, she’d gotten into her brand new used car and left town to fulfill her Śballs out’ motto. She didn’t know what adventures were ahead of her exactly, but the not knowing was part of the plan. She’d gone north because Hwy 5 had been the only freeway moving faster than fifteen miles per hour and she’d needed to move fast, needed to get as far from her old, staid, boring, careful life as the tank of gas could get her.
Eight hours later, she’d found herself in the Sierras, where it was real winter. None of LA’s lightweight weather where flip-flops were risky for a few weeks in January, but the real deal complete with snow piled high in berms on either side of the roads and frost on her windows.
When she stopped for dinner in a tiny old west town named Wishful, she’d nearly froze her fingers and toes right off. And yet after all her nightmares of heat and flames, she loved it. Loved the huge wide open sky, loved the way her breath crystallized in front of her face, loved the way
the trees smelled like Christmas.
Then she’d seen the Want Ad.
Local outdoor adventure and expedition company seeking temporary office manager, adventurous spirit required. Call Wilder Adventures for more info.
That had been it for her, she was sold. She’d been working for Wilder Adventures for a week now, the best week in recent memory. Up until right this second when a shadowy outline of a man appeared in her room. Like the newly brave woman she was, she threw the covers over her head and hoped he hadn’t seen her.
“Hey,” he said, blowing that hope all to hell.
His voice was low and husky, sounding just as surprised as she, and with a deep breath, she lurched upright to a seated position on the bed and reached out for her handy dandy baseball bat before remembering she hadn’t brought it with her. Instead, her hands connected with her glasses and they
went flying.
Which might just have been a blessing in disguise, because now she wouldn’t be able to witness her own death.
But then the tall shadow bent and scooped up her glasses and . . .
Handed them to her.
A considerate bad guy?
She jammed the frames on her face and focused in the dim light coming from the living room lamp. He stood at the foot of the bed frowning right back at her, hands on his hips.
Huh.
He didn’t look like an ax murderer, which was good, very good, but at over six feet of impressive, rangy, solid-looking muscle, he didn’t exactly look like a harmless Tooth Fairy either.
“Why are you in my bed?” he asked warily, as if maybe he’d put her
there but couldn’t quite remember.
He had a black duffel bag slung over a shoulder. Light brown hair stuck out from the edges of his knit ski cap to curl around his neck. Sharp green eyes were leveled on hers, steady and calm but irritated as he opened his denim jacket.
If he was an ax murderer, he was quite possibly the most attractive one she’d ever seen, which didn’t do a thing for her frustration level. She’d been finally sleeping.
Sleeping!
He could have no idea what a welcome miracle that had been, dammit.
“Earth to Goldilocks.” He waved a gloved hand until she dragged her gaze back up to his face. “Yeah, hi, My bed. Want to tell me why you’re in it?”
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Heating Up the Holidays
Dustin shifted even closer, right into her personal bubble. “I see you, Cristina. I see the woman who feeds the stray cat her leftover sandwich.”
“Only when the bread is stale.”
“The one who always shoves all her spare change in the homeless guy’s hands every time we go downtown.”
“I hate having change in my pocket.”
“The woman who looks at me and her eyes melt.”
“Hell, no they don’t.”
He just looked at her, smiling knowingly.
Ah, hell. “Shut up, Dustin.”
He did– not because she asked, but because he liked to be quiet sometimes, as she did.
Yeah, he got her. He got her in a way no one else did.
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To All A Good Night
Chapter 1
For two months, Maggie Bell walked by him every day on her way out of the office, and every day she took in that tall, leanly muscled body, those incredibly well-fitted Levi’s hanging low on his hips thanks to his tool belt, and forgot everything else just to take it all in.
Take him in.
As the guy in charge of retro-earthquake fitting her building, he usually carried a roll of architectural plans in one hand and a radio in his other as he dealt with his men, looking confident — not to mention smoking hot — and every day she thought the same thing.
