Deck The Halls With Love: Lost Lords Of Pembrook Novella (10 page)

Burbling invitingly like a secluded brook, the tub waited in the corner. The steam softened its edges and obscured the walls around it. As if the room went on forever.

With the toe of his boot, Jack swung the front door closed. Only the small lights in the ceiling glowed. Warm night clouds now surrounded her. A gentle storm. And Jack was the lightning. Still gripping her hand, he walked her toward the tub, chuckling a little to himself.

“My last bath was at a lonely little stage stop hotel in Camarillo.”

The buckle on her gun belt was hot from the steam. “I’m overdue.” She undid it and held the rig in her hand.

“I’m guessing you picked up Malone’s trail sometime after the Sierras, so it’s been a few hundred miles for you, too.”

It took her a second to track her path backward. “Beatty, Nevada.”

“Rough town.” He let go of her hand so he could undo the straps and belts that held his own weapons.

She hung her gun belt on a wooden peg on the wall next to the tub. Easy to reach if she had to. “A little less rough after I left.”

His pistols and quad shotgun took their place next to her weapons. He was unarmed. But still deadly. Broad shoulders, muscled arms and legs. Dark, blazing eyes. And the smallest smile.

They came together again, this time without the clang of gunmetal. The heat of the room had soaked through her clothes, bringing a light sweat across her skin. She felt every fold of fabric, and every ridge of his muscles. Her hands ran over the cords of his neck, pulling him to her mouth for another kiss.

Nerves yearned for sensation. Dust storms had chafed her flesh. Ice-cold rivers had woken her up, and she’d slept in the rain while waiting out a fugitive. She needed pleasure. And Jack was the only man strong enough to bring it to her.

An Excerpt from

by Allison Dobell

When journalist and notorious womanizer Flynn O’Grady publicly mocks Alice Mitchell’s erotic luxury goods website, the game is on. They soon find themselves locked in a sensual battle where Alice must step up the spice night after night as, one by one, Flynn’s defenses crumble.

AN AVON RED NOVELLA

F
lynn O’Grady had gone too far this time. It was bad enough that Sydney Daily’s resident male blogger continued to push his low opinions about women into the community (he seemed to have an ongoing problem with shoes and shopping), but this time he’d mentioned her business by name.

How dare he suggest she was a charlatan, promising the world and delivering nothing! The women who came to Alice’s Wonderland were discerning, educated, and thoroughly in charge of their sexuality. They loved to play and knew the value in paying for quality. They knew the difference between her beautiful artisan-made, hand-carved, silver-handled spanking paddle (of which she’d moved over 500 units this past financial year, she might add) and a $79.95 mass-produced Taiwanese purple plastic dildo from hihosilver.com.

Still, while Alice didn’t agree with the raunch culture that prevailed at hihosilver, she’d defend (with one of their cheap dildos raised high) the right of any woman to take on a Tickler, Rabbit, or Climax Gem in the privacy of her own home. Where was it written that men had cornered the market for liking sex? O’Grady had clearly been under a rock for at least three decades.

Alice reached for the old-fashioned cream-and-gold telephone on her glass-topped desk and dialed. She knew what she needed to do to make a man like Flynn O’Grady understand where she was coming from. As the phone rang, she re-read the blog entry for the third time. Anger rose within her, but she pushed it down. She’d need her wits about her for this conversation.

“O’Grady.”

Alice took a deep breath before she began. “Mr. O’Grady, we haven’t met, but you seem to know all about me.”

A brief silence on the other end.

“I see,” came the answer. “Would you care to elaborate?” His voice was deep and husky around the edges. He should have been in radio, rather than in print.

“Alice Mitchell here. Purveyor of broken promises.”

Another pause.

“Ms. Mitchell, how . . . delightful.” His tone made it clear that it was anything but.

“I’m sure,” said Alice, raising one eyebrow slightly, allowing her smile to warm her words. “You’ve had quite a lot to say about my business today. I was wondering if we could meet. I think I deserve the right of reply.”

“I’m not sure what good that would do, Ms. Mitchell,” he replied, smoothly. “You’re more than welcome to respond via the comments section on my blog.”

