Today’s 10,200-word Free Kindle Nation Short lands you in
Pushamataha County, Oklahoma. A black teen and his white girl friend have
disappeared.

After an altercation with white ruffians, a Choctaw Indian turns
up missing as well. It’s not a good time for a Jewish boy from Boston to spend
time in this place

The mystical warnings of a Choctaw holy man are ignored until it’s
too late to save citizens from the terror of good intentions gone awry.

The Hiding Place of Thunder

by Keith Remer

4.9 Stars –
26 Reviews

Kindle Price: $6.99

Text-to-Speech and
Lending: Enabled

Here’s the set-up:

Terrible things are happening in Pushmataha County, Oklahoma. A
black teen and his white girl friend have disappeared. After an altercation
with white ruffians, a Choctaw Indian turns up missing as well. It’s not a
good time for a Jewish boy from Boston to spend time in this place where it
seems minorities are suddenly unwelcome.

Sheriff Burl Hansen has his hands full even before fate forces
him to bond with the boy from Boston. Hansen, though, will not heed the
mystical warnings of a Choctaw holy man until it’s too late to save citizens
from the terror of good intentions gone awry.

In a Godly community where honorable men have strayed, only a
force beyond human comprehension can intervene from The Hiding Place of
Thunder.

From the reviewers:

“No writer has grabbed my attention since I read my first
John Grisham novel. If The Hiding Place of Thunder is an example of Keith
Remer’s novels to come, America and the world have discovered a great new
author. I am hooked, and a Remer fan for life.” -Steve Bender, producer,
director and author, 68 at 40 Retrospective and If I Can Dream

“Keith Remer is truly one of the most gifted storytellers
of our time. The Hiding Place of Thunder is a haunting and provocative
masterpiece, which leaves the reader no choice but to keep turning its pages.
It’s one of those books that will keep you thinking about it long after
you’ve finished reading it.” -Stacy D. Shelton, author, Me, the Crazy
Woman and Breast Cancer

Keith Remer knows his craft and weaves compelling stories taken
from real life. His novels present those kinds of reflective moments we need
to take pause with in our own lives. He has inspired and taught me. -Chris
Querry, author, Alat Farad, Eden’s Keys, and A Love Made Real, reviewer,
Myshelf.com

An Excerpt from

The Hiding Place of Thunder

Keith Remer

“YOU CALLED IN
TROUBLE,

AND I RESCUED YOU;

I ANSWERED YOU IN

THE HIDING PLACE OF
THUNDER…”

Psalm 81:7

ONE

“Put
the bat down, Herman, and stop calling me a son of a bitch.”

“This here is my bat, and you are standing on my land. So don’t go tellin’
me what to do, Burl. Besides, if I was to put this here baseball bat down, it’d
be kind of hard to knock yer head off with it…You goofy son of a bitch!”

Burl Hansen leaned back against the fender of his car and crossed two beefy
arms over a barrel chest. “Herman, don’t make me come over there and take
that damn thing away from you.”

Herman Grambs puckered his crusty lips and deposited a glob of thick black tobacco
juice between Hansen’s cowboy boots. “Some says you the biggest and
baddest son of a bitch in this county Burl. But you ain’t near big enough or
bad enough to take away my bat!”

Hansen unfolded his arms and pointed a thick index finger at the feisty little
welfare recipient. “It’s hard to make me angry Herman, but you’re about to
do it. You got about three seconds to throw that…”

A sudden beeping sound from within his car interrupted Hansen’s threat.

“What is that noise?” Grambs piped.

“It’s my cell phone,” Hansen grumbled as he pushed away from the
car’s fender. “You don’t move. I gotta see who’s calling.”

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Hell, I live here…you son of a bitch!”

Hansen grabbed the phone, pushed the talk button and barked, “This is
Burl.”

“Hi, honey.”

Hansen grimaced at the sound of his wife’s voice. She seemed to have a knack
for calling at the most inconvenient times.

“Who is it?” Grambs asked.

“It’s my wife.”

Grambs cupped a hand around one side of his mouth and hollered, “Howdy,
Vicki!”

“Herman Grambs says ‘Hello,'” Hansen relayed, then grumbled back to
Grambs, “Vicki says ‘Hi.'”

Turning his attention back to his wife, Hansen asked in his typically gruff
manner, “Whatcha need, Vicki?”

“Do you know what a bar mitzvah is?” The sweet voice
sounded distressed.

“A what?” Hansen countered.

“A bar mitzvah. I just watched one on T.V. It was on the Discovery
Channel.”

“A bar mitzvah? Yeah, yeah, it’s some kind of Jewish ceremony,”
Hansen said, doing nothing to conceal his agitation. Before Vicki gained a
chance to respond, Burl covered the phone with his hand and hissed at Grambs,
“You better throw that bat down!”

“You better kiss my ass!” Grambs hissed back.

“It’s a ceremony,” Vicki continued, “performed when a Jewish boy
turns thirteen that…”

“Oh, hell, not this again!” Hansen bellowed, and immediately wished
he hadn’t. Vicki hung up without another word. Despite his renowned terse
disposition, Burl Hansen didn’t relish hurting his darling wife’s feelings. He
felt really rotten, and feeling rotten did nothing to improve his already
tweaked temperament.

Hansen crammed the small phone into the rear pocket of his jeans and stomped
around to the back of his car. He popped the trunk and pulled out a
twelve-gauge pump shotgun, violently jerked the slide forward and back to
chamber a shell and whirled to level the barrel at Herman Grambs’ midsection.

“Drop that bat Herman, or I’m going to drop you.”

The bat hit the ground and both of Grambs’ hands went high into the air over
his head. “Goddammit Burl,” he whined, “I used to like you back
when we was in high school.”

“Everybody liked me back in high school Herman. I was a star
linebacker.”

“Yeah, you was a hell of a football player and a real nice feller, too.
Now that you’re the county sheriff though, you’ve become a sure enough
asshole!”

“Is that right? Well let me tell you something Herman. I liked you a whole
lot better before you started exposing yourself to young girls!”

“Young?” Herman squealed. “Hell Burl, she was fifteen if she was
a day!”

At the moment, Hansen needed no more than a simple spark to ignite his anger.
Vicki’s feelings were hurt, and the mere mentioning of a bar mitzvah had
turned Hansen’s thoughts to a fourteen-year-old boy way back east in Boston,
Massachusetts. Anytime and every time Hansen thought about this boy, his mood
darkened.

“Herman, I want you to get in the car, and I want you to shut up. If I
have to listen to one more word from your hillbilly mouth, I’ll probably pull
out your nasty tongue and beat you to death with it.”

Herman Grambs never seemed real smart, but he now proved to be no idiot. He
crawled into the car and managed to keep his mouth shut.

****

Darrell Baker prepared to
cross the street in front of the Pushmataha County Courthouse when Sheriff
Hansen pulled up in his cruiser. Newly implanted in the town of Antlers,
Oklahoma, the high school junior knew few adults other than his teachers, but
he knew of the sheriff. Although Burl Hansen presently served as a small time
cop in a God-forsaken land of hicks and rednecks, he’d once been phenomenally
famous in Darrell’s home town of Chicago, Illinois.

Darrell’s grandparents lived in this out-back country nearly all their lives.
Long before Darrell wound up here with his next of kin, he’d known Antlers to
be Burl Hansen’s home town and where the famed hero chose to return after he
retired from the National Football League.

This once awesome linebacker and a few other standouts from the Chicago Bears
had attracted Darrell Baker to football. Universities across the nation already
vied for Darrell’s tremendous passing arm. His grandparents and others assured
him the recent tragic change in his life and the subsequent move to this
backwoods dive would not hamper his lifelong dream of being a professional
quarterback. Darrell only hoped in the next four to five years, there would be
a greater presence of African-American quarterbacks in the professional ranks.

Because Hansen pulled his car into a parking space just feet away from him,
Darrell stopped in his tracks. He’d never been this close to a sports legend.
Darrell measured six-three and weighed two hundred and ten pounds. However, the
man unfolding from the driver’s seat of the muddy cruiser made him feel small.
Darrell guessed Hansen to be at least six-six and real close to three hundred
pounds. The former Bear sported a significant belly, but the rest of him still
looked capable of running down quarterbacks and crushing them at will.

****

Once he’d performed the arduous task of getting out from beneath the steering
wheel, Hansen adjusted the ball cap on his head and tucked his flannel shirt
into his jeans. Preoccupied with a boy in Boston he’d never even laid eyes on,
Hansen failed to notice the young man standing on the curb just a few feet
away.

“You’re Burl Hansen.”

The sheriff’s hand grasped the rear door handle to let Herman Grambs out of the
back seat. Instead, he dropped his hand and turned to face the big teenager.
“Yeah, I am. Who are you?”

“My name is Darrell Baker. I’m from Chicago, and I grew up watching you
play football.”

The athletic looking young
black kid named Baker set off bells in Hansen’s mind. Then he remembered.
“You’re Teddy and Martha Hallum’s grandson.”

“That’s me,” the boy nodded.

Hansen offered Darrell his right hand. “I heard what happened to your
mama. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” Darrell replied as he shook hands with Hansen.

“I also hear you are one heck of a quarterback.”

“I do what I can,” Darrell grinned.

“That’s what they say. I’m anxious to watch you play. When I got a few
spare minutes, we need to sit down and swap game stories.”

“Cool,” Darrell nodded, his grin widening.

Hansen turned back to the rear door of his car wondering if the boy in Boston
possessed any athletic abilities.

****

Darrell
Baker stepped out of the way as Sheriff Hansen opened the passenger’s door. The
man in the back with the tangled mess of thinning hair and scraggly beard did
not look at all happy. But neither did Hansen.

“Come on Herman, I don’t have all day,” the sheriff barked.

“Don’t rush me, you son of a bitch. I’m a by-god tax-payin’ citizen and I
pay your goddamned salary! So you got just as long as I want to take to
get…”

Hansen grabbed his prisoner by the scruff of the neck to interrupt the
declaration and jerk him from the back seat. The sheriff took several steps
before lowering the man enough so his feet touched the ground.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhh, my neck! You have done broke my fuckin’ neck!” the
stained and crusty man bellowed.

The sheriff maintained his grip, shaking the much smaller man like a rag doll.
“Shut up, you ignorant bastard or I will break your neck, both your arms
and your legs, too! Just shut the hell up!”

“Okay! Okay!” the prisoner managed through chattering teeth.

As Hansen shoved his captive in the direction of the courthouse, the man’s eyes
made contact with Darrell. “What the hell you lookin’ at, tar baby?”

Darrell thought the entire state of Oklahoma would be flat and bare, but he was
wrong. The Kiamichi Mountains, with thick forests of pines, surrounded the
southeastern county of Pushmataha. He heard the state referred to as the
Heartland and the Bible Belt. He thought the people from such a place would be
less hateful, hostile, and color conscious than the people of Chicago, but he
was wrong about that, too.

“He’s looking at an idiot, Herman,” Sheriff Hansen said before
kicking the man in the butt with the side of his boot. “Now get your ass
moving.”

The grungy man in Hansen’s custody had been the first person in Antlers ever to
verbally assault Darrell. He wasn’t, however, the first racist the newcomer
encountered. Mannerisms, looks, and subtle attitudes of some classmates had
Darrell believing that Antlers High housed more than its fair share of bigots.
It didn’t help that Darrell was one of only six blacks in the junior class of
ninety-eight students. Still, the majority seemed to have no problems with him
being a minority. Most had been cordial, and one in particular had been
downright friendly. Darrell’s reaction to this particular person had no doubt
prompted most of the racist attitudes.

Shelly Rafell had gorgeous blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She introduced
herself to Darrell during the second hour of his first Monday in the new
school. Her approach had been blatantly flirtatious, and what started as
friendly banter culminated in a date the following Friday. At Antlers’ one and
only movie theater, Darrell Baker and Shelly Rafell kissed and cuddled. Later,
in Shelly’s new Camaro, Darrell went where other boys had quite obviously
already been. Darrell and Shelly’s hand-holding the next week at school raised
more than one set of eyebrows.

The fact that some didn’t approve of the relationship didn’t bother Darrell one
little bit. He approved of it very much, and no matter what anybody else said
or thought about it, Darrell intended to take just as long as Shelly agreed to
give.

Darrell didn’t move from his place on the curb until his hero and the cracker
disappeared into the courthouse. Then he set out on his after school trek home.
Darrell didn’t intend to walk much longer. Having to walk in his old
neighborhood in inner-city Chicago was one thing. Practically everybody there
walked or took the subway. Walking in Antlers, though, proved altogether
another thing. No self-respecting high school junior in Antlers walked anywhere.
They drove. As soon as Granddaddy finished teaching him how, Darrell would be
driving as well.

In less than ten minutes, Darrell made it to the outskirts of town. With only a
few blocks left between him and his grandparents’ place, a white car pulled
alongside and slowed to a near stop. Darrell stooped to peer into the front
passenger window and immediately felt relieved to find an attractive red-head
smiling at him.

“You wouldn’t by any chance be our new football star now would you?”
The woman’s smile broadened as she brought the late model Ford to a complete
stop.

Darrell stepped up to the car and leaned in for a closer look. The contrast
between the woman’s very white skin and her long red hair appealed to him. The
tight and very short skirt riding high on bare, shapely legs practically took
his breath away. “I’m Darrell Baker, and I do play a little
football.”

“You are a tease, Darrell Baker. The word around town is you play a lot of
football, and play it very well.”

Darrell shrugged his broad shoulders and offered his best smile. A large set of
very dark sunglasses covered much of the woman’s pretty face, making it hard to
determine her age. If Darrell had to guess, though, he would put the woman in
her early thirties. Her smile really turned him on.

“Word gets around fast in this place,” Darrell chuckled.

“Oh honey, you got that right,” she giggled, “and if the word
was to ever get out that I saw our new football hero walking and didn’t offer
him a ride, well, I’d probably be thrown out of the football booster club! You
climb in this car, Darrell Baker, and let me give you a ride,” she said,
patting the seat beside her.

Darrell didn’t argue and wasted no time squeezing in next to her.

“My goodness, you are such a huge young man,” the woman cooed as she
blatantly scanned every inch of his body. “Your arms are as big around as
my legs,” she exclaimed before leaning toward Darrell to pat his left
bicep. “and hard as a rock!”

Her blouse gaped as she leaned, and Darrell zeroed in on more than a fair
amount of cleavage. Only after nearly swallowing his tongue did he manage to
mumble, “I work out quite a bit.”

“I guess you do,” the woman sighed, as her hand went from patting to
caressing his arm. “Tell me, Darrell Baker,” she continued as she
picked up his left hand and placed it on her cream-colored thigh, “have
you got time for a little ride before I take you wherever it is you’re
going?”

“Uh, yeah, sure, I got some time.”

The woman slammed the Ford into gear and gunned away from the curb as Darrell
stroked her soft thigh. Being on foot in Antlers, Oklahoma, wasn’t such a bad
thing after all.

****

“Oh, by
the way, my name is Shannon,” the woman in the red wig lied.

The Baker boy moved his hand only a few inches under her hiked up skirt and
started working to get a finger into her panties. “Nice to meet you,
Shannon,” the teen beamed.

Knowing she had several miles to drive, Shannon spread her legs just enough to
keep the boy occupied, then she pushed down harder on the gas pedal.

It became quickly apparent that Baker wasn’t going to be content just probing
and poking around her panties. When he started trying to work the undergarments
down her thighs, she faked a giggle. “I do like what you got in mind,
Darrell, but not while I’m flying down the road at seventy miles an hour. You
just wait ’til we get stopped and I’ll help you get those panties out of the
way!”

“I hear that,” Baker grinned as he moved his hands from beneath her
skirt to the buttons of her blouse.

Before he could free her breast for the whole passing world to see, the woman
hiding behind the sunglasses thought of something that might slow him down.
“Tell me, Darrell, why in the world would anyone leave a big, glamorous
city like Chicago to come to our little wide spot in the road?”

It worked. Baker let go of the buttons and straightened in his seat. “Oh,
uh, well, I stayed there with my mama, and she, uh, died.”

The woman acted surprised and faked a look of pity. “Oh, no, honey! That’s
terrible. How did she die?”

“Cancer,” Darrell sighed, turning his head to look out the window.

Realizing how quickly the memory of the loss extinguished the boy’s burning
desire, the woman fought back a smile. She now only needed to keep Baker’s mind
on his dead mother and off her tits just a couple of more miles. She didn’t
want the black bastard pawing at her when she parked the car under the dense
clump of trees next to the Kiamichi River.

free kindle nation shorts Free Kindle Nation Shorts, Keith Remer, the hiding place of thunder

A Free Excerpt From Jenna McCormick’s B Cubed One: Born, Our Romance of the Week!

January 24, 2012 by KND

Jenna McCormick’s B Cubed One: Born:

B Cubed Book One Born

by Jenna McCormick

4.7 stars – 3 Reviews

Kindle Price: $2.99

Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled

Don’t have a Kindle? Get yours here.

Here’s the set-up:

Born: Natural born humans are precious few and dwell in darkness. Bred: Genetically engineered slaves who are the protectors of the Born. Borg: The cybernetically enhanced enclave that split from the Born humans. These three factions are all that remains of the human race after the world stopped turning. Scavenging in the darkness for what little is left, the war between them rages on though few know why. It begins with a child’s prophesy and can only end when they unite. Or die. B Cubed Book One: Born. From the moment he spies her silhouette cast by the bonfire, Cormack understands what it is to yearn for something he will never possess. Breds are made to provide for the natural born humans, dig their homes deep beneath the surface of the earth and to protect them from the ever-present cyborg threat. A Bred who reaches beyond his station will be recycled immediately, yet Cormack cannot get her visage out of his mind. Until he unearths a box, buried long before the earth stopped spinning. Task Mistress Allora has no wish to brutalize the Bred worker she finds hoarding treasure, but as a servant of the colony that raised her from infancy, she is duty bound to report anything unusual to the Overlord, even if it costs the blue-eyed man his life. Yet something about the way Cormack watches her forces Allora to reevaluate her understanding of right and wrong. For this genetically engineered soldier is her only protection against the cyborgs who seek what they have discovered, a journal written by the prophetess Cassandra and a way to end the warring between the factions forever.