Yum.
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Flashpoint
Inside the firehouse, she could see the kitchen off to the right, and a hallway to the left, but still no sign of life, which was odd– They couldn’t all be off on calls, not with the rigs still out front. “Hello?”
Still nothing.
With a shrug, she headed towards the gurgling sound, which took her into the kitchen, and a coffee maker, making away. “Who’d want coffee on a hot day?” she asked herself.
“A crew who’s been up all night.”
Turning around, she faced Sexy Firefighter Zach Thomas, and as potent as he’d been lying down, his hotness factor shot up exponentially now that he was standing, even with bed-head — or hammock-head which was good news
for him, and bad news for her.
Giving out a huge yawn, he covered his mouth, then grimaced. “Sorry.”
He looked good even when yawning. She was so screwed. “Don’t be.”
He set down his boots and shirt and stretched, his t-shirt rising, giving her a quick peek at a set of lickable abs. He ran a hand over his hair, which only encouraged the short strands to riot in an effortlessly sexy way that might have been amusing, if she hadn’t been in danger of drooling.
She’d never been one to lose it for a guy in uniform, so she had no idea why now was any different, but oh my.
“We had seven calls last night,” he explained. “Fires, an explosion in the sugar factory, a toxic waste spill at the gas station on Fifth, you name it, we were at it, all night. None of us got more than an hour.” Again he ran his hand over his already standing on end hair. “We’re wiped, everyone’s sleeping.”
Beneath all that gorgeousness, a true exhaustion lined his face, and suddenly Brooke saw him as a real life and blood man. “I’m sorry I woke you. Especially after such a rough night.”
He lifted another shoulder, not anywhere close to the irritated and frustrated she’d be if she’d had only an hour of sleep. “That’s the way this job works. You wanted to meet the crew?”
“I’ll come back.”
“You want coffee first?”
She opened her mouth to say no thanks, but then she saw it in his eyes. A guard coming up. Here he was, overworked, the place obviously short-staffed, and in his eyes, she was just one in a long line of people that had flaked. That would flake. “You know, coffee would be great.”
He turned to the cupboards while she took in the kitchen. The table was a huge picnic-table style, with at least twelve chairs scattered around it. On the counter was a line of mugs the length of the tile. “How many of you are stationed here?”
“We’re on three rotating shifts, with only six firefighters and two EMTs each, which makes us . . . twenty-four? Down from thirty, thanks to some nasty cutbacks, which sucks.”
A medium size station then, but huge compared to the private ambulance company she’d worked at, where there’d been only four on at all times.
She’d have to be far more social here than she was used to. The firefighters worked twenty-four hour shifts to the EMT’s twelve, but it was still a lot of time together. She told herself that was a bonus, but really it just drummed home that once again, as she’d been all too many times before, she was the new kid in class.
Zach eased over to the coffee pot. “Black, or jacked up?”
“Jacked up, please.”
He reached for the sugar, and without her permission, her eyes took yhemselves on a little tour, starting with those wide shoulders, that long, rangy torso, and a set of buns that–
He turned and, oh perfect, caught her staring.
At his butt.
Arching a brow, he leaned back against his counter while she did her best imitation of a ceiling tile counter. When she couldn’t stand the silence and finally took a peek at him, he was handing her the mug of coffee, his eyes amused.
“Thanks,” she managed.
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Flashback
As they accessed their equipment and laid out lines, three police squad cars tore into the lot, followed by the command squad, all of whom leapt to work on evacuating the surrounding docks. Aidan and company needed to contain the flames, but the explosion burned outrageously hot. He could feel that mind-numbing heat from a hundred feet back. With the Chief now on scene barking orders into their radios, Aidan and the others moved with their gear, their objective to keep the flames from spreading to any of the other boats. They were halfway there with their hoses when it came.
A sharp, terrified scream.
The sound raised the hair on the back of Aidan’s neck, and he dropped everything to run towards the burning boat, Ty right behind him.