She’d had the feeling he’d try that.

“I think this is more . . . personal than that,” Alice purred down the line. “I’d like to try to convince you of my . . . position.” She stifled a laugh, enjoying every second of this. She could easily imagine him squirming in his chair right now.

The silence that followed inched toward uncomfortable.

“Er, right. Well, I don’t have any time today, but I could see you on Wednesday,” he said.

It was Monday. Give him all day Tuesday to plan his defenses? Not likely.

“It would be great if you could make it today,” she said, a hint of steel entering her tone. “I’d hate to have to take this to your boss. I suspect there may be grounds for a defamation complaint, but I’m sure the two of us can work it out . . .” She left the idea dangling. The media was no place for job insecurity in the current climate, and she knew he was too smart not to know that. He needed to keep his boss happy.

“I could fit you in tonight, but it would need to be after 7.30,” he said, his voice carefully controlled.

‘ “Perfect,” she said, “I’ll come to your office.”

She put down the phone, allowing him no time to answer, then sat back in her chair. Now all she needed to do was select an item or two that would help her to convince Flynn he should change his mind.

Standing quickly, she prowled over to the open glass shelving that took up one wall of her domain. Although it might be of use in getting her point across, it was probably too soon for the geisha gag. She didn’t know him well enough to bring out the tooled leather slave-style handcuffs. Wait a minute! She almost spanked herself with the paddle that Flynn O’Grady had derided for overlooking the obvious.

Moving to a small glass cabinet in the corner, she opened the top drawer and inspected the silken blindfolds. She picked up a scarlet one and held it, delicate and cool to the touch, in her hand.

Perfect.

An Excerpt from

A
B
ACHELOR
F
IREMEN
N
OVELLA

by Jennifer Bernard

What happens when you mix together an absolutely gorgeous fireman, a beautiful but shy woman, her precocious kid, and a very mischievous little dog? Find out in Jennifer Bernard’s sizzling hot
One Fine Fireman
.

T
he door opened, and three firemen walked in. Maribel nearly dropped the Lazy Morning Specials in table six’s lap. Goodness, they were like hand grenades of testosterone rolling in the door, sucking all the air out of the room. They wore dark blue t-shirts tucked into their yellow firemen’s pants, thick suspenders holding up the trousers. They walked with rolling strides, probably because of their big boots. Individually they were handsome, but collectively they were devastating.

Maribel knew most of the San Gabriel firemen by name. The brown-haired one with eyes the color of a summer day was Ryan Blake. The big, bulky guy with the intimidating muscles was called Vader. She had no idea what his real name was, but apparently the nickname came from the way he loved to make spooky voices with his breathing apparatus. The third one trailed behind the others, and she couldn’t make out his identity. Then Ryan took a step forward, revealing the man behind him. She sucked in a breath.

Kirk was back
. For months she’d been wondering where he was and been too shy to ask. She’d worried that he’d transferred to another town, or decided to chuck it all and sail around the world. She’d been half afraid she’d never see him again. But here he was, in the flesh, just as mouthwatering as ever. Her face heated as she darted glance after glance at him, like a starving person just presented with prime rib. It was wrong, so wrong; she was engaged. But she couldn’t help it. She had to see if everything about him was as she remembered.

His silvery gray-green eyes, the exact color of the sagebrush that grew in the hills around San Gabriel, hadn’t changed, though he looked more tired than she remembered. His blond hair, which he’d cut drastically since she’d last seen him, picked up glints of sunshine through the plate glass window. His face looked thinner, maybe older, a little pale. But his mouth still had that secret humorous quirk. The rest of his face usually held a serious expression, but his mouth told a different story. It was as if he hid behind a quiet mask, but his mouth had chosen to rebel. Not especially tall, he had a powerful, quiet presence and a spectacular physique under his firefighter gear. She noticed that, unlike the others, he wore a long-sleeved shirt.

His fellow firefighters called him Thor. She could certainly see why. He looked like her idea of a Viking god, though she would imagine the God of Thunder would be more of a loudmouth. Kirk was not a big talker. He didn’t say much, but when he spoke, people seemed to listen.