(This is a sponsored post)

The author hopes you will enjoy this free excerpt:

Cassandra’s Journal

November 15, 2011

The new doctor said I need to keep a dream journal, to keep track of my visions. He doesn’t understand they come all the time, whether I’m awake or sleeping. I agreed because I had to, but what he doesn’t know is that I am keeping two. One is make believe, all about ice cream and pony rides, boys I like and mean kids at school. Normal stuff—things he wants to see because then he’ll say I’m fixed and won’t call CPS on Mom and Daddy.

This one is about what I really see. The darkness, the burning buildings and the enormous deserts. In my dreams the Earth doesn’t spin anymore, a machine made it stop, and billions of people spun off into space. Those who remain are nomads, following the darkness so they don’t die from exposure. Using artificial light sources, they set up farming communities near the few freshwater lakes that have not been swallowed up by the polar oceans.

Usually, I float over the scorched landscape, the one great supercontinent surrounded by the two polar oceans. I see the piles of bleached bones on the light side, they span for miles, stretching back through time. Then, I find the survivors. They live in small clusters, the Born colonies as they call themselves. They are the descendants of those that did believe the prophesy and went deep underground. The Bred do all the work though, people grown like crops. The Born are too few, too important to do manual labor. They must carry on their lines and police the Bred.

Last night’s dream was different though. I’ve never been in the dream before, but this time I viewed the world through the eyes of a man. He was tired and sweaty, but his fingers had turned almost blue with tilling a new field for planting. Since the world is dark for half the year there are no real seasons anymore. Light and dark, hot and cold. Crops are grown year round inside plastic tents.

His job was to prepare the hard ground to take seeds after the structure was enclosed. The shovel burrows into the soil and clangs against something hard. He looks around, but he is the last one left, having given up his meal privileges for one of the children. The Breds must earn their food through work, but he has skipped many earned meals to help feed an ill child. I can feel his hunger, his stomach aches. He’s almost to the point where eating would make him sick and there aren’t any in this camp that would give him a meal. If he grows too weak to work, he will be recycled for usable parts.

Curious, he drops the shovel and uses his hands to dig around the metal thing, finding the edges. It’s a box, like the size of a lunchbox but thicker. The supervisors will have him flogged if he doesn’t report anything out of the ordinary, but he is angry and tired and thinks maybe he was supposed to find this.

There are too many Breds in the barracks at this time of day so he goes to the barn. I can smell the hay and the poop that the animals have made since the last time their stalls were mucked out. The horses have all been tended for the shift, no one else is inside.

Settling down in an empty stall, he runs his dirty hands over the smooth surface. The metal is rough and cold after being in the ground so long. I can feel how fast his heart beats inside his chest and want to beg him to open the box.

“You there! What are you doing?”

He jumps at the sound of her voice and glances up. It’s the woman, the supervisor he’s seen on barracks patrol. She has a reputation for being cruel, but he can tell she is not from the look in her eyes. He has known cruel Borns before, the ones that punish the Bred just because they can.

She is beautiful, with red-gold hair that she keeps tucked inside her warrior’s helmet. He has only seen her without it once but he remembers it vividly, how she looked in front of the bonfire.

Will she have him flogged? He looks down at the box again. If he is going to be whipped, he will give her a reason.

“Don’t!” I scream when he reaches for the latch.

She uncoils the whip from her belt. “You leave me no choice.”

He pivots away from the blow, offering his scarred back, still cradling his treasure. The whip whistles and the sharp crack wakes me up. My back hurts and when I looked in the mirror this morning I have a scar between my shoulder blades.

Chapter One

“What are you doing?” The Bred asked Allora as she bent down to examine his back. He was no stranger to a sound lashing, his back an intricate web work of scar tissue that stood out in sharp relief next to his golden skin tone. Shit, she wished he would have just handed over the box when she’d ordered him the first time.

“Patching you up, you ungrateful cur.” His eyes stayed shut as she produced the poultice gel from her utility belt and aimed the dispenser at the throbbing wound. “You ready to hand over your prize?”

He nodded once and she applied the gel immediately. He had not been so cooperative in the past; otherwise the supervisor on duty would have healed him right away. Breds were known to be thick-skulled, the only teacher they respected was pain but Allora saw no reason to let one suffer any longer than necessary.

“I just found it, out in the new field.” Still he didn’t let go.

His big body trembled in relief and she allowed him thirty seconds to regain his composure before making her demand. “Now, hand over the box.”

“I only wanted to see—”

Allora cut him off with a clipped tone. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

He shuddered once and extended his hand. She didn’t reach for it right away, that was an ignorant move worthy of a new supervisor, not a second level task mistress. Instead she watched his face. Breds had no control over their emotions and Allora had some proficiency in understanding them.

Which is why I’m still alive.

She expected to see malice or a promise of retribution written across his features, but instead there was only a quiet longing. And he wasn’t staring at the box.

“Please, I want to know what’s in there.” Despite the please, he didn’t beg, just asking for his due.

Allora hesitated. There was no rule against a Bred witnessing a discovery. Oftentimes they were present when a new field yielded surprises. The regs stated that a supervisor rank or higher must control the situation. “All right, you can open it.”

He didn’t thank her, obviously a proud lug. Allora expected nothing more. Politeness was irrelevant as long as he obeyed. She watched him shift to his side gingerly, as if unsure whether her poultice would hold. She noticed the hollows under his cheekbones, the gauntness to his entire frame and asked, “How many meals have you gone without?”

He refused to meet her gaze. “Why do you care?”

She fingered her whip. “Don’t push me, Bred. I don’t want to beat you again, but insubordination will not be tolerated.”

This time he did look up, his bright blue eyes alight with an unholy fire as he stared at her. Allora had to steel her reserve to keep from backing away. His voice was low as he whispered, “There are those who need it more.”

Holding his stare, she dug into her hip pocket and withdrew a nutri packet. “I agree.”

He frowned, looking from her to the packet and back. She jiggled it impatiently and when he proffered his hand, she dropped it into his grip. He stared at it warily and she sighed, loathed to explain her actions, but knowing he would not eat until she did so.

“There is more than enough food to go around and I see no reason why any ought to starve.”

This time he did surprise her. “Thank you.”

The corners of her mouth curved upward. “Manners from a Bred? Will wonders never cease?”

“I have a name, Supervisor,” he muttered, opening the packet.

She raised an eyebrow at his distain. “As do I. I’ll give you a hint—it is not Supervisor.”

He nodded once. “I am called Cormack.”

Despite her best judgment, she had to ask. “How old are you, Cormack?”

He finished his meal and swallowed, his shoulders stiffening infinitesimally. “Thirty four.”

Double shit. Allora regretted her need to ask. At almost three and a half decades, Cormack of the bright blue eyes stood on the threshold of a minefield. Any transgression at all and he would be sent to the draining chamber, broken down into parts which could then be used to sustain Born humans. Or pressed down into the viscous fluid that would incubate a whole new generation of Breds.

“Well, Cormack. I am not a supervisor but a second level task mistress. It would serve you well to recognize the difference.” She tapped the infinity insignia on her lapel.

His eyes went wide. “Task Mistress? I have never encountered one of your designation before. Forgive me.”

Allora ground her teeth together. That was because most who reached the task designations no longer walked the planting fields, letting the supervisors handle the Breds. “It is not a punishable offence.”

Silence reigned between them and almost as though it had been choreographed, they both stared down at the box.

“Go ahead, open it.” Allora put a thin thread of command in her tone, hoping he understood that she was in no mood for games.

Cormack ran his hand lovingly over the grime-encrusted box, his slow caress denoting awe and wonder. Her body tingled in the most unusual places as she watched his long fingers fiddle with the latch, careful not to break it. She scowled, shifting her weight to ease her odd discomfort. What is the matter with me?

The locking mechanism gave way with ease, and Cormack licked his lips as he gripped the top of the strongbox. Allora’s own tongue darted out before she realized it. Glancing from her to the box and back again, Cormack studied her mouth in a most inappropriate way.

The constraints of her thermal gear grew tighter, her skin prickled against the layers of fabric. Her nipples, peaked from the cold, felt sensitive as his tongue emerged again.

“Get on with it already!” she snapped, unwilling to prolong this bizarre encounter. To feel urges for a Bred? The only lowlier disgrace would be to mount a Cyborg.

For a heartbeat she felt sure he would ignore her command and keep eye contact, see how far he could push her. She was too close to him now to use her whip and if he attacked, she’d have no choice but to inject him with the sedative in her gauntlet and have him hauled off to be drained.

Curiosity won out and he raised the lid to the metal box. His eyes went wide and he threw it to the side and scrambled away, curling into a defensive posture in the dust.

“What is it?” Allora frowned.

He flung himself at her feet, forehead touching her boots, hands trembling. “Please, I didn’t know.”

She glanced to where the box had landed and at the clear plastic bag that protected a book. Triple decker shit on a stick.

Chapter Two

Cormack watched in horror as the task mistress strode to pick up the book, his heart thundering against his ribcage. It had been going so well too, she’d been quick to strike but he understood he’d given her no choice. As a woman, she could not afford to be more lenient, lest the Bred take advantage of her.

Her beauty stunned him. Pale unmarred flesh, amethyst eyes and a curl of brilliant flame-red hair escaping the confines of her helmet. A dream, so vivid compared to the bleak landscape. For the endless moment when their gazes had locked he felt some sort of connection to her. Then he’d opened the blasted box. Even knowing what awaited him—he couldn’t help but stare at it, at her holding it. One quick glimpse of all he ever wanted.

And would never have.

He swallowed once, determined to take his punishment like a man. Perhaps his death would serve as a warning to others who found strange objects from the long deposed civilizations. Curiosity is not worth one’s life.

“Mother puss bucket, this is not my night,” she muttered. Taking off her helmet and setting it down he watched, enraptured as her red gold hair spilled free, lava flowing from a volcano.

In that moment, seeing her irritated expression and contemplating his own death, Cormack realized pride was not one of his strengths. “Please, Task Mistress. I’ll do anything. I am not ready for the journey to be over.”

She heaved a sigh, as though the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. “You know the law, Cormack. Any Bred found in possession of a book is to be recycled immediately. I may not agree with it, but I am its servant, my sole purpose to enforce for the greater good of this colony.”

He cast about wildly for anything he might have to barter. “Can’t we just…pretend this never happened? No one else has to know.”

A muscle jumped in her jaw. “I’ll know.”

Crawling to her on hands and knees, he swallowed before offering, “I’ll service you.”

She didn’t speak. He dared to glance up. Her unusual eyes revealed nothing of what she thought or felt—if she felt anything at all.

Taking her silence as a positive sign, he pushed forward, reaching out until one hand grasped her calf through the leather of her boot. “Have you never wondered what it would be like, to be pleasured by a Bred? No man would work as hard to bring you satisfaction. I vow it.”

“Do you do this often, Cormack? Barter your sexual services to the supervisors so they turn a blind eye?” Her tone was colder than outside the protective shield around the barn. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of fresh hay and aroused woman with his keen senses. She needed what he could give and oh, how he wanted to give it. All had not been lost yet, he could see her hesitation when she breathed, “I am not a man with an unruly cock to be tempted by such a proposal.”

“This would be the first time for me.” His fingers crept up to where the thin material of her stockings peeped out over the boot. Boldly, he caressed the delicate crease at the back of her knee for he had nothing to lose and everything to gain. “Can’t you imagine how incredible it would feel, to be tongue-fucked by a man desperate to please you?”

Because he touched her, he felt her tremble. So, she had been affected by his offer. He would not have made it with any other Born, but his task mistress…he could already taste her essence on his lips, imagine the silk of her wet flesh, hear her gasps and moans as he brought her to climax again and again.

“Release me,” she ordered. He lifted his head, staring up over her thermal plated armor. It had been molded to her curvaceous form and his hands itched to undress her, see all of her. His face was even with her groin and he breathed deeply, enjoying her feminine scent. If I’m going to be damned, I will damn well earn it.

Breds wore thin thermal cloth to cover their skin, not this hefty armament. It took him a moment to discover where the ties to her garments were located. She trembled in his arms. One of the horses whickered softly.

“I don’t want this,” she protested, but her body told a different tale. The ties gave way and her armor clattered to the ground. Beneath it she wore only a thin layer of fabric, too sheer to be thermally charged. The armor had hidden the full lushness of her curves beneath its bulk, the delicate flare of her round hips, the gentle swells of her breasts. She still wore her boots and the gauntlets. He feared she might stop him if he tried to remove either. And he wanted this taste of her, more than his next breath.

“Yes, you do.” Guided by instinct more primal than time herself, he dared to argue, nuzzling her mound through the fabric, moving slowly so as not to startle her, as if gentling a wild mare. Would her pubic hair be the same color as the flaming tresses above, or would they be darker, hiding the mysteries of her sex? His hands slowly bunched the fabric until he’d gathered it to her waist. Red, the same vivid red curls. He moved in even closer, letting his breath fall on her sensitive flesh.

She gasped and her gauntlets clattered to the ground, the book with them. Triumph roared through him along with an unbelievable giddiness. He wanted to fall on her like a ravening beast, part her folds and lick her madly. But he’d promised her a unique and incomparable experience.

An empty crate sat nearby. Turning it over he guided one of her boots to the top so he had enough room to maneuver between her parted thighs. Letting go of the dress, fabric billowed down, trapping him in paradise. He ran his fingers along the silk of her leg, his gaze fixed on her sex.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered as his thumbs parted her wider. “My mouth is watering to kiss you, to lap up your sweet juices.”

“You shouldn’t,” she whispered, but there was need in her tone as well.

He stared at his calloused hands, rough and cold from hard labor. She practically steamed with liquid heat. He sucked one finger into his mouth, warming and wetting the digit with his saliva as best he could. No, not good enough. His tongue was softer and he had to have a taste.

He touched her wet core first, groaning at his first perception of her sweet lube. She cried out in response and he went deeper, probing the entrance to her body before lashing her clitoris in a rapid fire rhythm. Cormack had performed this act countless times with countless lovers and yet this was a first for him. He wanted the taste and smell of her invading his senses as much as he wanted to live.

Her legs trembled and instinct took over as he gripped the swells of her ass, keeping her upright and holding her to him while he feasted on her sex. He looked up through the transparent swath of fabric and drank in every detail. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted as she gasped for breath. Her chest heaved, large luscious breasts tipped with erect nipples. Her belly quivered as did her thighs. His cock ached for release but he ignored it, determined to send her even higher.

“My delicious task mistress,” he whispered, dragging a finger down through her saturated flesh to swirl around her opening. He watched in fascination as her sex clenched, her breaths becoming shallower. His words turned her on as much as his touch.

“Cormack.” Her eyelids fluttered open and that sizzle of connection burned through him, just like before. Groaning, he swirled his tongue over her folds again, working a finger into her snug channel.

Cormack didn’t understand when his penetration of her sex stopped. His fingertip brushed what felt like a barrier, halting his exploration. What is this? He frowned and thrust harder. She gasped, her body tensing as pleasure drained out of her. His heart rate kicked up as he thought, she’s a virgin? Whatever he did next could mean life or death.

If she’d been one of the Bred he would suck her clit until she came then fuck her hard and fast, keeping her riding the peak waves to orgasm. She wasn’t of his kind though and he had no idea what the protocol might be. Don’t overthink it, just react.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, withdrawing himself from beneath her skirts.

She shook her head once, her breaths ragged. “Get out and tell no one of this.”

Lowering his eyes, he nodded and fled.

Chapter Three

Allora watched Cormack go, fighting to reclaim control over her body. For a moment the phantom of his mouth caressed her sex again. Stubble scraping her inner thigh, his groan of ecstasy filling her ears as he pleasured her. His wet heat manipulating her own before cold air invaded, snapping her out of her stupor. Nothing felt as it ought, her heartbeat too fast, breaths shallow and her stomach filled with liquid fire. What have I done?

Wobbling on shaky legs, she retrieved her armor, righting her clothing as best she could without her maid. The hour had grown late and with any luck everyone would be busy feasting in the main hall so she could slip back to her room and wash away the evidence of this encounter.

He has to be drained. Bad enough that she’s let him take such liberties on her traitorous body, but she could not allow him to tell others of what had happened. Her reputation aside, if the Breds started offering sex in exchange for leniency, the Borns would lose control over their creations and no one would do the work they had precious little time to do.

Donning her helmet, she strode from the stable and headed toward the servant’s entrance to the tunnels the Born lived in this time of year, all the while compiling a list of reasons why Cormack had to die. It’s almost his time—his life will be over soon enough. A Bred who can’t work isn’t worth the sheets he sleeps in. The book sealed his fate.

The book.

Damn, she’d forgotten all about it, so lost in the new sensations cascading through her. Pivoting on her heel, she picked up her pace to a fast trot, needing to retrieve the cursed object before another Bred stumbled across it and shared in Cormack’s unfortunate fate.

Wind buffeted against her face as she struggled with the barn door. The shield must have failed again. Shivering, Allora could not help but wonder how much longer they could survive on the surface. Reports of glaciers forming had come in from a few of the northern colonies and even now, Breds dug tunnels beneath the surface, aiming for the earth’s beating heart, the only real source of natural heat left to them. And other dangers lurked below the liquid mantel. Could the planet sustain them? So many species were already dead or dying, the food chain crumbling from the bottom and working its way up.

