Dead Reckoning

by C. J. Snyder

  “I’m not going to stop you.” His voice was low, almost a caress. It burned down inside her like lava.

  “I said, shut up!” He had nothing in his back pockets—that was obvious from the way the tight denim clung.

  Search them anyway.

  The thought shot heat into her cheeks. She most certainly was not going to slide her fingers inside the pocket, down around those firmly defined muscles.

  She resolutely swung her gaze to the back of his head and forcibly kept it there. Melissa. The reminder stiffened her shoulders. What the hell was wrong with her? Maggie heard what sounded like an amused snort, the sound spurring her to action. With the gun firmly in her right hand, she reached around him, shoved her hand down inside his left front pocket. And froze. Far from upset, he was enjoying this. Her reluctant fingers ran right into the evidence.

  He laughed, a contemptible chuckle that sent a shudder up her back. “Told ya, darlin’. I like your ass, too.”

  Maggie looped his key ring with one finger and yanked. One glance confirmed it. She retreated a measured four paces. “Take off your clothes,” she growled. “Shirts first. Easy.” Short and blond’s buttons popped and scattered on the sidewalk. Tall and dark methodically unbuttoned his cuffs before starting on his shirt front. He took his time with those, too. Did he have another weapon? Maggie frowned. “You. Turn around. Slow.”

  Tall and dark obeyed, not smiling now. His eyes were cold, filled with disturbing undercurrents. He locked that riveting blue-eyed gaze back on hers and shot her a lazy grin that didn’t begin to reach his eyes. “Don’t trust me, darlin’?”

  Pasting a picture of Melissa in front of her mind, she met his mocking stare coldly. “Off.” She glanced at short and blond. He was holding his shirt over his overweight belly. “Toss it over here and keep going.” He complied. His hands were still shaking. Too much time.

  She lifted the gun, stepped forward. “Let’s go. Shoes, socks, everything, right here. Move.” She gestured at her feet. Short and blond peeled layers as fast as he could. Dress shirt, white t-shirt, trousers, black socks and wingtips piled in an untidy heap at her feet. Tall and dark didn’t have as much to shed. Unlike short and blond, who, despite the warm evening, was shivering now in his boxers, tall and dark kicked off heavy sandals. They landed with unerring accuracy at her feet.

  Gaze still clamped on hers, he pulled tanned, muscular arms from his shirt and chucked the blue denim onto the pile, revealing acres of strong, hard, nakedflesh. Maggie’s lips parted. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe. The mask over her face had nothing to do with her throat closing down. He grinned again as he shucked jeans and briefs together, not releasing her eyes as he silently dared her to take a closer look.

  She kept her eyes firmly trained on his and scooped up the clothing. “Turn around.” Short and blond seemed delighted to hug the cold bricks again. Tall and dark hesitated. His proud, arrogant mouth still smiled, but his eyes were even colder, harder. “I’ll find you.”

  The solemn promise rang in her ears all the way back down the alley.

  Excerpt from SILVER STORM

  (Chronicles of the Taken – Book 2)

  By Michele Callahan

  CHAPTER ONE

  Friday, 6:47 A.M. Glowing silver embers fell from the sky over Chicago and all of her suburbs. The glittery flakes spread over the city faster than dawn could shoot its rays of new morning light. Night hung on by her fingernails, the sun trapped behind the horizon for a precious few minutes. The early risers, those who initially believed themselves blessed to witness a miracle, gasped in awe and cried at the unearthly beauty glittering down over them like a billion falling stars.

  Then the screaming began as everything and everyone, nine million people, burned to ash in a matter of minutes. Four Days Earlier…

  6:47 AM

  Silence hovered over the water and a few moments of peace settled over Tim like a cool blanket on a hot July day. He grinned and finished tying the spinner on his line. The softly lapping water, smell of wet vegetation, and honking geese gliding around the edges of Hendrick Lake were as far from the desert sand and gunfire as he could get. Monday morning meant most people were back at work, leaving the lake and the best fishing spots empty…just the way he liked it.

