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 Œballs 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?”