Horses started as the door blew shut behind her, the wind shield flickering from lack of solar power. The splintered wood had been thoroughly warped from the six months of nonstop sun that had just ended and was barely any sort of barricade for the violent winds sweeping down from the north to buffet the structure. Some of the larger settlements had dug subterranean stalls for their livestock but with only a few dozen Bred doing the heavy lifting, Allora knew her colony couldn’t spare the laborers for such a task until the barn would no longer suffice.

Bending down, she scooped up the book. It was not an official publication, which would immediately have to be catalogued by the Born librarian for historical purposes. No, the cover had not been emblazoned with a title and when she opened it, saw that the words were not computer generated but written in a spidery scrawl. She flipped to a random page.

December 7, 2017

I know you are reading this, Allora.

She blinked, fumbling the book, dropping the bag altogether. No way could I have read that right. Sucking in a deep breath, she straightened the book and started again.

Yes, Task Mistress Allora, I’ve seen you and your discovery of my journal.

By the time you read this, my time will have ended. Your time is about to begin.

“’Tis madness,” though she whispered aloud, Allora couldn’t look away, enraptured by the words on the page.

I know nothing that I write within these pages will convince you immediately,

I could not even convince my own parents that I saw the future. It is my curse,

to see what is to come and live on unable to change it. From this point on,

your purpose is murky, your decisions yet unmade.

There are many possible futures for the world, Allora.

And all of them start with you.

For now, take my journal and hide it. No one else needs to shoulder this burden than the ones that already do. Hurry, now, before the overlord finds you.

The mention of the overlord jerked her out of the surreal haze that seemed to engulf her ever since she’d entered the barn. Slipping the book back in the plastic sheath, she hid it inside her armor and sprinted for the tunnel.

The clattering of clay dishes and cups was a dull roar compared to the jovial sounds of the colonists. As per usual, Borns sat and talked and laughed while Breds scurried about doing their bidding. Allora kept her head turned away, but she was not fast enough.

“Where have you been?” The thunderous boom of Overlord Mag’s voice echoed throughout the caverns. Even the torches appeared to flicker at the question, as though they too feared displeasing her adopted father.

Squaring her shoulders, she whirled to face Mag. His fat, trout-like lips curled in disgust and she could smell the liquor on his breath. How he could sleep, when every day he consumed her weight in alcohol while Bred children cried themselves to sleep from hunger was beyond her.

“Doing the rounds, Overlord.” The last time she’d used his name he’d struck her so hard, her jaw had been dislocated. Mag deserved her obedience, but she would prefer to be as far away from his stench as possible. “There were reports of wild dogs raiding the harvest bins and—”

A slashing motion of his hand cut her off before she could make up a phony report. “I’d hope you would have dressed for dinner, since we have company. But the soldier maiden is not without her virtues, eh, Gaul?”

Gritting her teeth together, Allora turned to face the bulbous blond who reached no higher than her chin. And that was without her boots. Gaul smirked up at her. “We were just discussing our possible colony merger. It seems that your group has a bounty of untapped…assets.” He looked directly at her breastplate as he formed the last.

Forcing herself to endure this humiliation, Allora lifted her chin. Would Mag ever tire of playing matchmaker for this swollen troll? Gaul must hold something of value, for every Born woman in the colony had been offered to him as soon as she came of age. First Allora’s two adopted sisters, who had found Born husbands of their choosing, much to Gaul’s irritation. Now, it was her turn.

Turning her cool gaze on Mag she said, “May I consult with you in private, sir?”

He nodded once, blustering out orders to Breds who scurried about refilling food troughs, and clay goblets.

Not even a week back in this place and already the Borns had settled in to their typical sloth-like lifestyles. Allora shook her head, knowing there was nothing she could say to change his stance and knowing she needed to try just the same. “Father, why do you not change the supervisor rotation? We have more than enough—”

Mag slammed his goblet down on a stone table and whirled to face her, backing her up against the tunnel wall. “Shut up or I’ll cut out your impertinent tongue! Born women are not supposed to work at anything other than pleasing their men. We have Bred to do the work and the men will supervise the Bred.”

Allora lifted her chin, though she wasn’t about to meet his bloodshot gaze. “So why was I allowed to be appointed Task Mistress?” She cringed as the question came out, wishing she could call the words back inside and tuck them away.

“Because no Born male in his right mind would have you and your odd ideas!” Mag sniffed and gripped her shoulder. “Lucky for us, Gaul has no mind and a large hive of tunnels we could access if a civil union was in place. Stupid sod sees nothing but a pair of big titties. A word of warning, daughter—learn to curb your tongue because if you ruin my merger I will cut it out.”

Her suspicions confirmed, Allora shrank from his touch. “So I am to be sold off like some prize heifer?”

He wagged his index finger in her face. “You are to be married off in a joining of clans. We are holding a banquet tomorrow night. The official announcement will be made then, so long as all the arrangements have been reached by that time.”

Allora swallowed. “What if I have no wish to wed?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “By colony law, that is your right. But, you will be disowned from my family. I doubt any would take in a rootless wench with no kin.” His gaze roved over her in an assessing manner, his sneer telling he found her lacking in every possible way. “Wear something appropriate to your station because you are about to be promoted from Task Mistress to fiancé.”

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January 23, 2012 by KND

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In The Name Of The Father

by Judi Coltman

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Liz’s best friend rode off on the back of a motorcycle when she was 16 years old. Her body parts washed up on the shores of a Virginia beach community days later, prompting Liz’s parents to sequester her away to Richmond, far away from the vicious murder. Now on her own, Liz returns to take back that part of her life and make peace with the events of her 16th summer. John Williams’ heart broke when, after being questioned in the grisly murder, Liz’s parents spirited her away for good, leaving him grieving for his forsaken love. With the guidance of his father, the community preacher, John moves on with a clear understanding of his life’s mission. When another body turns up, savagely hacked-up on the side of the road, safety becomes elusive, even in the small community church where the answers are hidden. Liz and John have to face the truth that the killer is still out there. Watching. Waiting for them.

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The author hopes you will enjoy this free excerpt:

Prologue

It always seemed to occur during the 10 o’clock service. After the Confession of Faith, when Rev. Matthew Williams intoned, “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost,” the sun would hit the stained glass image of Jesus’ last moments on the cross and create a conflux of light play throughout the sanctuary. Colorful beams of light fractured and danced across the congregation making Matthew feel as if he, himself, had created a miracle. Satisfaction penetrated his body as he lowered his arms and finished, “Amen.”
The congregation, his congregation, responded with a collective and affirming, “Amen.”
Matthew had recently taken over the church from its retired pastor. His first parish, Matthew was both inspired and compelled to deliver His word with enthusiasm. He wanted to bring the congregation closer as a group and closer to God. It was his job. It was his mission. He took it very seriously. So far, it seemed, the congregation was responding. Attendance and tithing were up and Matthew wore this as his own mantel of pride. He didn’t think God would mind because it was all for Him.
Gazing out at the congregation as the offering was collected. Matthew surveyed the attendance. He enjoyed this later service because it brought out the younger families and it gave him an opportunity to inspire the youth to give service to God. It was certainly time better spent than the alternative- hanging out at the schoolyard, or the other mischievous activities that kids in small towns managed to find.
Matthew had established a youth group for teens, Sunday school classes for adults and potluck dinners as well, all meeting on Wednesday nights. If he could get more than one day a week from his people, he knew he had a better chance of inspiring the flock.
Rosewood was a burg situated in a valley of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. The only way in or out was the road that traversed one of the mountains, allowing for occasional glimpses of the picturesque view of the town below. Like a painting, on top of a small hill was a stone church, a soaring steeple and bell tower, beckoning people to come in. Rosewood was a town that evoked comfort and peace. Matthew was inspired when informed that his first parish would be in a small town. He looked forward to an opportunity to really know the people, to guide them, and to reveal the Truth in all its glory. Enthusiasm radiated from his soul and he eagerly began to grow his church. And Rosewood followed. The older members, staunch in their beliefs, appreciated Matthew’s conviction and his adherence to scripture. The younger members enjoyed his passion and his commitment to them as well as to their children. It wasn’t long, though, before the older church ladies began to question his bachelorhood and insisted on finding him a nice girl.
A “nice girl” was exactly what he had in mind. He had spent a lot of time planning what he hoped would be his life’s path. There had never been a doubt that he would give his life to God. He felt that call in his youth and followed it without question. Now, with his own church, the next stop on the path was to find a wife. It would not be appropriate for a pastor to date around and thus; Matthew did not wish to waste time. Instead he focused on the few young ladies who seemed rapt by his sermons. It didn’t hurt if they were attractive, and seemed somewhat interested in him. But, those ladies had been few, mostly older and not quite part of the perfect picture Matthew had drawn in his head.
The ushers returned to the front of the sanctuary with the collection baskets full. Matthew blessed the offering and sent the ushers back to count and record the gifts. The sun was still shining through the stained glass window but the light play was subsiding. A single golden ray settled on a pew about five rows back, illuminating the lone person seated there on the aisle. A beautiful dark haired young woman sat in full anticipation of what might come next. Her hair, pulled back into a low bun revealed a slender neck, milky white skin and slim shoulders. She wore a lavender colored spring suit with a white blouse, pearl earrings and necklace that draped down, lightly brushing her collarbones, a simple pair of lavender pumps to match. The light from the window emphasized heavy dark mascara on her eyelashes, and vibrant berry colored lips. More than her appearance though, was her obvious enthrallment with the sermon. With every word, she would nod her head, smile, and wait for more. So many of the younger women these days were caught up in the post hippie movement, touting “free thought, free love, free sex” for which Matthew was shamefully intrigued. If he allowed his imagination to travel down those unfamiliar roads, the fear of getting lost in those thoughts always brought him back, which made Matthew shudder with embarrassment. He had never felt comfortable with forward women, but it was difficult to find a woman willing to consider becoming the wife of a preacher. The expectations were great. Matthew’s wife would be expected to head up or involve herself with the Women’s Group, hostess the coffee hour and be there for Wednesday Night Sunday School. She would also have to represent him in all of her social events as well as support him every Sunday. Children were a forgone conclusion. Matthew had stringent requirements for the wife he imagined and beauty was not the least of them. It was only fitting that a charismatic preacher have a beautiful wife who openly adored him. Perhaps an old-fashioned notion, but Matthew clung to it as if it were carved in stone. Matthew could not take his eyes off the young woman and he was determined to introduce himself as the congregation filed out.
Matthew clapped the shoulders of his elderly members as he shook hands and gently guided them through the line that snaked back into the sanctuary. He could see her dark hair and lavender jacket peeking around the throng who slowly filed out, greeted Matthew and then meandered out the door to enjoy their Sundays. His palms were sweating in anticipation as he prepared himself to be charming, and calmly waited for her to walk through the door.
“I felt as if you were speaking directly to me Rev. Williams.” Her eyes were blue and glinted with flecks of green. Irish. She must be Irish. Thin, not too tall, full lips made obvious with the red lipstick and those eye were the most incredibly expressive eyes he had ever seen. They reminded him of the fractured light play that occurred every Sunday without fail.
“Well, that’s my job,” he said and then visibly shuddered at the stupidity of his response. “I mean, I’m glad you got something out of it.” He was shaking her hand, but reluctant to let it go. She gently tugged, smiled and backed away so he could greet the next person. As he released her hand, he reached out again, “Wait! What’s your name?”
“Leslie,” she said and lowered her eyes in a shy smile.
“Join me for coffee,” he blurted out, “in my office, after I am finished here.” Matthew had never been so bold in his approach.

The Rev. William’s office was roomy, with two leather chairs across from his organized desk and a shelf of books behind his own chair. He held the door open for Leslie and sniffed the fading but sweet scent of her perfume as she walked in and took one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Coffee then?” he asked pouring some into his own mug.
“Yes,” she replied, “please.”
“Cream and sugar?”
“Both, thank you,” she responded nervously. He was a nice-looking man, he had certainly been paying attention to her during the sermon. This sudden small talk almost seemed like a step backward. But, she thought, maybe this is the way it is supposed to work. They talked about church, small town living, Leslie’s job at the Crowley’s make-up counter, and their hopes for the future.
A cup of coffee. A conversation. The discovery that the other offered something in the way of hope for their futures. To Leslie, the simplicity of it all stood in complete opposition with the life she had sought after high school. Her desire to escape the constraints of a small town, with its accepted and expected course of life: get a job, get married and have children. It wasn’t what she thought she wanted at all. Leslie wanted to be a model, splashed across magazine covers, she wanted to be the face sought after for commercials, she wanted to be famous. She thought moving to the city would make that happen, when really, it only served to make her appreciate the security of her small town life.
Matthew was charming and soft-spoken when they were together, which became often as the summer progressed. He made her feel significant, wholesome. Charismatic and adored when he preached, Leslie found herself falling in love with this man who was the antithesis of what she had loved before. She loved Matthew in ways she didn’t know existed and he, had fallen for her.
It thrilled Leslie that Matthew, while respecting her, acknowledged that she made him want to do things he knew were not right. Matthew too, was overcome with his desire for Leslie, her enjoyment of simple things, her carefree spirit that transcended serious spiritual discussions and simple conversations. It took deep meditation and prayer for Matthew to quell his physical desire and allow Leslie to reinvent herself from the inside out. And in that time, Leslie completed the picture Matthew had been coveting since his days in seminary.

The hills rolled out from the house, the meadow grasses rippling in the light breeze. Lingering over a cool, crisp white wine and country white bread freshly baked in the church oven, Matthew and Leslie relished the afternoon sun. From their blanket, on the hill, they could see not only the parish house but the chapel with its steeple rising high above the church overlooking the town below. Leslie spread creamy butter on a slice of bread and laid back on the chenille bedspread Matthew brought for a picnic blanket. Her dark hair had grown long and wavy over the summer and she cared less and less about make-up. Matthew convinced her that less make-up was more attractive and Leslie had complied willingly. She loved not having the burden of working to look like she was naturally “photo ready” as had once been the expectation. She embraced this new simplicity and Matthew felt pride in her recognition of true beauty.
Matthew reached down and brushed the hair from Leslie’s cheek. She smiled and took a small bite of bread, chewing in a slow mesmerizing cadence. He stared, for a moment, into her deep, blue eyes and saw his own reflection. He was happy. God had brought this perfect woman to his church, she came willingly and he knew what his mission was. “Leslie, my life has been like sitting at the top of a precipice.” He took a deep breath as Leslie continued to gaze at him, “I’ve been sitting here, at the top, waiting for God to guide me, to tell me what to do. Do I wait? Do I climb down to safety? Do I jump? ” He gently took her left hand and stroked her fingers from base to tip. “I do believe, that if you would consent to be my wife, I could wait and be happy with you by my side. I could retreat and you would be there to lead me. I could jump, and you would be my parachute.” There, he had said it and when he could finally focus on Leslie’s face, he saw she was blinking back tears. “Will you marry me?”
Leslie breathed in the moment. She thought about her life in the city with Damon. If Damon had ever asked her to marry him, would she have said, “yes”? Maybe. She thought she was in love with him. Something as simple as the way he laughed when she didn’t get his jokes sent waves of warmth running through her body. Matthew was different. Matthew was sweet, genuine, God centered, and allowed Leslie to relax. She did love Matthew and she uttered her answer, “yes.”
When Rev. Williams announced his engagement in church that Sunday, the congregation stood and applauded, as much for him as for Leslie. After the services, the church ladies gathered around the two of them, fussing and planning the coming nuptial’s. Her wedding would be an event for the entire congregation, her title as the Reverend’s wife elevating her to a new status.
Leslie slid into her role easily, quitting her job at the Crowley’s make-up counter and throwing herself into several clubs sponsored by the church. Her favorite was the Wednesday morning Coffee Break ladies who gathered for Bible study. She enjoyed the women in this group, young mother’s, college students. The conversation always began with gossip, shared under the guise of “concerns” and the women would then hold their subjects up in prayer. It was well established that what was discussed in Coffee Break was confidential and as Leslie became more comfortable with her position in the church and with the women, she felt as if she could trust them. One morning the conversation began with scandal; the group held up a teenaged girl who had become pregnant by a local “bad boy”, and Leslie was compelled to pray deeply for this girl. She knew the taboo lure a man like that could wield. Like a drug that numbs pain, the illicit temptation held a potency for which Leslie was powerless.

John still held her hand when they walked down the hall, gripping with enthusiasm as he pulled her toward the Sunday school classroom. He stopped at the door and she bent down to kiss him goodbye. Perhaps she lingered a bit too long in her grasp because he pulled away abruptly and walked into the classroom. Leslie stood at the door long enough to watch him settle comfortably in with the other kids before departing.
Sunday dinner, a roast with rosemary potatoes, carrots and raspberry pie for dessert was sitting in the warm oven, ready as a meal for after services. The dishes were washed and draining in the sink. The table was set. Leslie, grabbed her purse, went out to the dark garage and got back in the Impala they purchased new last year. The engine turned and purred quietly in the dank, closed garage. Leslie bowed her head, lowering it to the steering wheel and resting it there. She began to pray until she could no longer form words in her brain, until the darkness enshrouded her and took her away.

