Money Shot
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Praise for
Money, Honey
“Fast, hot, fresh, and outright fun. You’ll love it!”
—Susan Kay Law, author of The Paper Marriage
“Fast-moving with humor, some tense moments of danger, and a satisfying ending. Sey’s debut is entertaining.”
—Romantic Times
“The dialogue is witty, the main characters sexy, and the sexual tension hot enough to steam.”
—Book Binge
“I enjoyed this debut novel and will definitely read the next Sey story.”
—Dear Author
“I loved this book . . . Not only did I enjoy the characters and the fast-paced dialogue, but I thought she did a great job with the changing points of view throughout.”
—Fiction Vixen Book Reviews
“A book filled with hot sexy banter, an even sexier hero, and many moments that will have you smiling. I definitely recommend this one.”
—Smexy Books
“Sparkles with energy and heart . . . A delightful debut.”
—Jane Porter, bestselling author of Flirting with Forty
“Laugh-out-loud funny and fantastically hot.”
—Victoria Dahl, author of Lead Me On
Berkley Sensation titles by Susan Sey
MONEY, HONEY
MONEY SHOT
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
MONEY SHOT
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market paperback edition / June 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Susan Seyfarth.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-1-101-52893-8
BERKLEY® SENSATION
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
http://us.penguingroup.com
This one’s for my sisters, Maureen, Kelly and Cheryl. They are the smartest, funniest women I know, and if not for their loving, gentle intervention, I would still be wearing jeans from 1994. Love you, girlies.
And to Claudia and Greta, who like to see their names in my books.
Chapter 1
BELLS JINGLED merrily as Mishkwa Island park ranger Rush Guthrie pushed through the jaunty red door of Mother Lila’s Tea Shop.
“Coming!” Lila sang out in that wavering soprano of hers.
Rush slid into the room, his back to the wall, his fingers hooked casually into the custom-sewn pocket in his jacket that concealed his SIG Sauer. He scanned the cozy, doily-splattered sitting space of his aunt’s tea shop with the calm, flat eyes of the professional killer he used to be. He’d come a long way since he’d landed on this island nearly two years ago, but not so far that he could walk into a room—any room—without performing at least a basic threat assessment. He wondered if he ever would.
The room was empty save for his two cousins, Yarrow and Einar. Yarrow—Lila’s step-granddaughter if Rush felt like splitting genealogical hairs, which he usually didn’t—sat behind the register. She had her chin propped on the flat of her hand, one black-painted fingernail flicking with desperate nonchalance at the little silver ring in her eyebrow. Between that ring, the little stud in her nose and the hardware dangling from her ears, the kid had half a dozen extra holes in her head, easy. Rush had never understood why a kid with a perfectly serviceable face would want to perforate it, but now, watching her try like hell to look like she wasn’t thrilled to little girlie bits by the attention of the man across the counter, he sort of understood why she might feel like she needed a little extra help looking hard.
Kid had a crush. A bad one.
Couldn’t really blame her, though. For all that Einar was Rush’s first cousin, for all that they’d been raised more or less as brothers, they couldn’t look less alike. Be less alike. Where Rush was stoic, Einar was charming. Where Rush was useful, Einar was flat-out beautiful. Weird word to use on a dude but what could you do? Classic example right here in front of him.
There Einar was, all golden curls and chiseled cheekbones, lounged up against the counter like it was a grand piano, hitting Yarrow with a smile of such dazzling intensity that the poor kid was hunched over like a puppy, practically squirming with unwilling delight. He caught Rush’s automatic scan of the room and his smile downshifted to a smirk. He poked lazy hands toward the ceiling.
“Dude,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling with wicked laughter. “I surrender. Don’t shoot.”
Yarrow yelled, “Grandma! Rush is here!” She glanced at Einar’s smirk and quickly copied it. Poor kid. “So. Any terrorists lurking in the tea shop today, Ranger Rush?”
“Nope.”
She lifted the lid off the teapot
at her elbow and peered gravely inside. “All clear here, too.”
The urge to smile took him by surprise. The kid was flipping him crap. How about that? It wasn’t so long ago that she wouldn’t have dared. Nobody would have. Nobody but Einar, anyway.
“Too bad.” He put on a frown. “I haven’t shot anybody all day.”
Her eyes went round as lollipops, and she and Einar shared a moment of shocked silence. “Did he just make a joke?” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” Einar whispered back. “It’s not like him. And it wasn’t really funny, so . . .”
This was the part where Rush should have smiled, or even laughed. But normal conversation had a rhythm, a beat pattern. It went fast and if you missed your mark, the moment was lost. Rush’s timing was terrible. Had been for the last, oh, ten years. Give or take.
He pulled off his knit cap and stuffed it into his pocket. The one that didn’t have a gun in it. “So, Lila called me?”
His aunt glided into the room, tall and handsome as a ship in full sail with scarves and skirts swirling, her long gray braid swinging. Yarrow said, “Grandma, Rush made a joke.”
Lila clasped pretty ringed hands together and beamed. “He did?”
“It was about shooting people, but it was definitely a joke,” Einar said. “We think.” He quirked a brow Rush’s way. “Wasn’t it?”
“I don’t talk about shooting when I’m serious,” he said. “It spoils the surprise.”
Lila’s mouth fell open and Yarrow said, “See? He did it again.”
They all gazed at him in wonder, then Yarrow leaned toward Lila and dropped her voice to a stage whisper. “I’m scared, Grammy,” she said. “Is this the Apocalypse?”