The scream came again, clearly female, and Aidan sped up. No one knew better than a firefighter what it was like to be surrounded by flames, to have them lick at you, toy with you. It was sheer, horrifying terror.
They had to get to her first.
Behind them came Sam, Eddie, Cristina and Aaron, directing water on the flames while Aidan and Ty went into rescue mode, pounding down the dock toward the boat. Twenty feet, then ten, and that’s when he saw her. A woman standing on the deck of the burning boat, wobbling, the flames at her back.
“Jump!” he yelled, wondering why she didn’t just make the short leap to the dock, where she could have made a run for safety from there. “Jump‹”
Another exposition rocked them all. Aidan skidded to a halt, spinning away, crouching down as debris flew up into the air to match the new and determined flames. The chief was shouting into the radio, demanding a head count. Aidan lifted his head and checked in as he took in the sights. The boat was still there, and with his heart in his throat, he searched for a visual on the woman–
There. In the same spot she’d been before, still on the boat, on the floor of the deck now, holding her head. Goddamnit. He got to his feet, took a running few steps, and jumped onto the boat with her.
She nearly leapt out of her skin when he landed next to her. “It’s okay.” He dropped to his knees at her side to try to get a good look and see how badly she was injured, but the smoke had choked out any light from the docks and she was nothing but a slight shadow. A slight shadow who was hunched over and coughing uncontrollably.
“The boat…” she managed. “It k-keeps b-blowing up…”
“Can you stand?”
“Yes. I…” She let out a sound that tugged at his memory, but he pushed that aside when she nodded. She got up with his help, twisting away from him to stare up at the flames shooting up the mast and sails. “Ohmigod…”
He pulled her closer to his side, where he intended to turn them both toward the dock and get the hell off this inferno, but several things hit him at once.
The name of the boat painted across the outside of the cabin, flickering in and out of view between the flames.
Blake’s Girl.
No. It couldn’t be. But then came something far more immediate — the rumbling and shuddering of the deck beneath their feet. “We have to move.”
“No. No, please,” she gasped. “You have to save the boat.”
“Us first.” He couldn’t have put together a more coherent sentence because of all that was going through his head. Blake’s Girl . . .
Blake’s boat. God, he’d all but forgotten that Blake had owned a boat.
Then there was the woman in his arms, still facing away from him, still invoking that niggling sense of familiarity. There was something about her wild blonde curls, about the sound of her voice, as the warning signals in his brain peaked at once.
So did the fire. In just the past thirty seconds, the flames had doubled in strength and heat. The deck beneath their feet trembled and quivered with latest and simmering violence.
They were going to blow sky high. Whipping toward the dock with the intent to jump with her, he got another nasty surprise the flames had covered their safe exit.
On the other side of those monstrous flames stood Ty, Eddie and Sam, hoses in hand, battling the fire from their angle, which wasn’t going to help Aidan and his victim in time. Cristina was there too, with Aaron, and even in the dark he sensed their urgency, their utter determination to keep him safe.
They’d so recently lost one of their own, there was no way they were going to let it happen again.
“Ohmigod,” the woman at his side gasped, staring at the sight of the flames closing in on them as if mesmerized.
She wasn’t the only one suddenly mesmerized, and for one startlingly heartbeat in time, Aidan went utterly still, as for the first time he caught full glimpse of her.
He knew that profile.
He knew her. “Kenzie?”
At the sound of her name on his lips, uttered in his low, hoarse, surprised voice, her head whipped to his, eyes wide. Her wavy blonde hair framed a pale face streaked with dirt and some blood, but was still beautiful, hauntingly so.
She was Mackenzie Stafford, Blake’s sister. Kenzie to those who knew and loved her, including all the millions of viewers who knew her as Sissy Hope on the soap opera Hope’s Passion.
She was no a stranger to Aidan, but not because of her television stardom. Aidan knew her personally.
Very personally. “Kenzie.”