BOOK ONE

Chapter One

Rosewood in 1972 was just catching up to the rest of the country. The Summer of Love happened in 1968 but was only making it’s way into the hearts and minds of teenagers in Rosewood now. Leslie zipped up the tea length pink prom dress she had worn to match her date’s tie. Carefully, she placed the slip in the hanging garment bag, draping it over the hanger bar. Finally, she hung the dress inside the bag and placed the matching shoes in the bottom before closing it all up. Leslie hung the bag in the back of her closet, closed the door and never thought about it again. In truth, she would have preferred to throw the whole thing away, forget that she was a small town girl and become someone entirely different.
Shelley Hack and Cybil Shepard appeared on the covers of all of the fashion magazines. Long straight hair, thin, tall and heavily made up with false eyelashes, and lips that were frosty and almost white. Go-Go boots in patent leather, mini skirts, and midriff bared. They seemed to have figured out the balance between beauty and freedom. Without her parents’ knowledge, Leslie had ordered a mini dress from the Sears catalogue and hidden it at the back of her closet where the demure prom dress now hung. And without her parents consent, she had her best friend Amy take some pictures on her Polaroid of Leslie wearing the dress; she sent them off to a modeling agency in Washington, DC. It wasn’t a New York agency, but Leslie was pulled in by the ad in the back of her Seventeen! magazine that promised high paying jobs and exposure. New York, not yet, but the nation’s capitol could be a stepping stone and Leslie was galvanized when she received a contract in the mail and a request for her to come to DC as soon as she was finished with school.
The bus trip up to Washington took about seven hours with stops in every little town along the way, Woodstock, Front Royal, Centerville. Leslie wondered when her parents would find the note she left on her bed telling them that she was heading to the city to become a model. They were going to be furious. There was a chance they could come after her so she had given no details, just that she had a contract and a place to stay and would contact them as soon as she was settled. It really had been her mother’s dream and her father’s desire for her to stay in town, maybe work at the department store or as a receptionist and then get married. It was the way things worked in Rosewood and it was that very notion that drove Leslie away. She wanted to experience life as the rest of the world knew it and she wanted to do it on her own. Her parents never would have given her the money to make this trip so she had saved every last bit of babysitting money after she bought the mini dress, knowing this hoarded cash was going to take her into a new life.
The bus pulled into the station in Washington, DC in the mid-afternoon. The mass of people moving about seemed to know where they were headed and Leslie followed hoping it would take her out to the street. Leslie began walking until she found a pay phone. Dialing the number, Leslie calmed her nerves and tried to control the shakiness of her voice.
“Hello,” a gravelly male voice abruptly answered.
“Yes, is this the Diablo Modeling Agency?” Leslie asked tentatively.
“Uh, yep, are you looking for a model?” The abruptness gave way to a slicker demeanor.
“No, I have a contract. I am a model. I just came up from Virginia and was wondering if I could have directions to the agency, please.” The silence on the other end was broken by muffled tones that sounded like a conversation.
“Why don’t you just tell me where you are and I’ll send someone to come get you.” The sudden calmness reassured Leslie and she relaxed. It was only going to be a 20 minute wait so Leslie wandered over to the newsstand and thumbed through a fresh copy of Vogue before parting with the dollar to buy it . Tucking it under her arm, she headed out to the street and waited for the driver.
An orange Karman Ghia swung wildly onto the curb, forcing several people to jump back. The passenger side window rolled down and a stream of blue smoke curled out, “Which one of you is waiting for a ride to the Diablo Agency?” The same gravelly voice bellowed through the open window. Leslie considered not answering but the alternative wasnʼt something she was prepared to deal with.
“I am,” she confirmed and waited a moment before realizing she would have to take care of her own bags. Heaving her suitcase and train case into the front trunk of the car, Leslie slipped into the front seat of the smoke filled vehicle. Unlike the tobacco smell she was used to back in Virginia, this was not so unpleasant and had an almost sweet odor to it. There was a pipe in the ashtray, but it certainly wasn’t like the one her grandfather had smoked, this one was made of colored glass and was small enough to fit inside the ashtray.
“You want a hit?” the man with the voice asked as he pulled away from the curb. Leslie had tried cigarettes before which left her feeling nauseous and dizzy, but in a moment of determination to leave her life behind, she took the pipe from the man and inhaled. The burning sensation crept down her throat and into her chest, before she coughed it back and exhaled the smoke in a burst.
“Youʼre supposed to hold it in longer to get the best buzz,” the man directed. Wearing a pair of blue jeans, a white t-shirt and a leather jacket, he looked like an updated James Dean. Blonde hair, curling over his ears and penetrating, dark blue eyes. Damon Wood was experienced in all walks of life. A photographer by trade, Damon eked out a living any way he could finagle a buck. A day-to-day existence and some cash to get him by. For Damon that meant taking pictures, taking drugs and screwing.
This chick had walked into his scam, nubile, and eager. All he had to do was smile, his dimples accentuating the charm, blue eyes casting an approving look over her and she melted. Clearly a virgin, he prided himself on removing that burden. And this one in his car right now was the perfect conquest. She was there, from her small idealistic little town to become a model. He knew how it went, they come, they try, they get disappointed and either they go back or they find themselves attached to the other aspects of city living. Not a bad prospect. Damon had encouraged many a fledgling model to come to DC and after he turned them onto the beauty of sex and the mind-expanding trips of LSD, coke or some other altered state, he could get them to do about anything. And if they didn’t want to comply, they usually left.
“So, I have you set up for a shoot tomorrow. Are you comfortable in a bikini?” Damon cut a sidelong glance at Leslie who sat perched in the passenger seat, purse on her lap, staring straight ahead. He continued to stare until the edges of Leslie’s mouth twitched.
She turned to Damon and found her heart pounding, he wasn’t just looking at her, he was looking inside her, shallowing her breathing and she whispered a response, “Yes.”
Pulling into a parking space in front of an old brick warehouse that looked abandoned, Damon hopped out of the Karman Ghia, opened the passenger door for Leslie and guided her to the large, paint chipped wooden door that looked more like it was meant to keep people out than allow them in. Leslie’s legs shook as she allowed this stranger to lead her into an old abandoned building. She could hear her mother’s caution, “Don’t believe everything you hear and only half of what you see,” and every instinct told her to turn and run, except the contract in her hand – a ticket to fame, a way out of her antiquated life. She had spent the better part of her senior year studying fashion magazines, modeling poses, hair, and make-up. She knew what they wanted and she knew, given the chance, she could deliver. This guy, Damon, had taken the time to pick her up and bring her here. He had booked a photo shoot and she really had no place else to go. The pot had calmed her enough to rationalize ignoring her instincts so she took a deep breath and followed Damon up the hollow metal stairs.
Damon lived in the top floor of the warehouse. One large room, there were no real walls to separate space. On one end, there were kitchen appliances and a formica table with 2 metal chairs. There was another area near a large window containing hundreds of smaller panes where a mattress lay on the floor, blankets and sheets strewn about. On the other side, an area where there was a dilapidated black leather couch and several multi-colored large pillows around an industrial spool that served as a coffee table, and an area that appeared to be a photography studio. A black backdrop hung from hooks on the rafters and there were three cameras set up on tripods with silver umbrellas and spotlights set around them. Behind the backdrop were props, a rack of clothes, costumes and bathing suits.
“You can put your clothes in the closet,” Damon threw his arms out and twirled around indicating that there was no closet, “It’s a walk-in.” His smile put Leslie at ease a bit and she set her case by the couch.
“You live here?”
“Live here, work here, love here. This is it.”

Leslie’s nostril burned with the first burst of white powder that came through the straw. Until now, cocaine had been one of those drugs she read about in Time magazine. It was something other people did, but here she was well into her first high and the explosion of Amnesia was exhilarating. In one quick snort, Leslie wanted to run naked through the streets. The buoyancy of freedom intoxicated her and she felt Damon watching her with a knowing smile of satisfaction. Had he hit the other line? She couldn’t remember. Stretching out on Damon’s loosely made bed, a tray between them, he offered her the straw again and she willingly accepted.
Damon waited until the coke had made a complete entrance into her system. She was relaxed, innocent and quite strikingly beautiful. Damon lifted the mirrored tray off the bed and placed it on the floor. They could have more later, if needed.
Running the back of his hand down Leslie’s cheek, he caressed her neck and slowly guided her head forward, kissing her passionately. “Lie back,” he whispered and she did, her dark eyes dilated into black pools that communicated a fear muted through the inhibitions of coke. Damon moved slowly, kissing her neck, and slowly unbuttoning her dress. Leslie complied, concern for proprieties buried under the tingle of cocaine. She willingly nudged Damon’s hand downward. He resisted, “have you ever fucked before?”
“No,” Leslie meekly whispered and if she was embarrassed by her virginity, it didn’t show. Again she urged his hand underneath her dress and Damon smiled. She was ready.

It was much easier than he anticipated, but it helped to have someone who was looking for a new life and clearly this chick was. She was young, but, as Damon reasoned, she had less time to ponder her decisions, not having lived on her own before. Cocaine was the great icebreaker and he used it often with models who were not into taking off their clothes. He always started them out in something, a sundress, a bathing suit, gained their trust and then, little by little they usually became more willing to do the things Damon requested in front of the camera and behind. Tomorrow he would bring in his bike, which usually encouraged his models into some wildly erotic positions. A few good shots in a bikini and Leslie might be willing to do something more risqué. Damon’s customers were definitely more into the risqué and Damon was known to produce for them.

Leslie held her head as the hot water pelted her body. What had she done? Drugs, sex in less than twelve hours of arriving in DC. Drugs. She had tried tobacco exactly one time before and was sickened by the harsh smoke in her throat. Some kids enjoyed getting high, said it made them laugh, made them hungry, it was a fun way to spend a Saturday night, but Leslie had higher aspirations. Yet, here she was in a Washington, DC apartment with a professional photographer, a contract and she had not only just smoked pot but done cocaine and then had sexual intercourse with someone she had just met. The frightening part was that she had enjoyed it. She loved it. She wanted to go back out there and do it all again. At no other time in her life had Leslie felt confident enough in herself to do anything more than a little necking with her boyfriend. In a manner of seconds, the entire earth seemed to have lodged directly inside her head. She felt in control of everything around her, including her lust and she felt horny. She wanted to open herself to whatever Damon was willing to show her and he left her begging for more. He had laughed at her eagerness, cautioned that too much of a good thing might ruin the effect but then slowly consumed her body until she could no longer stand the pressure and mounted him, grinding her hips into him until she exploded with a shattering eruption, sweat trickling down her neck, between her legs.

“Welcome to DC, Babe,” Damon said when she emerged from the tiny bathroom, dressed in jeans and a gauzy shirt he had loaned her. Her hair was wound up in a towel and she was at a loss for what she should do with it. She had brought rollers but was more than ashamed of putting them in with Damon around. He would think she was a freak and after what he had just taken her through, she didn’t want to jeopardize anything. Damon was working with the lighting around the black backdrop, adjusting the height of the camera and the intensity of the light, “Come here, I want to see how you look through the viewfinder.
Leslie walked over and tentatively stood in front of the camera. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just look into the camera lens, Babe. ” Damon pulled the towel off her head, her wet hair cascading in sleek curls. He adjusted the focus and peered again through the viewfinder. “Perfect.”

Sparkles glistened across the motorcycle’s metallic blue gas tank as the light reflected off the chrome. The bike was low and sleek and Leslie straddled the seat, leaning forward in a royal blue bikini. She was a natural and when she allowed her hair to air dry, the waves gave her a wild, daring look. Damon was encouraging, asking her to move around the bike, a fan causing the natural waves of dark hair to flow gently behind her. It was intentionally cold for the shoot and the added chill of a fan prompted her nipples to stand out from the silky bikini top.
“Think about last night, Babe. That’s it.” Damon could tell he had a goldmine in this one and as the day wore on, he used the down time to sweet talk her into posing in other outfits, straddling a chair, standing in front of the backdrop, on the fake animal skin that normally draped the back of the leather couch. The photos were impressive and Damon assured Leslie that there would be a nice paycheck for her work.

Damon was a hustler with a camera. If he could supply his own models, he could create ad copy, calendars, adult books at a low cost, making enough cash to cover his equipment, his warehouse and his habits. The trick had been to find chicks who wanted fame, and money, and believed HE could do it for them. The Diablo Modeling Agency worked as a front to attract the chicks least likely to cause a problem. With a little finesse and a little cocaine, an occasional drop of acid, he was able to keep a girl long enough to usually get some good salable shots, enough blackmail material to keep her in his stable if he needed her and a little pussy on the side. This latest girl had been so easy. She walked off the bus and into his bed with almost no coaxing. The girl was a gorgeous dark haired beauty with a talent for the camera and with a little practice could produce some incredible pictures. Damon slipped through the unmarked door in the back of the building and signaled to the owner he had new material for purchase.

Click here to buy In The Name Of The Father

A Free Excerpt From Elizabeth Reyes’ Romero, Our Romance of the Week!

January 17, 2012 by KND

Elizabeth Reyes’ Romero:

Romero (The Moreno Brothers series #4)
by Elizabeth Reyes
4.7 stars – 20 Reviews
Kindle Price: $2.99
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled

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Here’s the set-up:
Prim and proper middle school teacher Isabel Montenegro always runs the opposite direction from men like Ramon Romero. A foul-mouthed, uneducated, loose cannon has no place in her careful plans. But instead of running away, Isabel is completely captivated. The intensity of his nature, while a bit daunting, mesmerizes her in ways she can’t begin to understand. She’s unwilling to walk away—even when her instincts are screaming at her to run.Romero has no idea what he’s getting himself into when he first kisses Isabel. Shocked at the passion she invokes in him, he believes he can keep his usual short fuse under wraps. Falling fast and hard for someone so flawlessly sweet only makes him more aware that he’s far from perfect. If she is ever witness to his biggest imperfection, he’s sure she’ll bail. But when her meddling sister does the worst thing imaginable—bring other men between him and his Izzy—that fuse is lit and all bets are off. Adult Contemporary romance.

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The author hopes you will enjoy this free excerpt:

No one else

Waking up next to Isabel felt like something Romero had been doing forever. He couldn’t even imagine not waking without her in his arms anymore. He spooned her closely to him, kissing her cheek. She didn’t open her eyes but the corner of her lips rose ever so slightly. He smiled and whispered, “Don’t wake up.” To which she immediately opened her eyes and he frowned. “Izzy, you did just the opposite.”

“I was already awake.” She turned her body around to face him. “My eyes were just resting.”

“But it’s Saturday, you don’t have to get up this early.”

“Actually I do. Remember? I have to go in for a few hours and do some campaigning for my dad.”

Romero tried to hide his irritation as she sat up. Thoughts of Jacob were immediately on his mind. She said he’d be helping out, but he knew there was no way she’d know when, where or how. He’d already told himself he wasn’t letting Pat or Jacob be the cause of any friction between him and Isabel. They just weren’t worth it.

He ran a finger down her bare back, wondering if even in the winter they’d still wake up naked. “I love waking up next to you, baby.”

She turned to him. “I love it, too.”

He stared at her, the words at the tip of his mouth. Then she said them. “Why don’t you just move in already?”

Never in his life would he have imagined hearing those words from a girl would bring so much joy. He sat up. “Are you serious?”

She laughed. “You may as well. You’re always here anyway.” She caressed his face with her hand. “And I’ve been dreading hearing you say that you won’t or can’t stay some night.”

He kissed her. God, she really was perfect. “Trust me. I wasn’t planning on saying that ever again. I just wasn’t sure how you’d feel about making it official.”

She smiled widely. “Then it’s official. You’re now my roomie.”

He pulled her down next to him, wrapping his arms around her warm naked body. “Oh, I’m way more than your roomie, and don’t you forget it.”

She giggled, squirming away. “No, no, babe. I don’t have time right now. I’m already late.” She pouted, obviously seeing the disappointment in his face. “But you’re welcome to join me.”

Romero knew exactly what that meant—quickie. He’d take it. When she got out of bed he chased her to the shower. He could hardly believe this is what life was going to be like from here on.

***

Gary Foster was a no-nonsense, let’s get to it, type of man. Isabel saw it the moment she arrived at the campaign headquarters. His only response to her telling him her name was: “You’re late.”

Her shower with Romero had gone on a little longer than she anticipated, but it was oh, so worth it. Even if it meant getting the stink eye from Gary, her legs were still weak. “I know. I’m sorry, but I’m here now. What do you need me to do?”

He picked up a clipboard. “Lets see here… Isabel.” His eyes scanned the paper on the clipboard.

Isabel glanced around and saw Jacob was already there. He was out of uniform, in a pair of jeans and wore a “Montenegro for Mayor” t-shirt. Everyone else wore the same t-shirt and she wondered why she hadn’t been given one. Then she remembered. She was late.

He looked so different out of uniform. More relaxed. Jacob smiled when he saw her and she felt her cheeks warm because he caught her checking him out.

“Looks like you have flyer duty today.” He flipped through the pages on the clipboard. “Now let’s see where you’re headed and who you’re partnered up with.”

As soon as he said that, she knew exactly who she’d be partnered up with. She should’ve seen something like this coming. “Why do I need a partner?”

Gary looked up at her then back at the clipboard. “We never send anyone out alone—safety reasons—my rule.”

Isabel took a deep breath. She was sure her sister knew perfectly well about this rule of his, before she ever came over to talk to her. How was she supposed to get mad at her now? Her sister had made it clear what she was up to. Isabel just hadn’t anticipated how cunning Pat would be about this.

Gary glanced around then motioned for Jacob to come over. She knew it. “You and the soon-to-be Lieutenant Commander are headed to the mall. Your sister hooked you up. At least you won’t be in the hot sun. And you get a Navy man to escort your around all day.”

“All day?”

“Well, just until you get all the flyers passed out.” He pointed to a mountain of boxes full of flyers on a table. “You two can handle this.” Jacob joined them and Gary turned to him. “Isn’t that right, Commander?” Gary grinned. “You two can handle passing these little boxes of flyers out today right?”

Jacob smiled. “Of course. And call me Jacob.”

“Alright, Jacob. You and Isabel here are headed to the mall.”

