The Governess Club: Sara (31 page)

“I
want to talk to you about what you do at EXIT.”

“No.”

She blinked. “No?” Her cell phone beeped. She grabbed it impatiently and took the call. A few seconds later she shoved the phone back in her pocket. “Tuck’s outside. The SWAT team is set up and ready to cover us in case those two yokels decide to start shooting again. The area is secure. Let’s go.” She headed toward the door.

“Wait.”

She turned, her brows raised in question.

He braced his legs in a wide stance and crossed his arms. “If I’m not under arrest, there’s no reason for me to go to the police station.”

Her mouth firmed into a tight line. “You’re not under arrest only if you agree to the deal I offered. The man who killed Shannon Garrett and the unidentified victims in that basement is holding at least two other women right now, doing God only knows what to them. All I’m asking is that you answer some questions to help me find them, so I can save their lives. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

Of course it did. But he also knew Kelly Parker, and anyone with her, couldn’t be saved by Emily and her fellow cops. It was becoming increasingly clear that Kelly was the bait in a trap to catch
him
. The killer would keep her alive, maybe even provide proof of life at some point, to lure Devlin to wherever she was being held. Did he care about her suffering? Absolutely. Which meant he had to come up with a plan to save her without charging full steam ahead and getting himself killed. Because once the killer eliminated his main prey—Devlin—he’d have no reason to keep either of the women alive.

He braced himself for his next lie. If Emily thought he was bad to supposedly get a woman pregnant and abandon her, she was going to despise him after this next one.

“Finding and saving those women is your job,” he said. “I have other things to do that are a lot more fun than sitting in an interrogation room.”

The shocked, disgusted look that crossed her face was no worse than the way he felt inside. Like a jerk, and a damn coward. But if sacrificing his pride kept her safe, so be it. He had to get outside and offer himself as bait to lead his enemies away from the diner before she went out the front. He strode past her to the bathroom door.

“Stop, Devlin, or I’ll shoot.”

He slowly turned around. Seeing his sexy little detective pointing a gun at him again seemed every kind of wrong, especially when his blood was still raging from the hot kiss they’d just shared.

“Seriously?” he said, faking shock. “You’re drawing on an unarmed man?
Again
? What will Drier say about that? Or Alex? I smell a lawsuit.”

She stomped her foot in frustration.

The urge to laugh at her childish action had him clenching his teeth. She was the perfect blend of innocence, naiveté, and just plain stubbornness. Before he did something they’d both regret—like kissing her again—he slipped out of the bathroom.

A quick side trip through the kitchen too quickly for anyone to even question his presence, and he was down the back hallway, standing at the rear exit. Now all he had to do was make it to some kind of cover—without getting shot—and lead Cougar and his handler away from Emily, all without a weapon of his own to return fire.

Simple. No problem.
He shook his head and cursed his decision to go to the police station this morning. Then again, if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have gotten to kiss Emily. If he were killed in the next few minutes, at least he’d die with that intoxicating memory still lingering on his lips.

He cracked the door open and scanned the nearby buildings. Then he flung the door wide and took off running.

An Excerpt from

Book Three: The McBrides

by Jennifer Ryan

From
New York Times
bestselling author Jennifer Ryan, the McBrides of Fallbrook return with Dylan McBride, the new sheriff. Jessie Thompson had one hell of a week. Dylan McBride, the boy she loved, skipped town without a word. Then her drunk of a father tried to kill her, and she fled Fallbrook, vowing never to return. Eight years later, her father is dead, and Jessie reluctantly goes home—only to come face-to-face with the man who shattered her heart. A man who, for nearly a decade, believed she was dead.

S
tanding over her sleeping brother, she held the pitcher in one hand and the cup of coffee in the other. She poured the cold water over her brother’s face and chest. He sat bolt upright and yelled, “What the hell!”

Brian held a hand to his dripping head and one to his stomach. He probably had a splitting headache to go with his rotten gut. As far as Jessie was concerned, he deserved both.

“Good morning, brother. Nice of you to rise and shine.”

Brian wiped a hand over his wet face and turned to sit on the sodden couch. His blurry eyes found Jessie standing over him. His mouth dropped open, and his eyes went round before he gained his voice.

“You’re dead. I’ve hit that bottom people talk about. I’m dreaming, hallucinating after a night of drinking. It can’t be you. You’re gone and it’s all my fault.” He covered his face with his hands. Tears filled his voice, his pain and sorrow sharp and piercing. She refused to let it get to her, despite her guilt for making him believe she’d died. Brian needed a good ass-kicking, not a sympathetic ear.

“You’re going to wish I died when I get through with you, you miserable drunk. What the hell happened to you?” She handed over the mug of coffee and shoved it up to his mouth to make him take a sip. Reality setting in, he needed the coffee and a shower before he’d concentrate and focus on her and what she had in store for him.