“I can’t– I can’t hear you.”
People never expected fire to be so noisy, but it was. The flames crackled and roared at near ear-splitting decibels as it devoured its way through everything in its path.
Including them if they didn’t move, a knowledge that was enough to pull his head out of his ass and get with the program. Old lover or not, he still had to get her out of here alive. But she was looking at him through Blake’s eyes, and his heart and gut wrenched hard. There was maybe twenty feet of water between the Blake’s Girl and the next boat, which was starting to smoke as well, and would undoubtedly catch on fire any second. It didn’t matter. They had no choice. “Kenzie, when I say so, I want you to hold your breath.”
“D–do I know you?”
He wore a helmet and all the gear, and in the dark, not to mention the complete and utter chaos around them, there was no way she could see him clearly. Still, he had to admit it stung. “It’s me, Aidan. Hold your breath now, on my count.”
“Aidan, my God.”
“Ready?”
“The boat’s going to go, every inch of it, isn’t it?”
Yep, including the few square inches they were standing on. In fact, it was going to go much more quickly than he’d have liked. Since they couldn’t get to the dock, it was into the ocean for them, where they’d wait for rescue.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “There’s got to be another way.”
Unfortunately there wasn’t, and he quickly stripped out of his protective jacket and gear because the seventy-five pounds of extra weight wouldn’t be a day in the park while treading water and holding up a victim
to boot. At least she was conscious. She didn’t appear to have on any shoes, or anything particularly heavy on her person, all of which were points in her favor. “On three, okay? Remember to hold your breath.”
“I don’t think–”
“Perfect. Go with that. One–” He nudged her in front of him, pushing
her to the railing.
“Aidan–”
“Two–”
“Are you crazy?”
“Three.”
“Hell, no. I’m not going into the‹”
He dropped her into the water, and she screamed all the way down.
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Superb and Sexy
Chapter One
The man pulled up in a rumbling, bad boy Camaro like he owned his world, and Maddie had good reason to know he did.
Brody West owned his world all right, and completely rocked hers.
What the hell was he doing here?
It’d been a long time since she’d seen him. Six weeks, two and half days, and waaaaay too many minutes. Not that she was counting.
But to be honest, that she hadn’t seen him was all her own doing. She’d left town to recover.
To think.
To make a Plan with a capitol P.
Hence staying in the mountains where no one could bother her — including Brody.
Especially Brody.
With him, no contact was good contact since they clashed at every turn, bickered when they weren’t clashing, and in general, brought out the worst in each other. She hadn’t even thought about him while she’d been gone, sitting on the porch of the log-style cabin that she’d rented for its rustic, isolated beauty, emphasis on isolated.
Okay, so she’d thought about him. She just hadn’t wanted to think about him. Probably she was just overreacting. Honestly, maybe it wasn’t even him in the car.
And yet she knew better. Her body knew better. The simple act of hearing the engine rev had made the hair on the nape of her neck rise in sudden, unexpected awareness.
Yeah, it was him because she felt . . .
God, she felt so much, but thunderstruck led the pack, though an undeniable excitement came in close second.
He was here, forty five miles off the beaten path from his home in the Burbank Hills to the Angeles Crest.
But why? Why wasn’t he holed up in his office, or on one of his planes he loved more than anything, working himself in to an early grave as he liked to do?
She knew that he, along with his partners Shayne and Noah, wanted her back at work, seemed desperate for her to be back. Shayne had told her yesterday on the phone that Sky High had gone through four temp concerieges in the time she’d been gone on leave, all of whom Brody had chased off with his sunny nature.
Translation: he’d been brooding and edgy and terrifying.
Yeah. Sounded like him.
But the brooding and edgy thing had never bothered her much. Maybe because she’d always been drawn to the bad boys. The reason for that was simple. Bad boys wanted the same things she did no strings attached.
She didn’t do strings.
Outside, Brody turned off the Camaro and silence filled the air.