  Bandit curled up in her bed on the floor of the nine-foot aluminum boat, content to sleep for a few more hours. The tiny Pekingese mix was used to his routine. Fish. Work. Fly. She did it all. When he’d flown home to bury his parents, she’d been a four-month old puppy he could fit inside his combat boot. The puppy had been his mother’s whim and a completely spoiled lapdog. The tiny pooch had lived a life of luxury traveling in his mother’s purse everywhere she went. He’d considered giving the pup away after the funeral, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. That was nine months ago. The little girl wasn’t much bigger now, a whopping ten pounds soaking wet, but she kept him company, she was smart, she liked to fish, and she was the only family he had left.

  “Let’s see what we can catch today, girl.” Tim cast his line out over his favorite fishing spot and let the spinner sink a few inches before slowly reeling it back in. The rhythm and monotony chased away the last of his lingering nightmares. Sand. Bitter cold. Death.

  Bandit growled low in her throat and got to her feet, rumbling like a tiny electric toy stuck in the “On” position. The hair on her body started to rise, forming a round fluffy brown and white snowball with huge brown eyes. Bandit looked like a cartoon character. Tim would’ve laughed, but the hair on his arms and head crackled with static electricity as well and rose to attention like a thousand tiny soldiers. The water puckered as if it were being hit by raindrops, but there were no clouds. No rain. No thunderstorms on the horizon waiting to zap him and his boat into oblivion with a stray bolt of lightning.

  Tim reeled in his line and stashed the fishing pole in its spot along the side of his seat. Bandit stood at rigid attention on her pillow and continued to growl, a steady little rumble of warning that set his teeth on edge. They were too exposed on the water, too out in the open. He clenched his jaw to keep the stream of expletives from rolling off his tongue. Whatever this was, it wasn’t normal. His silence came as automatic as breathing. He didn’t start the small trolling motor. He took out an oar and paddled smoothly for the tree line behind his house. Two minutes, perhaps three, and he’d be under cover.

  The electrical buzz building in the air continued to grow stronger until he could hear the slight hum around him. His skin prickled and the water on the side of the boat rose around him, forming hundreds of fluid stalagmites rising, bursting, and sinking back into the water faster than he could track them.

  Earthquake? E.M.P? What the hell?

  The electric charge shocked him with static build-up every time he moved. Time to get off the water before whatever was happening cooked him in place or worse. He glided into the reeds only a few feet from shore and tried to figure out how he could get off the boat without touching the supercharged water. Any second now he expected stunned or dead fish to start popping to the surface. Maybe the Fish and Game boys were doing this for a count or culling of the lake. He couldn’t imagine why they would, but damn it, they should’ve posted a warning!

  Bandit yelped and sunk to her belly, whimpering and shivering. A thunderous boom filled the air and a burst of silver light to his right blinded him. Instinct drove him to the bottom of his boat for cover and his mind raced with possibilities.

  A bomb? Lightning?

  Whatever it was ruined a perfectly good fishing trip.

  As suddenly as it all began, it was over. The super-charged air dissipated like it had never been and his hair returned to its usual resting place. His clothes stopped crackling. The water, roiling moments ago, returned to a serene and placid lapping against the side of his small boat. The geese took up their honking as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. Bandit suddenly leaped to her feet and jumped onto the bench seat he’d just dived off of. Her curled tail wagge
d fiercely as she yapped at something just out of his sight.

  Ears still ringing from the blast of lightning, he pulled his knife from its sheath at his waist and lifted his head just enough to see over the edge of the boat. An unconscious woman floated, face up, at the water’s edge. Naked. Her head was toward shore in no more than three or four inches of water, leaving the rest of her long, willowy body floating alongside his boat. Was she dead? That’s all he needed. Dead willowy body floating alongside his boat. Was she dead? That’s all he needed. Dead 1 call, and fifteen hours at the police station saying, “I don’t know,” until his tongue was bleeding.

  Shit. He didn’t dare get in the water and risk immediate electrocution. Bandit had no such inhibitions.

  “No!”

  Too late. The little wet rat swam happily to the woman’s side and sniffed her hair, sopping wet tail wagging like a mop waving him into the water. “You little turkey.” With a sigh, he jumped over the side after his crazy dog into knee deep water then leaned over the woman, feeling for a pulse. His shoulders relaxed when the steady beat of her heart thrummed beneath his fingertips. Her chest rose and fell in a peaceful rhythm as if she were in a deep, dreamless sleep. No blood. No lacerations. No bumps on the head or obvious injury.