Gary went over the mall’s policy on passing out flyers, a do-and-don’t list and they were on their way. “We can go in my car,” Jacob suggested. “Why take two?”

Isabel hesitated. “Once we’re done we can just go, right? If I take my car I can go straight home from there.”

Jacob shrugged, opening the trunk to his car. “Which way do you live?”

Without thinking, she pointed.

“Well, then you’ll have to come by here anyway. I can just bring you back to get your car.”

With her mind muddled, Isabel couldn’t think of an excuse not to fast enough. So she slumped her shoulders and gave in. Romero would be furious—knowing this was all Pat’s doing again. But this was strictly business and he had to know he had nothing to worry about. She was crazy about him.

After hours of walking from door to door at the mall, requesting permission to post their flyer on the windows of their stores, Isabel was pooped. She never realized how big and just how many stores were in the mall. She was shocked at how rude some shop owners could be, too.

“You getting hungry?” Jacob asked.

She was, but she wasn’t looking forward to sitting and talking to him. Up until then, their conversations had all been about the campaign. There had also been some small talk about her work, and how she had a meeting set up with the union to try to persuade them to endorse her dad. Lunch would most likely go a more personal direction. Even though she knew she was doing nothing wrong, she was certain telling Romero that she’d spent most of her day with Jacob was going to be uncomfortable at the very least. But telling him they’d also had a long lunch together would only make it worse.

One thing was for sure, she’d be talking to her sister about this again. The thought of spending time around Jacob had seemed harmless enough, but actually doing it felt much different. “Yeah, I could go for a bite of something.”

They walked past Frisco’s. Isabel didn’t even look in that direction. No way were they eating there. She and Romero had gone back a few times since their first dinner together. As far as she was concerned, that was their place now. She didn’t know it then, but in hindsight, that’s the day she’d fallen for him. He’d melted her with his smile the entire night, but when he told her he’d been there two weeks in a row hoping to run into her, that’s what did it. That’s why the next night at the game, she was helpless to even try fighting off his kisses. She’d been putty in his hands ever since.

“I heard the Brazilian steak house here is pretty good.”

No way was she doing a fancy restaurant with him. “I’d rather just grab something from the food court if you don’t mind. It is Saturday and I’d like to get this over with and out of here as soon as possible.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Big plans tonight?”

Not really. Even though she wasn’t looking forward to telling Romero about who’d she’d spent her day with, she was anxious to get home to him. Home. She thought of their conversation that morning. They were officially living together.

“I’ll take that smile as a yes.”

Isabel felt her face flush as she broke out of her daze. “I’m sorry.” God, she had to stop doing that. It was so embarrassing. “No, no big plans. But it is my day off. I’d like to spend some of it relaxing.”

“I gotcha.” He smiled.

When they got to the food court, he let her pick. She chose the fastest—a slice of pizza. Jacob seemed to sense her anxiety about being with him. He had to understand this was awkward for her. Even if it was for him as well, at least he wasn’t in a relationship now. She appreciated that he kept the small talk at a safe level, but just as they walked out of the food court on their way back to finish passing out the flyers he asked, “Are you in love with him, Bell?”

She turned to him surprised by the out-of-nowhere question.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that Pat said she didn’t think you two were very serious, and to be honest I wasn’t quite ready for what I felt when I saw you again. I was just hoping…”

Isabel glanced away. She was going to strangle Pat the very next time she saw her. “It is serious, Jacob, and I am in love with him. In fact, he’s moved in with me now. Pat…” Isabel took a deep breath. “Well, she doesn’t know too much about it—about him.”

“She said he’s a security guard?”

Isabel rolled her eyes. Of course Pat would tell him that. “He’s a private investigator and he owns his own security firm.” That’s right. If Pat was going to go around listing everyone else’s attributes she’d list Romero’s. She was very proud of them.

Things were a bit uncomfortable after that. Pat had told Isabel that Jacob said he’d missed her, but she never expected him to mention how he’d felt when he saw her. Pat had set him up for that. Probably put it in his head that she might still have feelings for him as well. God, Isabel was going to let her have it.

Romero had texted her several times throughout the day, mostly to ask how it was going and to tell her he missed her. He had a few things he needed to take care of that day, but lately he’d been trying to leave her days off open.

She was on her way home—finally. He was already there waiting for her. She walked in to find him unpacking a few boxes. “I went by my old place,” he said, with a smirk. “To pick up some more of my things.”

She took her shoes off, remembering how Valerie used to fling hers off as soon as she walked in. Romero was her new roomie now. What a difference. One she never would have imagined.

“So how was it?” Romero asked, pulling out a pair of shoes from the box and examining them. “What did you do?”

“Passed out flyers… at the mall.” She kissed him as she passed by him to put her shoes in her room.

“Zat right?” She heard him from her room. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve met you down there and helped you.”

She squeezed her eyes shut just before she turned the corner to walk back into the front room. “I wasn’t alone.”

He looked up from the box and their eyes met. The easygoing expression faded slowly. “Oh yeah? Who went with you?”

She swallowed and started toward the fridge like a coward, not wanting to face him when she said it. “Jacob and I were assigned to flyer—”

“You were with Jacob all this time?”

She turned back to him at the sound of his venomous tone. “We just passed flyers out, Romero. It’s not like—”

“Did your fucking sister arrange this?”

“Hey! What happened to toning it down?”

“You know she did.” He walked toward her that undeniable heat in his eyes again. “Just like she planned for him to sit at your family’s table that night—next to you. Don’t you see it?”

“Yes. I see it.”

He stood right in her face. “So did you and Jacob get a chance to catch up, Isabel? Talk about old times?”

“Don’t call me that. I already told you I hate hearing it from you.”

“Why? It’s your name.”

She felt a lump forming in her throat. She hated to see him—hear him like this. The tears were already blurring her vision. “Because you only call me that when you’re mad at me.”

“Not mad at you. Alright what do you want me to call you? Bell? Oh wait, that’s what he fucking calls you.” He spun around and stalked back toward the front room. She saw him glance around almost panicked then he saw them—his keys on the coffee table. He grabbed them.

“Where you going?”

“Out.” He glanced at his watch then back at her with a fury worse than earlier. “You know what? Fuck that.” He slammed the keys back on the table, making her flinch. She saw him wince then, close his eyes for a second as if trying to collect himself. His now fisted hand almost shook and he spoke through his teeth. “You were with your ex-boyfriend all day, Isabel. So what did you talk about? I wanna know.”

Seeing him so enraged and hearing him call her that again made the lump in her throat even bigger. “About the campaign, mostly.”

“Mostly? What else? Did he bring up the past? You and him?”

“No!” Her voice cracked and she took a step toward him. “It was all business. I promise.” She never wanted to be around Jacob again. Not if it upset Romero this much. She reached out for his hand and he recoiled but she grabbed it anyway. It was shaking. She looked into his eyes. They went from furious to panicked. Just like the night she’d told him Jacob had been her first. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Tell me the truth, Izzy. Did you talk about anything personal? I have to know.”

Hearing him call her Izzy, and feeling his scared eyes burn deep into her soul did something to her. “Yes.”

He pinched his brows the panic gone now replaced with the heat again. “What? What did you talk about?”

“You.” She brought his hand to her mouth and kissed it. “He asked if I was in love with you. And I told him yes and that you’d moved in with me.”

“Why would he wanna know?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“You do know, Izzy.” His tone, softened just a notch and again his eyes searched for something deep inside her. “Tell me, baby.”

Hearing him call her that after he’d just called her Isabel twice had a hypnotic effect on her somehow and he seemed to know it. But it was working. She nodded, unbelievably hearing herself say, “Something about not being prepared for what he felt when he saw me again.”

She saw his jaw clench. “And what was that?”

“He didn’t say. I swear to you. After I told him I was in love and how serious my relationship with you is, we changed the subject.”

“That’s it? The whole day. That was the only personal thing you talked about?” He searched her eyes again. “No memories?”

“No. Nothing.” She leaned in and kissed him. He barely moved his lips at first, but she continued to kiss him until he suddenly thrust his tongue in her mouth, kissing her hard.

Just as suddenly he pulled away. “I don’t want you around him anymore,” he said, bringing her to him by her waist.

“Okay,” Isabel agreed breathlessly, without even thinking about it. What was he doing to her?

He kissed her again, deeper, then bit her lower lip hard, but not hard enough to hurt, arousing her to no end. She bit back. His breathing became heavier. “Tell that fucking sister of yours,” he said, between kisses, “that I know what she’s up to.”

“Um hmm.” Isabel was incredibly turned on, and she didn’t even understand why. She didn’t care anymore that he was disrespecting her sister. Pat had disrespected him, so she deserved it. She undid the top button of his jeans and yanked down the zipper.

They moved over to the sofa. Romero pushed his box of things onto the floor. He always did love her easy-access clothes and ever since he’d told her, she’d done her best to accommodate. She wore a denim skirt that he slid his hands up now, pulling her panties down roughly. “Get ‘em off.” He pulled his hands away to take his wallet out of his pocket and pulled a condom out. “I’m not playing, Izzy.” Never once taking his penetrating gaze away from her, he pulled his jeans down and stepped out of them, then put the condom on. “I swear to God. If you don’t tell her, I will. And trust me you don’t want me to.”

She nodded, transfixed in his eyes, not really caring about what he was saying. It was times like this she felt he had some kind of spell on her. She’d done as he asked and was ready for him when he moved on top of her. He kissed her just as he entered her—kissed her so deep and with so much passion, she felt it down to her curled toes. “No one else will ever love you like I do, Izzy.” He moved faster and she moaned. “You know that, right?”

“Yes,” she barely managed to say, feeling her body react in the usual way it reacted to him—crazy with excitement.

“Say it, baby. Say no one will ever love you like I do.” Her entire body trembled and she moaned even louder. “I wanna hear it.” His voice rasped.

“No one else.” She could barely believe she’d complied so easily, but it was the truth. She wasn’t lying. She believed him without a doubt. “Only you can love me like this.” He stared deep in her eyes for a moment, continuing to love her like only he could. She held on to him, amazed at what he did to her. If what he wanted was to own her, he had from the moment he first kissed her. Not just physically but in every way imaginable. She was a sensible grown woman and if she stepped out of the picture for just a second, she might see something wrong with it, but there, that moment, nothing felt more right than being his, and she wanted nothing more than for him to know it—feel it.

He squeezed his eyes shut, finishing with a groan. “Only you, Romero,” she panted, feeling the incredible pleasure rip through her body. No one could ever make her feel the unbelievable mixture of emotions he’d put her through this evening alone and she never wanted anyone else to. “I promise.”

Click here to buy Romero now

A Free Excerpt From Our Thriller of the Week, Amber Lynn Natusch’s CAGED

January 16, 2012 by KND

Amber Lynn Natusch’s CAGED (The Caged Series):

CAGED (The Caged Series)

by Amber Lynn Natusch

5.0 stars – 31 Reviews

Kindle Price: 99 cents

Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled

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Here’s the set-up:

“I stood in the middle of the room, unmoving – I barely breathed. My life had just become surreal, impossible, and one enormous lie. I needed to go, to run somewhere, anywhere to beat back the reality that was rapidly closing in around me. The image of him was burned into my retina, flashing over and over again like a warning. He was trapped somewhere between human and decidedly not, and I realized that was my new reality.I was too.” After the death of her parents, Ruby awakens from a lifetime of shadows and finds herself alone, thrust into a world of lies, deceit, betrayal and the supernatural. As her quest for truth continues to come up short, she realizes that maybe some questions really are best left unanswered. When her true identity is finally unveiled, she is forced to choose between two of the mysterious men who continually seem to crop up in her life. She chooses poorly. Now abandoned, Ruby must learn to call on the darkness within to survive, or spend a hellish eternity imprisoned because of it.

(This is a sponsored post)

The author hopes you will enjoy this free excerpt:

Prologue

I saw my first tree that day.
I was twenty-eight years old.
I lifted my face from the fine, white, powdery snow that I lay in to see it. It stood dead ahead of me, tall and strong. It looked nothing like I had imagined; bigger, rougher. I struggled to drag myself over to that strong tree, propping up against it with the hope that its strength would somehow inspire my own. I looked up to see the billowing clouds dance across the sky. Dad had always told me that snow came when the clouds were thick and full.
I was in shock – I could see!
My hand floated up to my face involuntarily, stopping before making contact. I observed it, slowly turning it different ways to familiarize myself with it. My eyes then darted quickly away to the rest of my body. They, not my hands, scanned myself. Seeing the state of my leg quickly turned my shock into horror as memories slowly leaked back into my consciousness.
My parents are dead.
I had been told from a young age that those born without sight tended to compensate with their other senses. I never felt like that was true of me, exactly, but I always had the ability to sense the strong emotions of others as if they were my own. An empath, as it were. When I said that I felt someone’s pain, I meant it literally.
My parents were yards away, but I couldn’t get to them. I felt their terror as death came for them violently. Distracted, I never heard their attackers coming for me. The tearing of my shirt’s fabric was my first sign of their presence. I could feel the warmth of their hands as they grabbed and pawed at me, ripping material off along the way. I had no idea how many of them there were.
As the screams of my parents faded, the attackers turned their undivided and unwanted attention on me. I never was one for being the center of attention, and that moment was no exception. I could feel the cold wind on my entire body as I started to black out.
I was so afraid…
When I awoke, I didn’t know whose blood was on me, but I knew it wasn’t mine.
I didn’t know how I got to wherever I was, but I knew I was hurt and unable to walk.
I didn’t know what day or time it was, but I knew I was alone, terrified, and missing a chunk of my life that I could not account for.
Despair closed in on me, and I tried to pull myself together long enough to figure out what to do. I needed to splint my leg. I needed to find shelter. I needed to find my parents’ bodies. I needed to do a lot of things. The only thing I seemed able to make myself do was curl up in a ball by that big tree and stare at the world around me.
My entire body shook. The bitter cold assaulted my bare skin that had been left desperately exposed to the elements. I seemed too detached from the situation to care – a paralyzing state of shock taking over.
I never heard the voices as they approached from the distance. They were white noise, indecipherable, until one called out to me. The voice was unfamiliar, yet fell on my ears like an old friend’s. I tried to yell, but instead of a thunderous “over here”, a mere squeak came out. Much to my surprise, he acknowledged, then ran towards me at a speed I hadn’t known a human could possess, but I guess I wasn’t really an expert.
A sudden, brief jolt of horror shot through me. What if these are the people I’ve been trying to escape? I went from elation to panic in a nanosecond. I struggled to find a way to stand up, only to be weighed down by the burden my right leg had become. I wanted to escape. The compulsion to run nearly tore me in half.
I can’t die this way.
My breathing became more rapid, shallow, and completely ineffective. I felt the darkness coming again. Just as my final grip on consciousness faded, I saw him. I thought he was an angel, sent by God to bring me home, to bring me to my parents. A dream come true, during my worst nightmare.
The contrast was beautiful and frightening.