A heavy, weighted, questioning silence.
And suddenly Maddie’s chest felt too tight. Damn it. She let out a long, calming breath, which of course didn’t work. It never worked. Neither did just sitting at the window staring down at him, but God, she was tired, and still recovering. Yeah, that’s what this asinine weakness in her knees was — recovery. Because it sure as hell wasn’t for him.
No way.
They didn’t even like each other . . .
And yet she leaned over so she could see out the window again, past the twin tall pines trying to claim her view, at the nearly six feet four inches of rough and tumble, sexy-as-hell male as he unfolded his long legs from the muscle car.
Her pulse took another unfortunate leap. The last time she’d seen him he’d been in his pilot’s uniform, and even though it was ridiculous and juvenile and wrong, it had turned her on. The thought of seeing him out of it?
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Strong and Sexy
She rushed into Shayne Mahoney’s party as if there was a firecracker on her ass; wobbling on heels she clearly wasn’t comfortable in, wearing a little black dress that revealed pale, porcelain curves most people found unfashionable these days.
Not Shayne. Nope, he loved curves.
The woman’s dark hair was piled haphazardly on top of her head, held there by two yellow pencils. Interesting choice for a formal cocktail party. So was the way she moved into the large reception lobby, her gait a little awkward, her smile broadcasting her nerves.
Very interesting.
She wasn’t his type. Not because she wasn’t tall, stacked and model-ready, but because she pretty much screamed fish out of water.
All of the women he’d dated lately – hell, ever – had been confident. Bold. Overtly sexy.
And, as Brody and Noah would tell him, none of the women he’d dated had managed to hold his interest.
There was a message there, he knew, but he didn’t care. He shifted to move away, but then something had him turning back, just as the woman tripped over her own feet. As he started toward her, she managed to catch herself, then furtively glanced around the crowd to see if anyone had noticed, a self-conscious gesture that made him smile.
Definitely not confident, bold, or overtly sexy.
And yet something about her seemed incredibly appealing, and not just because in a sea of pedigreed roses she stood out as the lone wildflower, but because she seemed familiar.
He hadn’t slept with her, he knew that much. He hadn’t flown her in one of his planes, or for Sky High Air, and he hadn’t worked with her.
So who was she?
A server passed her, and she took a flute of champagne, flashing the guy a quick smile that could break a heart at fifty paces because it was real, it made her more than just pretty, but someone he couldn’t take his eyes off of.
And yet the server didn’t smile back, which pissed Shayne off. Granted, she wasn’t fake-tanned or gym-toned like the other women here, and no, she wasn’t especially graceful, and clearly felt out of her element, but she was a guest, and as such, deserved the same respect the others received.
Shayne would talk to the server, that was for damn sure, though it would do little good. The people here tonight were shallow, all of them. Hell, Shayne himself had been hit on no less than three times before the party had even gotten started, including Michelle, a woman he’d stopped seeing when she’d gotten a little too possessive after two dates.
But this woman wasn’t hitting on anyone, she was trying to be invisible. Interest piqued for the first time in days, he kept his eye on her. She was attempting to tuck some of her wayward hair back into its constraints, not being successful in any way as the strands immediately slipped free again, brushing over her throat, her shoulders.
Yeah, she was a complete wreck.
An adorable, sexy, complete wreck.
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The Trouble With Paradise
Day Two on deserted island without cookies, and it’s not pretty.
Only a week ago, Dorie Anderson’s night-time fantasies had run along the lines of say Matthew McConaughey, but now as she lay on the long, golden stretch of beach, staring past their shelter to the star-riddled night sky, she fantasized about chocolate chip cookies.
Make that double chocolate chip cookies.
Sorry Matthew, but priorities were priorities. Stuck on a deserted South Pacific island without cookies? Serious suffering going on.
All around her came the sounds that people tended to buy those nature CDs for; the waves gently hitting the shore, crickets chirping, an exotic bird squawking . . .