“Don’t yell, my head is killing me.” He pressed the heel of his hand to his eye, probably hoping his brain wouldn’t explode.

Jessie sat on the coffee table in front of her brother, between his knees, and leaned forward with her elbows braced on her thighs.

“Listen to me, brother dear. It’s past time you cleaned up your act. Starting today, you are going to quit drinking yourself into a stupor. You’re going to take care of your wife and child. You’re going to show up for work on Monday morning clear eyed and ready to earn an honest day’s pay.”

“Work? I don’t have any job lined up for Monday.”

“Yes, you do. I gave Marilee the information. You report to James on Monday at the new housing development going up on the outskirts of town. You’ll earn a decent paycheck and have medical benefits for your family.

“The old man left you the house. I’ll go over tomorrow after the funeral to see what needs to be done to make it livable for you and Marilee. I, big brother, am going to make you be the man you used to be, because I can’t stand to see you turn into the next Buddy Thompson. You got that?” She’d yelled it at him to get his attention and to reinforce the fact that he’d created his condition. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he groaned in pain, all the reward she needed.

“If you don’t show up for work on Monday, I’m coming after you. And I’ll keep coming until you get it through that thick head of yours: you are not him. You’re better than that. So get your ass up, take a shower, mow the lawn, kiss your wife, tell her you love her and you aren’t going to be this asshole you’ve turned into anymore. You hear me?”

“Your voice is ringing in my head.” He stared into his coffee cup, but glanced up to say, “You look good. Life’s apparently turned out all right for you.”

Jessie shrugged that off, focused more on the lost look in Brian’s round, sad eyes.

“I thought you died that night. I left and he killed you. Where have you been?”

“Around. Mostly Solomon. I have a house about twenty miles outside of Fallbrook.”

“You do?” The surprise lit his face.

“I started my life over. It’s time you did the same.”

An Excerpt from

A Billionaires and Bikers Novella

by Cynthia Sax

Belinda “Bee” Carter is a good girl; at least, that’s what she tells herself. And a good girl deserves a nice guy—just like the gorgeous and moody billionaire Nicolas Rainer. Or so she thinks, until she takes a look through her telescope and sees a naked, tattooed man on the balcony across the courtyard. He has been watching her, and that makes him all the more enticing. But when a mysterious and anonymous text message dares her to do something bad, she must decide if she is really the good girl she has always claimed to be, or if she’s willing to risk everything for her secret fantasy of being watched.

An Avon Red Novella

I
’d told Cyndi I’d never use it, that it was an instrument purchased by perverts to spy on their neighbors. She’d laughed and called me a prude, not knowing that I was one of those perverts, that I secretly yearned to watch and be watched, to care and be cared for.

If I’m cautious, and I’m always cautious, she’ll never realize I used her telescope this morning. I swing the tube toward the bench and adjust the knob, bringing the mysterious object into focus.

It’s a phone. Nicolas’s phone. I bounce on the balls of my feet. This is a sign, another declaration from fate that we belong together. I’ll return Nicolas’s much-needed device to him. As a thank you, he’ll invite me to dinner. We’ll talk. He’ll realize how perfect I am for him, fall in love with me, marry me.

Cyndi will find a fiancé also—everyone loves her—and we’ll have a double wedding, as sisters of the heart often do. It’ll be the first wedding my family has had in generations.

Everyone will watch us as we walk down the aisle. I’ll wear a strapless white Vera Wang mermaid gown with organza and lace details, crystal and pearl embroidery accents, the bodice fitted, and the skirt hemmed for my shorter height. My hair will be swept up. My shoes—

Voices murmur outside the condo’s door, the sound piercing my delightful daydream. I swing the telescope upward, not wanting to be caught using it. The snippets of conversation drift away.

I don’t relax. If the telescope isn’t positioned in the same way as it was last night, Cyndi will realize I’ve been using it. She’ll tease me about being a fellow pervert, sharing the story, embellished for dramatic effect, with her stern, serious dad—or, worse, with Angel, that snobby friend of hers.

I’ll die. It’ll be worse than being the butt of jokes in high school because that ridicule was about my clothes and this will center on the part of my soul I’ve always kept hidden. It’ll also be the truth, and I won’t be able to deny it. I am a pervert.

I have to return the telescope to its original position. This is the only acceptable solution. I tap the metal tube.

Last night, my man-crazy roommate was giggling over the new guy in three-eleven north. The previous occupant was a gray-haired, bowtie-wearing tax auditor, his luxurious accommodations supplied by Nicolas. The most exciting thing he ever did was drink his tea on the balcony.