“Shit! Just when you think you’re running out of places to slice yourself with questionable looking metal scraps, some fresh real estate pops up and introduces itself to the harbinger of tetanus,” I muttered to myself, jabbing my finger with the copper I was remaking into a bracelet. If I can stave off lockjaw for another week I’ll consider myself the luckiest person alive.
Once it was clear that the bracelet wasn’t really interested in being sized, it gave me an excuse to cut out early and head upstairs to plan the events of the evening. The odds weighed heavily in favor of a salad for dinner with an HBO movie chaser, but it was an easy bet since I was the one stacking the deck. After doing a final run-through of the shop to make sure everything was shut down and straightened up, I made my way out the main entrance to an already bustling scene. All of the local restaurants which lined the old, cobblestone, New England streets were lit up creating an inviting ambiance for the people who filled the streets, making their way to the various establishments. I loved to walk around downtown, crowded with brick buildings dating back to the 1700’s. Portsmouth, New Hampshire had a lot to offer for a small city, without the drawbacks of being in a much bigger urban scene. No worries about being mugged on the way to your car, no fear of a drive-by shooting while out jogging, no stabbings, no gangs; virtually no violence at all, random or otherwise. Best of all no murders. That alone sold me on it.
I quickly soaked in the view and turned to lock the door. Maybe I should actually go out tonight. Maybe loosen up and actually participate in socialization? As I shoved that crazy talk far into the depths of my subconscious, I worked on unlocking the adjacent door that led up to my personal space, my second-story apartment and third-floor loft studio. I bought the three-story brick building with my inheritance. It was one of three things I owned that had any ties to my parents at all.
Even though I’d moved to Portsmouth nine months earlier, I hadn’t really made many friends. In fact, I hadn’t really made any at all, which made it a tad difficult to have a social life. I never gave too much thought to it, though. Everything was so chaotic after the death of my parents and having to assimilate into a seeing world only complicated things further. Although most things were easy enough to pick up on with a little study and help from those around me, I constantly encountered unknowns. Driving was beyond intimidating and it had taken me months to muster the courage to even try it at all. I had kept my dad’s car because of how much he loved it, and wanted to have the opportunity to see the nuances that he always spoke about that made it such a fantastic ride. It was the second of the three items linked to my parents.
When I entered the corridor I heard a faintly familiar sound and shot up the stairs to get into my apartment. Is that my phone? Nobody ever called me. I knew two people in town, and one of them owned my favorite Chinese restaurant. I highly doubted that my take-out was calling me.
I barely got to the phone in time, only to hear a prerecorded message reminding me that my recycling schedule had changed and I needed to put it out Monday instead of Tuesday. Good to know. After noting that on my virtually empty calendar, I turned the TV on for some dinner-making background noise. It was the only conversation I seemed to be a part of.
I giggled at some ridiculous show involving the strange mating rituals of drunken co-eds as I pieced together my salad. Tonight I’m going to live on the edge and add avocado. I really did need to get out more.
Feeling as though my IQ was dropping in direct proportion to the rapidly increasing beer count on the show, I decided to try the local news. I turned to a feature on the most recent bar/restaurant/club in town. I put my knife down, because multitasking had never been my thing, and watched the footage. The place looked promising. It had a fabulous contemporary decor that was very Euro-trendy and an actual live DJ spinning. Interesting.
I watched as they flashed clips of people dancing, bartenders fixing whatever drink was en vogue, and a montage of interviews with delighted patrons. Maybe I really should try going out, it looks like fun…but drunk people always look like they’re having a good time.
I loved to dance, but the bar scene completely intimidated me. I’d never had the guts to go more than once. In college it was too difficult because someone had to be with me constantly to guide me through the melee so as to avoid injury from a variety of sources. Apparently drunken people were accidents waiting to happen. The one and only time I went I managed fifteen whole minutes in the bar before some idiot backed into me. He knocked me into a waitress; she fell into a group behind her, which started what could best be described as a procession of human dominoes that ended with a very pissed off bouncer and us getting tossed.
How bad could it be? I can always leave if it blows.
I caved and decided that going out for the first time ever by myself was the plan. I then frantically tried to find appropriate attire. My style was best described as delightfully random. I relished the opportunity to mix vintage with boutique finds and high fashion with Goodwill bargains topping it all off with the perfect accessory. I was always complimented on the originality of my outfit. I suppose they could have been backhanded compliments. I wasn’t very good at reading expressions. I never worried about it. I loved the freedom of being able to choose what I wanted to wear.
Before I got too far into the process, I sought inspiration from Gwen Stefani’s “What u Waitin 4”. I liked to go through life with my own little soundtrack blaring both internally and externally; I thought it was good for the soul. Since nobody on the news feature looked overly dressed up, I settled on some low-rise jeans that were skinny enough to toss on my favorite (and oh so expensive) chocolate brown, faded, four inch stacked heel, knee high boots with the buckle on the side. I SOOOOOO love Jimmy Choo.
As if it were important what top I wore (because my boots were so amazing), I grabbed a long sleeved, grey and navy, mini-striped top that came down low on the hips and covered me when I bent over. My boots were showstoppers, but I didn’t want to run the risk of mooning the bar-goers every time I bent down, or sat in a chair; I liked to try to keep my bits to myself. The slight transparency of the top demanded that I put a camisole on under it because I wasn’t into flashing the girls either.
If my dressing went seamlessly, my hair and makeup were a whole other story. Sometimes you go into battle knowing you’re going to get your ass handed to you on a platter. I tried my best to tame my shoulder length, platinum-blond, curly hair, though I was convinced it was possessed and had a personal vendetta against me. The potential for greatness was there, but I hadn’t quite figured out how to extract it. I had been told on numerous occasions that it looked like Sarah Jessica Parker’s in Sex and the City’s early seasons, only bigger. Having never watched it, I had no idea if that was good or bad. I managed to get the frizz out of it using some kind of expensive goo that I was certain just weighed it down slightly. Since it took the edge off, I considered it a wildly successful encounter. As for makeup, my strategy was simple- try not to look like a ghost. I’d learned that being obscenely pale was not generally socially accepted. Society 1, me 0.
I did my best to apply a little stain to the apples of my cheeks and clear gloss to my lips. The intricacies of eye makeup application still eluded me. My fair complexion didn’t pull off a lot of color well, so I never tried. I didn’t want to upstage my ocean-blue eyes, so I kept my eye shadow neutral and accentuated with highlighter. Eyeliner and mascara were an ER excursion waiting to happen. I tried my best to not get the liner in my eye or on too thick. If I kept mascara to the general region of my lashes, it was a wild success. Luckily for me my lashes were impossibly long so I had a big target.
Once the ritual was completed, I gave myself a once over in the mirror. Not too shabby. Beauty was a funny thing to gauge when my blindness had left me without societal cues for nearly my whole life. What I found attractive wasn’t necessarily what others did. Sometimes I found myself completely baffled by the movie stars, sports gods, and socialites in the media who were worshiped by the masses. I didn’t see it. Sure there were those that you just couldn’t argue (Brad Pitt for example), but only one face had ever stopped my breath and I was very certain I’d never see anything that compared to it for the rest of my existence. Some treasures were only meant to be found once.
10:36pm. I assumed that was an acceptable time to head out. I didn’t want to be too early and look stupid arriving alone.
I stopped at the door to load my favorite magenta leather handbag with my wallet and keys. I rifled through the clutter on the console table, looking for my platinum band. The ring was the final of the three things I owned with any connection to my parents; I rarely ever took it off. Maybe I left it in the shop. Not wanting to stall my going-out momentum, I decided to look for it when I got home. I locked up the apartment and headed downstairs. I broke out into the crowd of people meandering through the streets and locked up behind me. A girl could never be too careful, even in Portsmouth.
The club was only a few blocks away from my place, so I filed into the crowd of people going my direction and kept pace. For entertainment on my trip, I listened in to conversations that were entirely too private to be had in the busy streets. I learned all about how difficult it was to treat Chlamydia, especially the third time around, from the group of early twenty-something women directly in front of me. Perhaps someone should have the “friends don’t let friends get STD’s” discussion.
Behind me were the drunken ramblings of some middle-aged businessmen discussing whether the size, shape or texture of a woman’s anatomy was her most important quality. It sounded like shape was ahead for awhile, but size made an amazing push from behind to come through victorious in the end. Men really are that predictable. I crossed the street, not only to escape the increasing anxiety I was feeling while listening to them, but also because I needed to make a left at Market Street.
As I approached the club, I was disheartened to see a line flowing from the entrance down the street. What is this, Boston? Great. I sighed audibly and joined the rest of the cattle in the queue. I hoped with any luck it was going to move quickly. I felt so exposed being by myself when everyone around me had friends or significant others with them. I’m so lame. If I’d had my cell phone I could have pretended to be texting while I played games on it. While I was lost in thought, somebody elbowed me from behind to indicate the line was moving and I’d better catch up. I frowned back at the owner of the elbow in question and he smiled wickedly at me. Creeptaaaaastic. I made a mental note not to look in that general direction again.
As I started to reflect on why this was the world’s worst idea, the bouncer came out and started picking people out of the line to go in. There’s a selection process? I don’t remember seeing that shit on the news. As I turned to duck out of line a hand caught my elbow and gently spun me around.
“Don’t you want to go in?” the bouncer asked.
I half-smiled and nodded.
“Well then, today’s your lucky day, Chica.”
Indeed it is.
“Thanks” was all I managed to mumble as I walked past him to the entrance. I felt the cold looks tear through the back of me as I passed everyone waiting in line. I looked back to see Creeptastic arguing with the bouncer and pointing at me. I didn’t wait around to see what that was about and put on speed as I went through the door. I flashed my ID and a smile, and then I was in. Not wanting to relive my domino disaster of undergrad past, I made my way very quickly to the bar. I found the back corner where it connected to the wall and tucked myself into the last seat. I figured if I surrounded myself with as many stable surfaces as I could it would greatly decrease the odds of a repeat performance.
I wasn’t a big drinker, but the scene there would have driven anyone to it. There was barely enough room to pass between individuals without grossly encroaching on their personal space. Being very attached to mine, I decided that in order to loosen my grip on it I would require some liquid courage. Thirty minutes, twenty-five dollars and three G&T’s later, I was ready to rock. My dancing shoes were ready to go cut some rug all over that place. Just as I was getting off of my perch at the bar I got a strangely uncomfortable yet familiar feeling. My breath started to come rapidly and I felt all the blood drain from my face. It was at that moment I felt an unwanted hand on my shoulder. I choked down a scream. I’m in public. I’m fine. Nobody here is going to hurt me. Breathe.
I slowly turned to face Captain Touchy-Feely. SHIT! The Captain was none other than Creeptastic. How did he get in here?
Feeling slightly relieved for the moment I asked, “How the hell did you get in here?” People skills were not my forte.
He put his hand around the back of my neck and drew me towards him. “I thought you were going to leave me out there in that line. I had to convince the big guy that you were hard of hearing and didn’t realize that I wasn’t behind you while you went in,” he said.
My pulse was in my throat. He was smiling at me, but the look was predatory and the energy and intent behind it was nothing short of malicious. I tried to keep my shit together when every fiber of my being was yelling “get the fuck out of here”. Since no overly untoward gesture had been made, I opted for diffusing the situation.
“Guess I am. I never heard you and I wasn’t aware that I should have notified you of my entrance approval, dear.”
He laughed abruptly and moved closer still until our toes were in danger of touching and my back was pinned up against the wall.
“Dear, is it? I was hoping our pet names would take on a more… flavorful quality.”
I struggled to gracefully evade both his position and hold on me. My poker face was alarmingly close to failing and I needed to get some distance between me and the psycho. As I ducked my head around his hand in a fluid dance-like move to the downbeat of whatever song was playing, I said, “I don’t do flavorful, and I certainly wouldn’t do you.” So much for the diffusion game plan.
His eyes flickered something I didn’t understand as he violently grabbed me by my shoulders.
“Who said I was giving you a choice?”
I not only saw, but felt, what he intended. Not again. Please, God, not again. No, no, no, no, not again. I was paralyzed by my fear. I didn’t shout. I didn’t run. I stared into the face of a psycho and did nothing. I felt the tears stinging the back of my eyes and then it happened again. My vision started to narrow and go dark. I was going to pick that time to blackout. Classic. That would give him exactly what he wanted; an easy excuse to carry me out of here unquestioned and go do whatever sick things he was planning on. Focus. Focus! Do not do this. Fight! But it was no use. There was no fight in me, giving truth to the old adage: those who don’t learn from history really are doomed to repeat it.

Calm.
That single thought resonated through me as I felt a warm presence envelop me from behind. I slowly regained my vision and saw two strong and heroic hands reach around me, grabbing the offender’s wrists to pry his hands off of me.
“She doesn’t seem to want to buy what you’re selling,” my savior said. I couldn’t see his face but something about him was commanding. He compelled my restrainer to do his bidding with an energy so powerful the hair on the back of my neck raised to attention. He emanated power. There was no threat of violence in his aura, though judging by the size and strength of his hands he was no doubt capable of it. Captain Creepy slowly withdrew his hands without taking his eyes off of my hero.
“It seems as though you’re interrupting our conversation,” Creepy growled.
“I think your conversation is very much over. I think you’re going to leave here immediately and never come back. I think if you don’t, there will be a price to pay, and you can’t afford it. Am I making myself clear?” Hero asked.
Something new flashed through Creepy’s face. He’s afraid. He paused for a moment, flashed me an evil grin, then turned slowly and walked away without a word.
I hadn’t realized that I was shaking until one of those amazing arms reached around across my chest and gently drew me back to his wall of strength. It was a friendly gesture with no hint of sexuality. Comforting. It took me a moment to realize that he had been talking to me. He leaned over my shoulder and spoke directly into my ear.
“Are you OK?”
I nodded.
“Did he hurt you?”
I shook my head no. He chuckled and his chest shook against my back.
“Are you capable of speech?”
I stammered, “Yeah, uh yes… yes I am.”
Smooth, Ruby. Very smooth.
“Do you want to move yet?” he asked casually, as if he weren’t troubled by which way I might answer his question.
I slowly turned to face him, my nose brushing against his slim fitting, baby blue button down shirt. It covered a very lean and muscular chest. My eyes quickly scanned down his Euro cut jeans to his Diesel sneakers. Nice choice. I didn’t so much lift my head to see him as angled my gaze to his face. He was looking down at me curiously and smiling. When my eyes met his, I almost fell over. I said a quick “thank you”, turned around, and hauled ass through the bar. I heard a faint “wait” trailing off behind me, but had no interest in retreating to him. It was him. I was sweating by the time I got to the door. I glanced back to see that he was following me out. SHIT. He was only a few yards behind me. I tore through the doors and took off running full speed down the street. I got more than a few looks of concern from bar-goers and I even got a “Run Forrest” comment from an especially original frat boy.
I must have lost him somewhere in my Olympic level sprint back to the apartment because there was nobody around when I unlocked the main door to the apartment on the street. I gave a final look as I closed the door behind me and quickly locked it right after.
I leaned against the main door and slid down to the floor. I was exhausted and in shock. Wild and unwanted memories started racing through my mind.
I opened my eyes to see a man. My breathing stopped short and I stared. I wasn’t aware of the movement of my arm until I could actually see my hand touching his face in adoration. He was smiling at me. I closed my eyes and explored his face with my hands as I’d done a million times to others throughout my life. My hands could read beauty, expression, and age in a way that my eyes could now only hope to achieve. He caught my hand, shaking from the harsh winter cold and held it while he yelled for someone else to give me a coat. It was big and he wrapped it all around me. The warmth that lay in the layers of down felt amazing against my nearly frost-bitten skin. He picked me up in his arms and told me that I was going to be all right; he’d make sure of it. Suddenly we were moving quickly through the woods but it was all I could do to keep conscious. He asked me questions to try and keep me alert but it was to no avail. The last thing I heard was him yelling at me to hang on.
When I awoke a week later I was yet again alone. Alone in a room of flashing screens, bleeping monitors and so many tubes. Everything was stark white like the snow I was found in, only far warmer and safer. I looked around the room for any token from my parents to show that they had been waiting for me to wake up, and then it hit me. There would be no more tokens. Those days were gone; taken from me. As reality washed over me I wanted to cry. Instead, a fierce but soundless wail erupted from me. It eventually morphed into an uncontrollable sob that possessed my whole body, shaking it violently. I continued on like that until an intern came to check on me.
I suddenly remembered how I got to the hospital, that I was rescued from the woods. I asked to know who it was that brought me in, but there was no record of anyone. I’d been brought to the ER and checked in, but when the nurse came back to get additional information from the man who brought me, he was gone.
I couldn’t wrap my mind around what just happened, but it was exceptionally hard to focus on anything other than the racing of my heart at that moment. It had to be the running.
Though I hadn’t seen a lifetime of faces, I’d never seen anything that rivaled his and I never thought I would see it again. When I asked about him at the hospital nobody had any information to help me find him. No name, number, address etc. I’d never wanted to contact someone more, and the reasons were many. I still had no recollection of that night beyond the initial attack that led to the death of my parents. The doctors later told me that I had injuries consistent with assault and exposure. They weren’t sure how my leg had been broken and said that I was a medical miracle because of my acquired vision. None of them had seen or spoken to the man who brought me in. The experience left me with a whole lot of nothing aside from confirming the obvious: I was wounded and alone.
I spent a couple of months in a rehabilitation facility, needing extensive physical therapy for my leg. I couldn’t walk on my own, and I had nowhere else to go, no family to rely on to help me do the most basic of activities. With a lot of free time on my hands, I spent the greater portion of it daydreaming about those magical eyes and the face that framed them so beautifully. I wanted to know who they belonged to, where he lived, and why he left.
I was one to believe that things happened for a reason and that God, the universe or whatever you wanted to call it, had a greater plan than mere humans could begin to wrap their minds around. I also, however, liked to romanticize the most insignificant things. In combination, the two could lead to delusions of all kinds. Part of me wanted desperately to say that it was no coincidence that we were in the club that night, but luckily my inner realist was there to cut that idea swiftly off at the knees. He probably didn’t recognize me. He just wanted to make sure I was OK. It seems to be his MO. And with that happy and esteem-boosting bit of reality, I was off the floor and heading up to my apartment. A shower was in order to wash away the memory of the evening. If ever I had needed reinforcement to uphold my policy on not doing the social scene, that evening was it. Bar 2, Ruby -20, and counting.