Her stomach growling.
She put her hand on her belly, thinking she’d give her right arm for an entire bag of cookies all to herself. Maybe even her left as well.
“How’s the patient?”
Ah, there he was, the bane of her existence. She knew this because just his voice made her nipples go all happy.
Damn nipples.
She felt him sit in the sand at her side but she didn’t look at him. Nope, looking at him was a really bad idea because then her brain would begin that painful tug-o-war.
Want him.
Hate him.
Want him.
Hate him.
She sighed. “Go away.”
“Ah. You’re feeling better.” He lay next to her so that his arm brushed hers, the one she would definitely sell for that bag of chocolate chip cookies.
“Question,” she said.
“Hit me.”
“Do you ever think about chocolate?”
He turned his head and looked at her. He was all hard, lean, sinewy lines to her soft, curvy ones. She imagined if she pointed out how different they were, he’d say he liked those differences very much. “I think about other things,” he finally said.
“Like?”
His arm shifted, just barely pressing into the side of her breast. And more than just her nipples got happy. Bad. Bad body. “I’m tired.”
“Here’s something to wake you up.” Instead of taking the hint and leaving, he rolled to his side, facing her. “Our bet.”
Oh, no. “We are not going to talk about the bet.” No way.
“That’s because you’ve lost.”
“You cheated.”
He was silent, letting that lie live a life of its own as she remembered the details . . .
As if she could forget.
“You could just pay up,” he suggested.
That thought shot excitement directly into certain areas of her anatomy that had no business getting excited. She closed her eyes, a bad idea because then her other senses took over. She had no idea how he managed to smell like heaven on earth while on a deserted island, but he did. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she finally said.
He just laughed softly.
Bastard.
“You didn’t hit your head that hard,” he said. “You know.”
“You’re not going away. Why aren’t you going away?” she asked desperately, because she knew exactly what he was talking about, exactly what bet she’d made, and what she now owed him. Which involved her.
Dancing.
Naked.
Beneath this very star lit sky. “If you were nice, you’d go.”
He lifted a broad shoulder. “Never claimed to be nice.”
Also true. Damn it.
“Plus we’re stuck on an island,” he pointed out. “Just how far away do you think I can go?”
Keeping her eyes closed, she sighed again. Because she really hated it when he was right.
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Shadow Hawk
She was all leg, and Conner Hawk was most definitely a leg man. Hell, he was also a T&A man, but Abigail Wells, fellow ATF agent and communications expert, not to mention all around Hot Chick, was so well put together she could have made him a certified elbow man if she wanted.
Too bad she hated his guts.
She walked — strolled across the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco & Firearm’s office, her soft, silky skirt clinging to her thighs with every graceful swing of her hips. Her blazer hid her torso from view but he knew she had it going on beneath that as well. Her honey colored hair was pulled up today in some complicated ‘do that screamed On Top Of Her World.
As if she’d read the direction his thoughts had trailed, she glanced over at him, those bee-stung lips flipping her smile upside down, her eyes going from work-mode to pissy-female mode.
Oh yeah, there was the frown she usually gave him, the one she’d been giving him ever since the day she’d joined the team six months ago. He knew she’d come from the Seattle office, where she’d worked in the field. He tried to imagine her wearing an ATF flak jacket, guarding his six, and was halfway to the fun fantasy when she spoke.
“You.” This in a tone that suggested he could, and should, go to hell.
“Me,” he agreed, surprised that she’d even given him that one word. She usually avoided talking directly to him, as if maybe he was some new strain of the flu.
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Jinxed
He hadn’t moved, but seemed to stand frozen to the spot, looking at her. “I’m not Ian,” he repeated.
His identical twin then. Only Ian hadn’t had a brother. In fact, after his dad had died in their senior year, he’d had nobody. She pointed to his scar. “You got that in your car accident, remember?”
“No.” Lifting a hand, he covered the scar. “You’re mistaken.”