  She was, in a word, perfect.

  But who was she, and how did she end up here?

  Book 2 - Chronicles of the Taken: Silver Storm coming soon! Book 1 - Chronicles of the Taken: Red Night now available.

  Excerpt from Satin Pleasures

  by Karen Docter

  Chapter One "Colby, if I'd had that brunette in my bass boat instead of you Aunt Mary would never have talked me off the lake." Dan McDonald tore his gaze away from the view in the truck windshield to grin at his dog, affectionately named Colby, after the cheese the German shepherd loved so much. "Bet she doesn't kiss like you...the brunette, I mean, not Aunt Mary."

  The dog whined, then attempted to wriggle his massive bulk into his master's lap. Dan pushed his muzzle away. "Phew! Chances are she doesn't smell like you, either." Colby bared his teeth in a grin.

  Dan laughed. "You won't think it's so funny when we reach San Francisco and you get a bath." He considered the stalled traffic. "That's assuming we get across the bay." A fully loaded semi had jackknifed across both lanes of the westbound bridge and wedged in tighter than a cork in a genie's bottle. The truck was to be dismantled for removal, the freight unloaded, and there appeared to be a debate as to which part of the process should be completed first.

  He smiled at the speed with which the shock wave of information ran down the line of commuters. Many spilled from their cars to chat. A few lounged on their hoods, faces raised to the warm March afternoon sun. A pair of students in Stanford jerseys zipped a fluorescent orange Frisbee between the cars with all the ferocity of Kamikaze pilots.

  Dan shook his head when he realized he'd pushed his old life behind him far enough to find amusement in the scene. He'd come a long way in the past year. Was it far enough? He'd been happy—well, content enough—with his solitary lifestyle...until his aunt tracked him down in Florida a couple of weeks ago.

  She'd convinced him she and his mother needed him in California through June. However, he'd had three thousand miles to wonder if his temporary return to the rat race might prove to be the biggest mistake of his life. His impulse to turn the truck around had grown with each passing mile and he wondered if this traffic snarl was his last chance to save himself.

  He certainly couldn't complain about his first glimpse of San Francisco Bay. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. The sun stirred bright color into the murky waves and streaked light across mirrored office buildings on the opposite shoreline. A light, salty breeze gave wing to a variety of raucous sea birds over his head and teased long tendrils of toffee-rich hair out of his brunette's French twist.

  His brunette.

  Desire coiled deep in his belly as he watched her wiggle her bottom onto the hood of her car. With one hand resting on the driver’s side mirror on the open door, she talked briskly into her phone, her expression hidden behind sunglasses. The straight lemon skirt and fitted jacket she wore accentuated her rich, dark hair, full breasts, and slender waist. Spiked heels showcased legs long enough to fuel a man's fantasies for months. Her hand waving in emphasis to whatever point she was making spoke to Dan of urgent caresses and wild passion.

  The blend of cool professionalism and hot sensuality fostered the illusion a man only had to peel away one layer to expose the passionate woman beneath. He'd never seen a woman who made him feel so needy, so primitive, with barely one look...which is why he hadn't bothered to pursue a woman since Charlotte Betham opted for her career over him last year. He might have made an effort to change her mind if she’d turned his crank this way!

  Only a caveman would dream of ripping the phone from his lady's hand. Only a cretin would throw it into the bay before he dragged her away to his cave for a year or two. Only a sexstarved man would allow such idiotic impulses to get out of hand.

  "Maybe Aunt Mary dragged us back to civilization just in time." Dan scratched behind his dog's ears. "Maybe I should go out on a date or two while we’re here. Just to take the edge off."

  Colby barked, and then rested his muzzle on the dashboard, pointing the way. "No, it won't be with my sexy brunette."

  The last thing Dan needed in his life was another career-focused woman to tempt him back to the competitive edge like the one he’d ridden in Chicago. He'd leaped off that fast track without a backward glance—nearly dying did have a way of adjusting a man’s perspective, after all—but he could still spot a workaholic when he saw one. He'd lived with one all his life. First, his father. More recently, Charlotte and himself. And since he didn't know yet if he'd beaten that particular inclination, once and for all, he wasn't taking any chances.