The days passed slowly, sometimes painfully, with a constant inner dialogue that revolved around my mystery man. I woke up thinking about him, went to work thinking about him, and ate lunch thinking about him, until it was obvious that my day would be utterly wasted in an obsessive fog that rendered me useless. My original frustration with knowing nothing about him always returned. Attached to it were unwanted feelings associated with being alone in a hospital room for weeks with nothing to occupy my time but trying to remember what happened and find a way to track him down. My mental calisthenics were utterly fruitless, unless developing an ulcer was considered productive.
On day eleven I actually considered stalking the bars to see if I could hunt him down. That should more than adequately demonstrate the depths of my desperation, considering the score between the bar and me. Later that day I started to come to my senses, realizing that I was about to hit new lows. I didn’t want to get so desperate that I eventually found myself laying in a gutter, covered in questionable fluids, before I smartened up. Getting the answers I sought just wasn’t worth obsessing over.
At that point that I regained some composure and did what any self-respecting woman would do in the situation: I immediately started lying to myself to make it all more palatable. I found myself rationalizing things like: that wasn’t actually him, and that nobody could truly have their own guardian angel. It was all purely coincidence. I was amazed at the complete bullshit I could feed myself, easily swallowing it when it best suited my purpose.
By day fifteen I really had myself believing the shit I was slinging. I thought about it far less often. Unfortunately, when I did, my curious nature would override my common sense, and my mind would wander back to lingering questions I was so eager to ignore. The power of my damaged psyche knew no bounds. None at all.
On day sixteen I found myself thundering furiously around my store (my dad always told me that I sounded like a five-hundred pound man when I walked), trying desperately to find my platinum ring. I was certain I’d placed it in the back studio a couple of weeks earlier while working on a woven, metal bracelet. My mind was analogous to a steel sieve: strong but leaky. I abandoned all reason and started searching every nook and cranny in the whole place. It has to be here. It can’t be gone…it’s all I have left. I felt the desperation like a vise around my chest, creating a direct relationship; as one increased, so did the other. If my desperation had worsened, I would have passed out.
I was bent over in the corner of the room, wedged in between the front counter and a display case, burrowing under a cabinet, armed with a flashlight to see if the ring that I knew I didn’t take off in that room could have fallen underneath the wooden structure. Though I wasn’t shocked when I didn’t discover it hiding coyly under there, I certainly was surprised that the tinkling of the entrance bells startled me enough to whack my head with enthusiasm against the cabinet when I shot up to attend to my customer. As I turned trying to nonchalantly rub down the growing goose egg on my head, I was greeted by a familiar voice.
“I don’t think it’s safe for you to ever be left unsupervised. You seem to find danger in the most innocuous places, don’t you?”
Holy shit! Him again…
I was extremely capable of deluding myself, but even I couldn’t do it when I was faced with said delusion in the living flesh, in broad daylight, and in my very own place. It also didn’t help that he seemed all too aware of who I was. I tried my best to appear amused at his comment, though I found precious little funny about the situation. I was again rendered incapable of speech, an impediment I would one day have to focus on correcting. As I silently willed myself to speak he rescued me from myself. Again.
“You must have really hit your head good. I’ve never seen a woman at such a loss for words,” he chided with a wicked grin on his face.
“I…uh…it really hurt!” I stammered. Clearly that was what I’d waited all this time to say to him.
He moved across the floor quickly with a utilitarian grace that was mesmerizing, coming to stand before me. He reached up and gently removed my hand from my head. The intensity of his presence made me shiver.
“Let me see. I need to know if we’re making another trip to the hospital,” he said as he examined my frozen form. I could barely breathe.
“There’s no blood, so that makes it a less interesting story for later, but better for now. Do you feel dizzy? Faint? Nauseated?”
Apparently he was not only a hero but a trained medical professional too. Is he going for Sainthood? I soon found him asking me an all-too-familiar question.
“Can you speak?” he asked softly, still grinning that grin that made me think he found this whole situation entirely too entertaining for my liking.
“Yes, I can. Sometimes I just choose not to,” I said with just enough hostility for him to realize I didn’t enjoy being the butt of his joke.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just concerned that you might have a concussion; you really hit your head pretty hard on the cabinet,” he said while consciously wiping the smile from his face. It appeared to take a considerable amount of effort for him to manage the task, but I appreciated both the effort and the outcome.
“What exactly were you doing down there?” he asked innocently.
“I lost something. A ring.”
He turned his head somewhat mockingly to look around at the showroom, full of jewelry, most of which were rings.
“Not those. This one is important, personal. I can’t lose it. Ever,” I said as my voice slowly softened, becoming mournful. He smiled a different smile at me as he told me he’d help. Even after all my months of obsessing about this man, needing to know who he was, his name, and his memories, he paled in importance at that moment.
“I have to find my ring.”

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A Free Excerpt from Mona Ingram’s Fallen Angel, Our Romance of the Week

January 10, 2012 by KND

Mona Ingram’s Fallen Angel:

Fallen Angel

by Mona Ingram

3.7 stars – 6 Reviews

Kindle Price: $2.99

Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled

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Here’s the set-up:

Laura MacLeod doesn’t need an intervention to know she’s in trouble. A paediatric nurse on an oncology ward, she has seen her share of suffering. But when tragedy touches her personally, she falls apart and accepts help in the form of pain killers. She becomes rapidly addicted, and her downward spiral is humiliating as well as life-changing. Fresh from rehab, she travels to the Okanagan Valley, where she has agreed to perform menial work at a winery for several months.F-18 fighter pilot Bradley Jamieson has witnessed the horrors of war in Afghanistan, resulting in the loss of his ability to speak. Weary from the aftermath of war, he accepts his friend’s invitation to visit his winery. Unable to understand how a beautiful woman like Laura could throw away her life by taking drugs, he is determined to avoid her. But the more he sees of this gentle woman, the more he’s attracted to her. The summer sun isn’t the only thing generating heat in the valley. Laura and Bradley battle their their growing attraction for one another while fighting their inner demons. Can these two troubled souls find the peace they desire, or will reality bring them crashing back down to earth?

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The author hopes you will enjoy this free excerpt:

Chapter One

Laura didn’t need an intervention to know she had problems, which was why she was doubly surprised when she walked into her grandmother’s house and saw all the people who, for whatever reason, still loved her.

Time seemed to stand still. With one hand on the screen door and the other clutching the door frame she contemplated turning around and leaving. At least long enough to down another pill. For one irrational moment she was thankful that she’d showered and washed her hair this morning. As if that meant they’d go easy on her. But she could see from the five determined pairs of eyes that no one here was going to cut her any slack. That’s the way it worked, wasn’t it…on those television shows? Her throat went dry and she looked at her grandmother, who was seated next to her father on the couch.

“Could I get something to drink, please?” She gave a weak smile. “Diet Coke if you have any, Gran.” She started to make her way toward the kitchen but Jenna, her friend since childhood, jumped up. “I’ll get it.”

They’re probably afraid I’ll make a run for it out the back door, she thought to herself. And they may be right. The shock was beginning to wear off, and she took in the two remaining people in the group. Rachel Ellison, the head nurse from St. Mark’s and a woman she didn’t recognize.

The woman stood up and motioned for Laura to sit down in the big chair in the corner. Laura almost giggled; it reminded her of a wedding shower where the bride-to-be was the center of attention.

“My name is Myrna Hyslop. I’m an intervention specialist and I’m here to help your friends and family.”

Jenna came back into the room. Ice cubes clinked in a tall glass and she held a can of coke in the other hand. She placed both items on the table beside Laura and gave her friend a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Love you” she murmured, then went back to the other side of the room and sat down.

Laura poured half of the coke with a trembling hand and took a deep swallow. It tasted great, but what she’d really like is another oxycodone to go with it. She tried to remember when she’d taken the last one, but her memory was fuzzy. She set the glass back down, frowning with concentration. Her memory was deserting her frequently these days, and she didn’t like it.

There were times, like right now, when she couldn’t even remember what had sent her down this path to self-destruction. But then the memories would come flooding back and she’d feel herself falling even deeper…if that was possible…into the black void that was currently her life.

She forced herself to look at the people gathered in her grandmother’s living room. Her father, divorced from her mother for ten years now. Always there for her. It was her father who’d supported her when she announced her decision to become a nurse. He was the best, and she’d been genuinely delighted for him when he told her a few weeks ago that he’d found a woman to share the rest of his life with. She couldn’t remember the woman’s name right now, but her father was happy and that’s all that mattered.

Next to her father was her Gran. As long as she could remember, a stable force in her life and a source of unconditional love. As a child, she’d spent at least two weeks a year here at her grandmother’s house in the Shaughnessy district of Vancouver. Those had been some of the happiest times of her life.

Rachel Ellison. Head Nurse at the hospital, and her supervisor. It was only a little over a month since Laura had fallen at work and broken her arm at work. The cast had come off two days ago and she massaged her arm, trying once more to recall what had precipitated that fall. She hated to admit it, but she couldn’t remember that either. At least she’d done one thing right. She’d stashed away a supply of oxycodone before the accident. The doctor wouldn’t prescribe any pain meds for her after the fall, informing her that a broken arm didn’t warrant anything more than Tylenol, and besides a stronger pain killer could prove addictive. She’d almost laughed out loud at that, but had managed to nod in solemn agreement.

Jenna Harkness. Her closest friend since childhood. They’d grown up together in Quesnel, had done volunteer work at the local hospital, and had shared everything. Even when Laura had gone to Vancouver for her nurses’ training, they’d remained close. Laura had been there when Jenna married Drew, and had rushed to see each of her children only days after their birth. Her friend’s eyes were all shimmery with tears, and she wondered if Jenna was about to tell her that she was no longer godmother to Hayley and Mark. The idea was insupportable, and for the first time she felt real fear.

“…which is why your family and friends are here for you today.” The intervention specialist was speaking but Laura hadn’t heard a word. What was her name again? She turned toward the other woman, hoping that her expression didn’t reveal what she was thinking. That she didn’t belong here. Her family were wonderful to be so caring, but her current state was only temporary. She’d be back up to speed any time now.

She took another drink, playing for time. She’d come to love the sound of ice cubes recently. They signalled good times ahead. She frowned again. They were supposed to be good times, but in recent weeks she’d often wake up in the morning not remembering what had happened after the second drink in her favourite bar. She stared into the bottom of the glass. She’d better cut back on the drinking, or she wouldn’t be in any shape to go back to work.

She looked at the faces around the room and put on a conciliatory smile. “I’ve been drinking too much” she said, nodding as she spoke to let them know she accepted the seriousness of her problem. “And I promise to cut back right away.”

Nobody responded. They didn’t have to; it was clear that they didn’t believe a word of what she said. This was going to be tougher than she thought.

“Okay, you’re right. I won’t just ‘cut back’. I’ll stop drinking completely.” She tried another smile and held up the arm that had been broken, flexing her fingers as she spoke. “I’ll be fit for work soon and I need all my senses for that.” She looked directly at her supervisor, who was looking at her oddly. “Rachel knows what I mean, right?”

The Head Nurse looked at the intervention specialist who nodded, then turned her attention back to Laura. “You’re not coming back to work. I’m sorry, Laura, but I can’t afford to have you back on the floors.” She gave her head a little shake. “I’d planned to talk to you the day you had your accident. In retrospect, I should have realized what was going on, but it never crossed my mind that you had a substance abuse problem. You were skating on thin ice then, but now you’ve gone right over the edge.”

Laura wanted to tell her she was mixing her metaphors, but something held her back. “How can you possibly say that? I haven’t seen you since I got the cast on.” Her tone was getting desperate, but she couldn’t stop herself. “I’m much better now.”

For the first time she saw something like pity in Rachel’s eyes. “Laura, we saw each other a couple of weeks ago, at the staff picnic. You don’t remember?”

“Come on, Rachel. Stop kidding.” She glanced around at the others in the room. They were all looking at her gravely and her world seemed to tilt. She looked back at her supervisor and when she spoke her voice was little more than a whisper. “I don’t remember.”

“You were pretty high when you got there, so I’m not surprised.”

Laura didn’t intend to give up without a fight. “Come on, Rach, everybody has too much to drink once in a while; it’s how we blow off steam. You know that.”

“Your drinking is only part of your problems. It wasn’t until I discussed the situation with Dr. Rowland that I started to put the pieces together. He told me that you’d been taking oxycodone for a couple of months before you broke your arm.”

“And you believed Stew?” Laura was incensed. “He’s the one who gave it to me in the first place.”

She closed her eyes, dropped her head. She wanted to snatch the words back, but it was too late. Her first instinct was to blame Rachel for tricking her, but that lasted only a second. It wasn’t Rachel’s fault she’d become addicted. It wasn’t even Stew’s fault, much as she’d like to share the blame. She was an RN, for God’s sake; she’d known the consequences of self-medicating with oxycodone long before he suggested that she take one to help her get through the bleak days after Mattie died.

They all spoke after that. Her father, her grandmother, and finally her friend Jenna. Ashamed and resentful at the same time, she heard very little of what they had to say. She knew they loved her and wanted to help her, but what right did they have to interfere in her life? It wasn’t until Jenna spoke of her children that she raised her head and actively listened to her friend.

“I’m not giving up on you, Laura. You’re godmother to my children, and I need you to be in their lives. What if something should happen to Drew and me, God forbid? You promised to take care of them, and I need you to be well. Please say you’ll go.”

Go where? Laura wondered. Either they hadn’t discussed that part, or she hadn’t been listening. But did it matter? Not really. She knew what was in store for her; the location was the least of her concerns.

She knew better than to ask if she could go home. After brief but tearful goodbyes, the Hyslop woman bundled her into a large SUV and pulled out into traffic.

Laura was silent for the first half hour, watching downtown Vancouver slide by outside the window. “Where are we going?” she asked eventually, as they crossed the Lions Gate Bridge.

“Please call me Myrna”, the woman said with a thin smile. “We’re going to Vancouver Island. There’s an excellent rehab center not far from Nanaimo, so we’ll be crossing from Horseshoe Bay.” She seemed remarkably upbeat. “I always enjoy the ferry crossing.”

Laura remained silent for several moments. “What about my apartment?” she asked finally. She hoped it wasn’t too much of a mess.

“Your father’s going to take care of that for you.”

Laura absorbed this information with a silent nod. She twirled a piece of hair around her finger and rubbed it against her lips. It was a gesture she used to make to calm herself when she heard her parents arguing, or when her mother had been particularly vile toward her. She dropped the piece of hair and glanced sideways to see if Myrna had noticed, but the woman was manoeuvring through traffic, approaching Highway 1.

“What about clothes, toothbrush, stuff like that? And who’s paying for all this?” Laura hadn’t meant to sound belligerent, but the words came out that way.

Myrna narrowed her eyes.

She probably thinks I’m a spoiled bitch. Maybe she’s right. She smiled in an attempt to let the other woman know she meant well.

“Your father sent along a suitcase for you. You won’t need a huge wardrobe at Water’s Edge, but he and his new lady friend picked out some nice things for you.”

“You saw what they bought?”

The other woman nodded. “Yes, it’s part of my job. You’ll be checked again when you arrive just to make sure. As for the money, your father and grandmother have paid for that as well.”

“I can afford to pay for it.” Laura didn’t know why she’d said that. Maybe she just needed to assert herself. Everything else seemed to have been decided for her.

“Good. But that’s between you and your father now.”

They fell silent after that. Laura scarcely noticed the sparkling blue of the Pacific as they neared the ferry terminal. She was startled when Myrna spoke as they waited in line to board the ferry.

“I’ve made this trip many times.” She glanced across at Laura. “It never fails to inspire me, knowing that people like you have the strength to turn their lives around.”

Traffic started to move. Ferry staff motioned them forward impatiently and Myrna guided the SUV up the ramp and into the gaping mouth of the ferry.

Laura felt as though she were being swallowed whole. She fought the panic that threatened to engulf her as they drove into the gloom of the parking level. Until now, she hadn’t given serious thought to what lay in store for her. She took several deep, calming breaths. Whatever was coming, it couldn’t be worse than what she’d already been through…could it?

Chapter Two

Bradley Jamieson watched the shaft of sunlight move slowly across the bed. He willed it to stop, but it moved inexorably toward him. Soon it would be in his eyes, he’d be forced to move, and the woman in bed beside him would know he was awake.

She was lovely, no doubt about that. They’d been introduced a couple of weeks ago and he’d been attracted to her, but had been hesitant to ask her out on a date. Finally he’d texted her, and she’d replied almost immediately. Last night had been wonderful; an intimate dinner sitting side by side in a booth at his favourite restaurant, followed by a leisurely walk along the waterfront. He couldn’t recall who had initiated the first kiss, but it had been long and hot; there was no doubt that they both wanted more.

The sex had been fantastic…for both of them. A small smile tilted the corner of his mouth as he recalled the number of times she’d told him what a wonderful lover he was.

She stirred in bed just as the sun hit him in the face. It was pointless to pretend any longer.

“Oh, you’re awake” she said, propping her head on a hand and looking down at him with a smile. “Did you sleep well?”

He nodded. He’d had a rare night free of nightmares. That in itself was worth celebrating. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and rubbed at the stubble on his cheeks. The woman…what was her name…ah yes, Alexa…scooted across the bed and was snuggling up behind him, pressing her breasts into his back.

“What are you going to do today?” She asked, fingers tiptoeing across his abdomen and heading south.

He grabbed her hand to halt its progress and brought it to his lips. He must be mad not to want more sex, but the price was too high. He knew what would happen afterward; she’d want to talk. They all wanted to talk, and it was more than he could take. They wanted to pry into his private life, to find out why he couldn’t talk, and each one in her own unique way wanted to “fix” him.

He kissed her hand again and tenderly touched her cheek, trying to soften the refusal. He liked her, he really did. She was gorgeous to look at, and intelligent, but he didn’t want to talk and she did. In that respect, she was no different from the others.

He grabbed his BlackBerry. Leaving town today, he typed and showed it to her. Sorry he added, had great time last night. He didn’t have to tell her that he’d only just decided to take his friend up on his offer of a bed for the summer–in exchange for working in the vineyards.

She gave him a sad smile. “You’re not going to call me again, are you?” It was more of a statement than a question.

He smiled back, and shook his head. It was one thing he’d learned a long time ago: don’t complicate your life with lies.

“I thought not.” She kissed him lightly on the lips. “You’re a nice guy, Bradley Jamieson. If you come back to town and change your mind, I’d love to hear from you.”

And with that, she slipped into her clothes and was gone. Bradley stared at the closed door for several long minutes after she’d left and wondered if his life would ever get back to normal.

* * *

It didn’t take long for Bradley to get organized and on the road. He’d texted Matt at the winery and been assured that he was still welcome. He’d laughed at the next line: ‘Will that old beast make the trip?’

The Norton was Bradley’s favourite means of transportation. There was something freeing about being on the bike, and it had been thoroughly serviced over several weeks the previous month; Bradley trusted it to make the trip.

It was noon by the time he set out from Comox. He planned to cross the ferry at Nanaimo and drive into the Fraser Valley tonight. Motels were plentiful in the area; hopefully he’d have a good sleep and make it to the Okanagan around noon the next day.

As he crossed the bridge from the Comox side of town to Courtenay, the Snowbirds, Canada’s aerobatic team, streaked across the sky, practicing one of their manoeuvres. The Tutors were small compared to the F-18s that Bradley had flown in Afghanistan, but he still stopped to look every time he heard a jet engine. He paused by the side of the road to watch them, marvelling at the precision flying. The aircraft dispersed and he gunned the motor, sliding smoothly into traffic. It was times like this that he felt guilty. Trained at great expense to be a fighter pilot, he was useless now. Okay, so he wasn’t to blame, but that knowledge didn’t help in the dark of the night, when he woke up to the horror of his memories, knowing that in his dream he’d been trying to scream, but unable to make a sound.