According to Cyndi, the new occupant is a delicious piece of man candy—tattooed, buff, and head-to-toe lickable. He was completing armcurls outside, and she enthusiastically counted his reps, oohing and aahing over his bulging biceps, calling to me to take a look.

I resisted that temptation, focusing on making macaroni and cheese for the two of us, the recipe snagged from the diner my mom works in. After we scarfed down dinner, Cyndi licking her plate clean, she left for the club and hasn’t returned.

Three-eleven north is the mirror condo to ours. I straighten the telescope. That position looks about right, but then, the imitation UGGs I bought in my second year of college looked about right also. The first time I wore the boots in the rain, the sheepskin fell apart, leaving me barefoot in Economics 201.

Unwilling to risk Cyndi’s friendship on “about right,” I gaze through the eyepiece. The view consists of rippling golden planes, almost like . . .

Tanned skin pulled over defined abs.

I blink. It can’t be. I take another look. A perfect pearl of perspiration clings to a puckered scar. The drop elongates more and more, stretching, snapping. It trickles downward, navigating the swells and valleys of a man’s honed torso.

No. I straighten. This is wrong. I shouldn’t watch our sexy neighbor as he stands on his balcony. If anyone catches me . . .

Parts 1 and 2 available now!

An Excerpt from

A Trust No One Novel

by Dixie Lee Brown

Assassin Alex Morgan will do anything to save an innocent life—especially if it means rescuing a child from a hell like the one she endured. But going undercover as husband and wife, with none other than the disarmingly sexy Detective Nate Sanders, may be a little more togetherness than she can handle. Nate’s willing to face anything if it means protecting Alex. She may have been on her own once, but Nate has one more mission: to stay by her side—forever.

W
hat was Alex doing in that bar? She had to be following him. It was too much of a coincidence any other way. Nate nearly flinched when he replayed the image of her dropping Daniels and then turning on those goons getting ready to shoot up the bar. Shit! Was she suicidal along with everything else? Anger, tinged with dread, did a slow burn under his collar. He needed to know what motivated Alex Morgan . . . and he needed to know now.

He clenched his teeth, whipped his bike into an alley, and cut the engine. If she was bent on getting herself killed, there was no fucking way it was happening on his turf.

She dismounted, uncertainty in her expression. As soon as she stepped out of the way, he swung his leg over and got in her face. “Take it off.” He pointed to the helmet.

Not waiting for her to remove it all the way, he started in. “What in the name of all that’s holy were you thinking back there? You could have gotten yourself killed.”

A sad smile swept her face and something in her eyes—a momentary hardening—gave him a clue to the answer he was fairly certain she’d never speak aloud. Ty had told him the highlights of her story. Joe had freed Alex from a life of slavery in a dark, dismal hole in Hong Kong. From the haunted look in her eyes, however, Nate would bet she hadn’t completely dealt with the aftermath. His first impression had been more right than he wanted to admit. It was quite likely that she nursed a dangerous little death wish, and that’s what had prompted her actions at the bar.

His anger receded, and a wave of protectiveness rolled over him, but he was powerless to take away the pain staring back at him. He could make a stab at shielding her from the world, but how could he stop the hell that raged inside this woman? Why did she matter so much to him? Hell, logic flew out the window a long time ago. He didn’t know why—only that she
did
. With frustration driving him, he stepped closer, pushing her against the bike. Her moist lips drew his gaze, and an overwhelming desire to kiss her set fire to his blood.

She stiffened and wariness flooded her eyes.

He should have stopped there, but another step put him in contact with her, and he was burning with need. He pulled her closer and gently slid his fingers through her hair, then stroked his thumb across her bottom lip.

Her breath escaped in uneven gasps and a tiny bit of tongue appeared, sliding quickly over the lip he’d just touched. Fear, trepidation, longing paraded across her face. Ty’s warning sounded in his ears again—she was dangerous, maybe even disturbed—but even if that was true, Nate wasn’t sure it made any difference to him.

“Don’t be afraid.”
Shit!
Immediately, he regretted his words. This woman wasn’t afraid of anything. Distrustful . . . yes. Afraid? He didn’t even want to know what could scare her.

Her eyes softened and warmed, and she stepped into him, pressing her firm body against his. He caught her around the waist and aligned his hips to hers. Ignoring the words of caution in his head, he bent ever so slowly and covered her mouth with his. Softly caressing her lips and tasting her sweetness, he forgot for a moment that they stood in an alley in a questionable area of Portland, that he barely knew this woman, and that they’d just left the scene of a real-life nightmare.

He’d longed to kiss her since the first time they’d met. She’d insulted his car that day, and not even that had been enough to get his mind off her lips. Good timing or bad—kissing her and holding her in his arms was long overdue.