She certainly did, even though all he’d said to her was, “Black, no sugar,” and “How much are those little Christmas ornaments?” referring to the beaded angels she made for sale during the holidays. It was embarrassing how much she relived those little moments afterward.

Tossing friendly smiles to the other customers, the three men strolled to the counter where she took the orders. They gathered around the menu board, though why they bothered, she didn’t know. They always ordered the same thing. Firemen seemed to be creatures of habit. Or at least her firemen were.

An Excerpt from

A
S
UMMERSBY
T
ALE

by Sophie Barnes

When Mary Croyden inherits a title and a large sum of money, she must rely on the help of one man—Ryan Summersby. But Mary’s hobbies are not exactly proper, and Ryan is starting to realize that this simple miss is not at all what he expected . . . in the second Summersby Tale from Sophie Barnes.

M
ary stepped back. Had she really forgotten to introduce herself? Was it possible that Ryan Summersby didn’t know who she really was? She suddenly dreaded having to tell him. She’d enjoyed spending time with him, had even considered the possibility of seeing him again, but once he knew her true identity, he’d probably treat her no differently than all the other gentlemen had done—like a grand pile of treasure with which to pay off his debts and house his mistresses.

Squaring her shoulders and straightening her spine, she mustered all her courage and turned a serious gaze upon him. “My name is Mary Croyden, and I am the Marchioness of Steepleton.”

Ryan’s response was instantaneous. His mouth dropped open while his eyes widened in complete and utter disbelief. He stared at the slender woman who stood before him, doing her best to play the part of a peeress. Was it really possible that she was the very marchioness he’d been looking for when he’d stepped outside for some fresh air only half an hour earlier? The very same one that Percy had asked him to protect? She seemed much too young for such a title, too unpolished. It wasn’t that he found her unattractive in any way, though he had thought her plain at first glance.

“What?” she asked, as she crossed her arms and cocked an eyebrow. “Not what you expected the infamous Marchioness of Steepleton to look like?”

“Not exactly, no,” he admitted. “You are just not—”

“Not what? Not pretty enough? Not sophisticated enough? Or is it perhaps that the way in which I speak fails to equate with your ill-conceived notion of what a marchioness ought to sound like?” He had no chance to reply before she said, “Well, you do not exactly strike me as a stereotypical medical student either.”

“And just what exactly would you know about that?” he asked, a little put out by her sudden verbal attack.

“Enough,” she remarked in a rather clipped tone. “My father was a skilled physician. I know the sort of man it takes to fill such a position, and you, my lord, do not fit the bill.”

For the first time in his life, Ryan Summersby found himself at a complete loss for words. Not only could he not comprehend that this slip of a woman before him, appearing to be barely out of the schoolroom, was a peeress in her own right—not to mention a woman of extreme wealth. But that she was actually standing there, fearlessly scolding him . . . he knew that a sane person would be quite offended, and yet he couldn’t help but be enthralled.

In addition, he’d also managed to glimpse a side of her that he very much doubted many people had ever seen. “You do not think too highly of yourself, do you?” He suddenly asked.

That brought her up short. “I have no idea what you could possibly mean by that,” she told him defensively.

“Well, you assume that I do not believe you to be who you say you are. You think the reasoning behind my not believing you might have something to do with the way you look. Finally, you feel the need to assert yourself by finding fault with me—for which I must commend you, since I do not have very many faults at all.”

“You arrogant . . .” The marchioness wisely clamped her mouth shut before uttering something that she would be bound to regret. Instead, she turned away and walked toward the French doors that led toward the ballroom. “Thank you for the dance, Mr. Summersby. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening,” she called over her shoulder in an obvious attempt at sounding dignified.

“May I call on you sometime?” he asked, ignoring her abrupt dismissal of him as he thought of the task that Percy had given him. It really wouldn’t do for him to muck things up so early in the game. And besides, he wasn’t sure he’d ever met a woman who interested him more than Lady Steepleton did at that very moment. He had to admit that the woman had character.