He rolled onto the five o’clock ferry with the other bikers, sent to their usual spot at the front. ‘First on, first off’ was their mantra. It was all part of the freedom of traveling by bike. He made his way to the deck, claiming a spot on one of the lifejacket storage containers. Here, with his back resting against the hull of the ship, he could watch not only the departure, but the eclectic mix of tourists that flocked to Vancouver Island every year. Virtually every European language was represented today, along with the ever-present, much-travelled Aussies and Asians. He sat back and closed his eyes, soaking up the sun. He hadn’t bothered to shave before leaving home, and he counted on his appearance to fend off anyone who would otherwise want to talk.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” He couldn’t quite place the accent. He opened one eye and shook his head. Her shoes identified her as European. There was something about their footwear that gave them away every time. That and the accent, of course. If he had to guess, he’d say she was Dutch. He made a broad gesture, indicating that she should make herself comfortable, and closed his eyes again. She pushed her backpack against the bulkhead, then sat back, resting against it. Her scent invaded his nostrils; it was something fresh, light and decidedly feminine.

Don’t even think about it, he told himself.

She raised a hand in greeting and a young man came and sat beside her. Bradley smiled to himself; he didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

* * *

Bradley Jamieson was one of those rare men who really loved women. At least the ones he’d been involved with told him he was a rarity, and judging by comments from the men he’d served with, they were right. The couple beside him were chattering away in a language he didn’t recognize, and he relaxed, thinking back to his younger days.

He’d grown up in Comox, home to Canadian Forces Base Comox. It was inevitable, he supposed, his desire to become a pilot. He knew every aircraft type that flew in and out of CFB Comox – American as well as Canadian. But even back then, he’d known that you just didn’t walk through the gates and sign up. As a matter of fact, you were lucky if they even considered you, and a degree or two always helped.

And so in the summer holidays, while his friends went fishing or chased girls, he worked at every job he could find, saving money for his education. The grocery store paid the best; he made himself available for work any time they called, but it wasn’t enough. In between, he mowed lawns and did yard clean-up.

It was a hot summer day when he first noticed her…really noticed her.

“Bradley” she called from behind the screen door. “Could you help me with something?”

He looked up, trying to recall her name. Oh yes, it was Mrs. Fraser. Her husband worked at the base, and according to her, had little time to spare for yard work. He’d noticed her several times that day; she seemed to be watching him through the kitchen window. He hoped she was happy with his work.

He wiped the sweat from his brow as he walked up the back steps. She opened the screen door and stood there, almost as if she were posing. She had on some sort of a top that tied under her breasts, leaving her midriff bare, and incredibly short shorts for an older woman. At least she seemed older to him. He tried not to look at her, but she had an amazing body and she wasn’t shy about showing it.

“What is it?” he said, looking around.

She walked across the kitchen and he noticed that she was wearing what the school girls called ‘wedgies’ on her feet. They made her legs go on forever. He swallowed painfully.

She bent over as if to lift a cardboard box from the floor. “This box is too heavy.” He could see the crease of skin where her legs joined her buttocks and got an instant erection.

She straightened up and turned back to him. “I was hoping to move this out to the storage shed, but it’s just too heavy.” Her gaze dropped to the level of his crotch and her lips parted. “Would you do it for me?”

“Sure.” He didn’t know how he got the word out; his tongue felt thick and clumsy in his throat. She stood back a bit and he picked up the box. “The storage shed,” he said, trying not to look at her cleavage.

“Yes, and then come back in. I’ve made some lemonade.”

He practically ran to the shed and shoved the box into the first spot he could find. It was all he could do not to race up the steps when he got back to the house.

“So,” she said, handing him a glass of lemonade. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

He swallowed half the glass in one gulp. He wasn’t quite sure where this conversation was going. “Sort of,” he said, wondering if she could tell he was stretching the truth.

“Aha.” She took a small sip from her glass, eyeing him over the rim. “And what do you do for fun?”

“I, ah, well, we…” How could he explain the fumbling and groping in the back seat of his friend’s car?

“Do you have sex?” She came closer. There was a musky smell about her. It was unfamiliar but oddly arousing. “I mean, I hear about young people these days and it all sounds so different from when I was your age.” She placed her glass on the counter then took his and placed it beside hers. She was so close to him now that her breasts were almost brushing against his chest. At least when she was this close she couldn’t see that he was hard again.

Or maybe she could. She ran a finger over his lips and his mouth dropped open. She slid the finger inside his mouth and then withdrew it, putting it in her own mouth. He was afraid that he was going to come right there, in her kitchen. That would be mortifying and he closed his eyes, trying to regain control.

She touched his face again with her fingertips, tracing the line of his jaw, then down his neck, resting her hand against his chest. she tweaked his nipple, and he groaned aloud.

“You’re really a very handsome young man,” she said. Her voice had changed. It was husky, and when he dared to look into her eyes they had darkened. She slid a hand lower and cupped his erection. “Would you like to make love to me?” she asked, running her hand up and down the length of him.

He could only nod.

“Then come with me,” she said, and walked up the half flight of stairs in the split-level home.

He followed her into a cool, dark bedroom. “What about your husband?” he croaked. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything, but he didn’t relish being beat up by an irate husband.

“He’s out of town on deployment,” she murmured, stepping out of her shorts. Her halter top followed and she stood before him in nothing but a lacy white thong. His fingers itched to touch her but he sensed that she was enjoying revealing herself to him. With a slow, tantalizing motion she slid the thong down until she stood in front of him, completely naked. Her pubic hair had been trimmed and he stared at it. He’d never seen anything like that before, not that he had much experience with naked women.

“Know what I was doing this morning while you were working outside?” She lay back on the bed, watching him undress.

He could care less what she’d been doing. All he could think about was what was being offered and he wanted to get it before she changed her mind. He fumbled with the zipper on his jeans.

“I was watching you and wondering what it would be like to have sex with you.”

He tore off his shorts and his erection sprang free.

“Oh, come to mama,” she said, reaching for him. “I don’t imagine you want to wait any longer, do you?”

He thrust into her. Once, twice, and then he exploded like nothing he’d ever experienced before. He lay there for a few moments, catching his breath, and then raised his head. “I’m sorry” he said, and meant it. “That wasn’t much good for you, was it?”

She smiled. “No, but you show great promise. Next time will be better.” She rolled out from under him and took his hand, guiding it to her innermost recesses. “In the meantime I’ll show you a sure fire way to please a woman.”

And she did. That afternoon and many more throughout that magical summer. She was an inventive teacher and he was an eager student. By the time school started again and her husband had returned from his posting, Bradley had acquired more sexual experience than most men gain in a lifetime.

* * *

The ferry shuddered as it moved away from the dock. Bradley opened his eyes, disoriented for a moment. Then he remembered where he was. He supposed he should go and get in line for some food. He didn’t mind the wait; it was something to do during the crossing. Besides, he needed some energy and his wits about him for the hectic pace of traffic on the mainland.

Chapter Three

Laura had been to Vancouver Island several times before. Most recently with Stew, a man she’d thought she might get serious about. They’d gone to Long Beach on the west coast of the island for a long weekend. Back before her world had fallen apart.

Everything looked different today as they pulled into Nanaimo. Even though it was sunny, the island appeared to hunker down, as though something bad were about to happen. Laura gave a small shudder and pulled her jacket more closely around her shoulders.

“Are you all right?” Myrna’s tone was kind. Laura knew that the other woman was watching her carefully for the first signs of withdrawal.

“I’m okay,” she replied, forcing herself to stay calm. She was starting to feel restless, but was determined not to show it. As if her actions mattered now. But for some reason, they did. She wanted to hold it together at least until she got to the rehab facility.

“What’s the name of the place we’re going?” she asked.

“Water’s Edge.”

“Sounds like a resort, or a golf course or something.”

Myrna smiled. “It does, doesn’t it?” They were on the highway now, and she was signalling a move into an exit lane. “You’ll hate it for the first few days of course, but I’m sure you’re expecting that.”

Laura twirled a piece of hair around her finger. “I wonder if I’ll ever get my job back.” She looked at the other woman. “I love nursing, especially paediatrics.”

Myrna shot her a sympathetic look. “Rachel said you were a terrific nurse. She cared enough about your future to contact your family and initiate the intervention.”

Laura stared out the window. “I was a terrific nurse. Past tense.” She was silent for a few moments. “But I only have myself to blame if they never take me back.”

“If it comes to that, there are lots of other things you can do with your skills.”

“I suppose so, but it won’t be the same.” For the first time today, tears came to her eyes. “It’ll never be the same.”

* * *

Laura’s childhood had been like no one else’s. That is, no one she knew. She’d been born beautiful; at least that’s what her mother told her…constantly. She was born and grew up in Quesnel, where her father owned a dealership that sold heavy equipment. Unlike her friends, who viewed their parents as infallible and rock solid, Laura recognized at an early age that her parents didn’t belong together. Her mother complained about living “in the sticks” and bemoaned the lack of what she termed “culture” and a “social life”.

Her parents were constantly at war over how she should be brought up. “It’s not ladylike,” he mother shouted, when shortly after her twelfth birthday Laura announced she’d been riding with Jenna and helping out at the stables.

Her father, as usual, was on her side. “For God’s sake Carolyn, the Queen rides a horse. What do you expect the child to do?”

“Have you looked at your daughter recently?” Her mother stabbed him in the chest with a finger. “Really looked at her? She’s a beautiful child, Hugh, and she could have an amazing career ahead of her as a model.”

Laura cringed. Why did her mother always have to focus on her looks? She’d examined herself in the mirror, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

The arguments raged on, but her father stood his ground. It wasn’t until Laura heard the dreaded word ‘divorce’ that she decided to take matters into her own hands.

She found her father on the sales lot, in the cab of a backhoe with a prospective buyer. He broke into a smile at the sight of her. “Hi, Sweetheart. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

Laura waited in his office, reading a book she’d taken out of the library that afternoon.

“This is a surprise,” her father said, filling the room with his presence. He looked at her carefully. “Is anything wrong?”

“No.” Laura used one of her father’s business cards for a bookmark and returned the book to her backpack. “Dad, I’ve been thinking. I could try this modeling thing. Especially if it would make Mom happy.”

Her father’s eyes narrowed and he was silent for a few moments. She sensed that he was struggling to formulate a reply. “Laura, I understand what you’re trying to do, but I’m not sure that anything would make your mother happy at this point in her life.”

She recognized the truth in what he said, but she had to try. She loved her mother…perhaps not as much as she loved her father, but if they divorced over this, she’d blame herself for not trying harder.

“No, really Dad. I want to try it.” She gave him what she hoped was a convincing smile. “Summer’s coming up so it wouldn’t take time away from school. It could be fun.”

He looked at her long and hard. “If that’s what you want, it’s okay with me. But you have to promise me one thing. If it ever stops being fun, or if you feel you’re not being treated well, you stop. I’ll back you up one hundred percent. No questions asked.”

The change in her mother was remarkable. She planned her assault on the agencies in Vancouver like a general mapping out a campaign. It seemed that there wasn’t a thing about her daughter that couldn’t be improved by a visit to a salon. “Only the best, mind you,” she said. “I know the perfect place in Vancouver. We couldn’t possibly trust your hair or brows to the local people.”

Laura tried not to notice the triumph in her mother’s voice when she announced that “her daughter” wanted to try modeling. After all, the constant bickering between her parents had died down. That was progress, wasn’t it?

Her mother put Laura on a strict diet. “It’s only for a couple of weeks, child. You need to lose ten pounds before Kristof photographs you.”

“But Mom, I’m not fat.” Laura was sitting on her bed.

“No, of course not, but the camera has a way of making a person look heavier.” Her mother glanced at herself in the full-length mirror on the wall and frowned. “Trust me.”

Her father drove them to Vancouver and saw them settled with Gran. “You remember what I said,” he reminded her, giving her a hug before he left. “Call me anytime you want to come home.”

And so it started. Laura had to admit that it was fun; being pampered, being photographed, the endless shopping.

“How do you know so much about this?” she asked her mother. They were sitting on the outdoor patio of a downtown hotel. Laura smiled up at their server and waved away the offer of dessert.

“I dabbled in modeling when I was younger.” Her mother sat up a little straighter and Laura saw her through new eyes. Her mother must have been very attractive when she was younger.

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yes, well, it didn’t go very far.” Her smile was brittle. “I wasn’t the type they were looking for, evidently.” She gazed off into the distance for a moment, then returned her attention to her daughter. “But you’re different.” She tapped the portfolio that rested against her chair. “The camera loves you, as they say. We should see some good results next week.”

Her mother was right. Of the three agencies they visited that week, they had two immediate call-backs, resulting in two offers of representation.

“Daddy,” cried Laura over the phone. “An agency wants to represent me. They have a major client who’s launching a new line and they want me to be their new face.”

Her father laughed. “You sound like a pro already.”

“Yeah, well I don’t know about that. The contract is humongous.”

“You haven’t signed it yet, have you?”

“No, Mom’s reading it over before I sign it. She has to sign it too.”

“I want you to fax me a copy right away.” Her father’s tone had changed. “Your mom has done well to get you this far Sweetie, but contracts are serious business, and at this point we need the advice of someone who doesn’t have so much invested in this.”

She didn’t quite understand what her father meant, but when she told her mother, she went ballistic.

“No!” she cried. “Absolutely not! Who does he think he is, trying to control your career when he’s done nothing to encourage you?”

Laura opened her mouth to set her mother straight, and then thought better of it. “He’s not trying to control my career, Mom. He just wants his lawyer to read the contract.”

“No.” Her mother spit out the word.

“Then I guess I can’t sign it.” She was quaking inside, but she held her mother’s gaze. “I promised.”

Carolyn MacLeod glared at her daughter. There was malice in that glare, and Laura realized in that moment that she’d done nothing to help her parents’ marriage. As a matter of fact, this latest development might just tear it apart. But she had a lot invested in this modeling venture, and she wanted to see it through.

“All right.” Her mother tossed the contract on the table and glanced across the room toward the computer. “You know how all this computer stuff works. Can you send a fax on that machine?”

“Yes, or I can scan it and send it as an attachment.”

“Whatever.” Her mother started to leave the room but paused at the door and turned back. “I’m doing this for you, you know. I hope you appreciate that.”

Laura knew better but she smiled. “I know, Mom and I do appreciate it. I really do.”

* * *

Laura became the face of a hot new designer and over the next two years appeared in print and television ads for every one of his wildly successful products. Her father had ensured that all of her earnings were deposited in a bank account in her name. Her mother was predictably furious, but she was bathing in the reflected glow of her daughter’s success and didn’t raise much of a fuss.

* * *

After an exhausting photo shoot for a magazine spread Laura couldn’t wait to get home. “I’ve missed you.” Jenna gave her a big hug, then held her at arm’s length. “You look so different in those magazines. Sometimes I think I don’t know you anymore.”

“Don’t be silly.” Laura heard a horse nickering and looked toward the barn. “Is that Ciero? How’s she doing?” Jenna’s horse had been heavily pregnant the last time she saw her.

“She had the most beautiful little foal just two days ago. I’ve been waiting till you see her so we can name her together.”

The girls ran to the stall where Ciero greeted them cautiously, maintaining a position between her foal and the two girls.

“She’s beautiful,” sighed Laura, tears pooling inexplicably in her eyes. “I’d forgotten how I love the sight of a new foal.”

Jenna’s eyebrows drew together. “Why are you crying?”

Laura brushed away the tears. “I’m not crying.” She attempted to smile. “Not really.”

They wandered out into the sunlight.

“It’s just that I miss all this.” She made a broad gesture, encompassing the ranch and the green hills that rose in the distance. “I miss home.” She glanced sideways at her friend. “Running back and forth to Vancouver was fun at first, but it’s getting to be a real drag. I’m not sure how much longer I want to do it. I guess seeing the new foal reminded me that there’s a lot more to life than posing in front of a camera.”

They leaned their arms against a rail, watching the horses in the paddock. “My contract comes up for renewal in a couple of months and my mom has already negotiated terms for another year. She didn’t even ask me. I’m supposed to sign by the end of the week.”

“Huh.” Jenna didn’t know what else to say.

“My Dad says I can quit any time I want.” She looked at her friend. “Remember a couple of years ago when we tried to volunteer at the hospital?”

Jenna grinned. “Yeah, they said we were too young.”

“Well, that’s what I’d really like to do. I want to be able to play on the basketball team, and volunteer at the hospital. Who knows, I might even get a boyfriend.”

“As long as it’s not Drew.”

“As if.” Laura nudged her friend. “So you guys are serious?”

A dreamy expression came over Jenna’s face. “Oh yeah. Don’t laugh, but I’ve already decided. I want to marry him.”

For the briefest moment Laura was jealous. “You know something? I think you will.” She gave her friend a hug. “I think I’ll go home and tell Mom what I’ve decided.”

* * *

Laura experienced the full force of her mother’s wrath. In the space of minutes, she went from being the golden girl to ‘an unappreciative slut’. When her father came home from work her mother turned on him, accusing him of sabotaging all of her hard work.

The tirade went on for days until Laura could stand it no longer. She reluctantly confided in her father, who immediately whisked her off to Vancouver for a quiet stay with her grandmother. By the time she returned home, her mother had moved out. She never returned, and two years later, Carolyn and Hugh MacLeod were divorced.

Laura didn’t spend a penny of the money she earned. Her father gave her an allowance all through high school. Once a year they’d have what he called a ‘board meeting’ where he’d take her out to dinner and they’d discuss the investments he’d made on her behalf. The totals grew every year, thanks to her father’s prudence, but the amounts were so large they didn’t seem real. She was a wealthy young woman.

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