“You’re telling me you’re not Ian McCall.”
“You’re confusing me with someone else, that’s all.” He looked around him, at the party, the people, the pleasant chaos. “And I’m sorry, but I really need to get back.”
Okay, he wasn’t who she’d thought. She got it. But being this close made her body ache, which was a ridiculous phenomenon all in itself that she would worry about later. For now, she just couldn’t stop staring, just couldn’t get over the fact that she was wrong, that this man wasn’t Ian.
As she stood there somewhat in shock, the music changed, quickened, and there was a surge toward the dance floor. A group of people shifted behind the Ian-imposter, nudging him into her so that their bodies brushed.
Hers actually reacted. And here was a bottom line that disturbed her greatly — her body recognized this man’s body.
Again she was bumped and she nudged up close. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, putting her hands up to his chest to brace herself because it was getting extremely crowded around them.
And because she couldn’t help herself.
His hands went to her waist to steady them both, and in what undoubtedly was more of her over-active imagination, he gently squeezed her hips, regret flashing in his eyes.
Regret, and . . . something. But it was gone so fast she couldn’t be sure she hadn’t made that up as well.
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Smart and Sexy
“I have to get there quickly. Like yesterday quickly.”
“As in hijack-a-pilot quickly?”
“I didn’t hijack you,” she said with a primness that made him want to laugh — if there’d been anything remotely funny about this situation. “You were going anyway,” she said in the same old refrain.
He slid her a long glance.
She broke eye contact again.
“Okay,” he said, deciding to bite. “So what is this ‘something’ you have to get quickly?”
She put her nose to the window. “Are we almost there?”
“Done talking, are we?” he asked dryly.
She didn’t answer.
Yeah, apparently, she was done talking. She’d definitely omitted plenty, leaving out a whole bunch of her story, including how the hell she’d gotten herself roughed up and by whom.
Not his problem, he reminded himself, even if just looking at her invoked Superman tendencies. He was going to Mammoth for some desperately needed R&R.
And a ski bunny.
Nothing else, including saving damsels in distress.
With that thought, he began landing preparations. He reduced power and lowered the flaps, controlling the nose, maintaining altitude, but in yet another unwelcome turn of events, the landing gear didn’t lower.
Unbelievable. He flicked the switch again, prepared to adjust the trim at the drag to stabilize the nose again, but nope, the landing gear definitely did not lower. “Shit.”
“What is it?” she asked.
He looked into her lovely, terrified face. How to tell her they might be coming in for a landing on their belly? “Come here.”
“Why?” asked his suspicious little hijacker.
There was no sugar-coating the insanity. “We have a little problem.”
“That’s an oxymoron when you’re in the air.”
He let out a mirthless laugh. “Yeah. Listen, the landing gear didn’t lower.”
Her mouth fell open.
“I need you to fly the plane while I go crank it down manually.” Crank, kick . . . whatever it took.
The color drained completely out of her face. “Ohmigod. Without the landing gear, we can’t land. Right?”
“Sure we can, we just do it on our belly. Not nearly as smooth though, trust me.”
She swallowed hard. “That’s nowhere close to a little problem.”
“Compared to falling out of the sky, it is. Get over here, Princess.”
“Can you really fix it?”
“Yeah. I’ve seen a guy do it once or twice.”
“Omigod!”
“I’m kidding! Yes, I can fix it. If you get over here.”
“Noah–”
The plane shuddered. More turbulence. Perfect. “Now, goddamnit.” To help her along, he snagged a fistful of the front of her sweatshirt and yanked. With a gasp, she flew toward him, and something slid out of her front pocket, clattering on the floor.
A large, fat pen.
A pen that probably, if shoved up against him, would feel like a gun. He stared down at the thing until it rolled beneath the seat.
“You’re kidding me.”
The truth was written all over her face. “I–”
“You’re kidding me.” He couldn’t believe it, didn’t want to believe it. “A pen? You held me up with a pen?”