  The odd thing about chance, though, was the way it tended to come up and slap him when he wasn't looking. Dan stared with consternation at the bright orange saucer veering out of control across his vision, aimed directly for his brunette. "Watch out!"

  He jumped from the truck in time to see the rigid plastic disc slam into her right cheek with a sharp thwack, angle over her head and disappear over the bridge railing into the bay. Her cell sailed right behind it.

  Dan sprinted in her direction but she’d fallen off the hood of her car and slumped to the pavement, her back against the front fender, before he could reach her. Kneeling beside her, he placed a hand on her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

  She didn't respond.

  "I didn't mean to hit her!" The Frisbee thrower squatted next to Dan and watched him remove her cracked sunglasses. "Oh, man, she's out cold." Dan clamped a lid on his own spike of concern and thrust both hands into the woman's silky twist of hair. In the time it took him to run from his truck he'd seen her fall against the side mirror on her downward slide, and then ram her head against the open car door. So, it came as no surprise when he located a sizable lump over her left ear.

  He examined the welt rising on her cheekbone, his curse short, succinct. Her head cradled in his hands, he brushed his thumbs against her temples. "Can you hear me?" The woman’s eyelids fluttered, lifted. "W-What happened? H-Harry? Where's Harry?" Who the devil was Harry? Dan gazed into cinnamon brown eyes, fogged with confusion, and experienced a surprising surge of possessiveness. He couldn't drag his hands away from her fast enough. "If Harry's the one on the phone, I believe he's now conferencing with the sharks."

  "Oh. Oh! He'll kill me!" She shifted, wrinkled her nose in obvious bewilderment at the sight of her legs stretched in front of her. "Why am I sitting on the ground?" The student piped in. "My Frisbee hit you. You fell."

  "Frisbee? Fell?"

  Dan frowned. A concussion wasn't out of the question. Although her pupils didn't appear unequal or dilated, there was a large goose egg behind her ear and a welt across her cheek that grew more red and ugly by the minute. He searched his brain for the standard questions used on concuss
ion victims. "What's your name, and who's the President?"

  "Tess Emory, and Stuart Webster."

  "One out of two isn't bad," he murmured. For all he knew, Tess Emory wasn't her name either.

  "Oh, man, she doesn't even know—"

  Dan glared the student into silence, motioning the kid to her other side so they could both help her to her feet. "Which is which?" he asked, aware he needed to keep her talking. "I'm Tess." She wobbled on her spiked heels. "The president's Webster."

  Dan quickly calculated the distance to the camper in the back of his truck. "I think we have a problem. Webster is not President of the United States." Her eyes widened. "Oh. Wait. I thought you meant the president of my company!" She assured him she did indeed know her country's president. "Now I know two presidents' names and my own, but I don't know your names."

  The student introduced himself and apologized for her injuries. He wanted to share his doctor's phone number but, when she refused his assistance, he shrugged and walked off to rejoin his buddy sitting on the hood of their car.

  Which left Dan where he shouldn't be now that the danger had passed...overwhelmed by the appeal of toffee hair, cinnamon eyes, and spicy scent. Gasping for air like a wide-mouth bass in the bottom of his boat. Alone...with his brunette.

  Excerpt from Gnome on the Range

  By Jennifer Zane

  Chapter One

  “I’m not sure which one I want. I didn’t realize there were so many choices!” The woman wasn’t on the hunt for a new car or juice boxes at the grocery store. Nope. She wanted a dildo. I called her type a Waffler. Someone who contemplated all options before even attempting to make a choice. Because of Miss Waffler, I had ten different dildo models spread out across the counter. Glass, silicone, jelly and battery powered. She needed help.

  That’s where I came in. My name is Jane West and I run Goldilocks, the adult store my mother-in-law opened back in the seventies. Story goes she named it after the fairytale character when a mother bear and her two cubs walked down Willson right in front of the store the week before it opened. She called it fate. Or it could have been because her name is Goldie, so it made sense. I started working for her when my husband died, a temporary arrangement that helped her out. Three years later, things had turned long-term temporary.