“No, dear. Of course not.” Lila patted Yarrow’s shoulder absently while she continued to study him. “It’ll rain frogs first.”
A tiny trickle of unfamiliar warmth bubbled up in Rush’s chest as he stood in front of these laughing people. Together they constituted all the family he had in this world, and for just a moment the gift of them pierced his soul, sweet and sharp. The urge to laugh with them kicked in, but as usual the moment had already passed.
Yarrow broke the circle first, deliberately shifting out from under Lila’s hand, as if she’d just noticed it resting on her shoulder. The rejection sent a wisp of grief over Lila’s face, but by the time she turned to Rush, it was gone. “So,” she said brightly. “What are you doing here besides being unusually amusing?”
“I have no idea. You called me, remember?”
“Oh, yes.” Lila came around the counter, slid a confidential hand into Rush’s elbow. He tensed automatically, then forced himself to relax. Jesus, Rush, he thought. She’s your beloved aunt. She’s not going to stick a knife between your ribs.
Then the bells at the door jangled and years of training so rigorous it had replaced instinct took over. Lila leaned in to kiss him hello, and Rush lifted her clean off her feet. In the space of half a heartbeat, he’d moved her three long strides to the counter, where he could put her, Yarrow and most of Einar behind him. By the time the door flew open with a sweep of wind and the frantic tinkle of sleigh bells, Rush had the women covered and his hand wrapped around the butt of the gun in his pocket. He’d domesticated himself enough not to actually draw the gun, but not so much that he wasn’t prepared to blow a hole clean through his new jacket and whoever came through the door.
Then the door opened, and in walked in that rarest of all commodities on Mishkwa in December—a stranger.
And not just any stranger, either. Lord, no. This stranger was about six feet of long-legged, dark-eyed woman, all smooth hair and golden skin, with a let’s-be-friends smile lighting up an extraordinary face.
Not a pretty face, exactly, but certainly one that deserved a second look. The discerning man might go back for a third. It was all those sharp edges and uncompromising slants against the lush oasis of that mouth, he thought. The contrast or something. It made a guy want to do stupid things. Rash things. Hot, wet, sweaty things, for sure.
“Hoo, boy,” Einar murmured. “Dibs.”
Fuck, Rush thought. For a guy who never stood when he could sit—or hell, lie down—Einar could move when it counted.
Chapter 2
SECRET SERVICE Agent Maria “Goose” di Guzman had hardly cleared the door of the little tea shop when Rush Guthrie himself—because who else could it be?—strode forward and engulfed her hand in a hearty grip.
“Welcome to Mishkwa,” he boomed, his voice radio-announcer cheerful, his eyes Caribbean blue. Goose blinked. Good Lord. His file hadn’t included a recent photo—a convention designed to protect behind-enemy-lines types against intel leaks—but it had included a basic physical description: six three, blue/blond, approximately 190. Based on that, she’d been ready for the Captain American type, but this guy was a recruiting poster come to life. She wondered if the military was still kicking itself over losing him.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“Well now, that depends.” She gave him a smile with just a hint of flirt around the edges. Based on the smug interest in those clear blue eyes, Ranger Guthrie sort of dug the glamazon type. Maybe not as much as he dug himself, but enough. A surprising number of men did. But yard-wide shoulders, thick hair the color of fresh butter and a jaw that could make Superman himself feel weak-chinned did not necessarily translate into the confidence to deal well with the double whammy of a tall girl and her badge. Thus the little bit of flirt-insurance. Flattery worked on everybody.
“On?”
“I’m looking for somebody,” she said.
He stepped just close enough to edge into her personal space, and grinned down at her with very white teeth. “Dare I hope you’ve found him?”
Goose kept her smile on high beam. “Depends.” She freed her hand from his and produced the badge she’d stashed in the Prada purse she’d treated herself to last Christmas. “Special Agent Maria di Guzman,” she said. “Secret Service. Ranger Rush Guthrie?”
Captain America shook his head and stepped closer yet. Close enough that she could smell his breath mint and the chewing tobacco it was trying to cover. “Now, what would you want with my cousin when all the man you need is right here?”
She tipped her head and gave him a curious look. “You’re one of those guys who likes getting arrested by girl cops, aren’t you?”
He gave her a lingering once-over. “I’d try anything once.”
She patted his arm. “I bet you would.” She tried hard to make it sound like a compliment. “You could start by directing me to Ranger Guthrie.”
“I’m Ranger Guthrie.”
She looked past Captain America for the first time and met a pair of eyes so pale she couldn’t tell if they were blue or gray. The color hardly mattered. Not compared with the intense attention in them, and the wary spark it sent dancing all the way down her body to her half-frozen toes. If she hadn’t been purposely holding her ground against his cousin’s hokey moves, the impact might have knocked her back a step. Possibly two.
She glanced between the men. Ranger Guthrie was maybe two or three inches taller than Captain America, but a good twenty pounds lighter. Not that he was skinny. Hardly. He just had the lean, wiry build of a distance runner rather than his cousin’s gym-toned muscle mass. He lacked his cousin’s classic looks, too, with hair clipped so brutally short she could only speculate about its color. It was a fashion choice that did nothing to soften the bones pressing harsh and sharp against wind-touched skin.
But where his pretty cousin had sailed forward with supreme confidence toward the stranger at the door, this guy had put his body in front of the only other occupants of the shop—women, Goose suspected. And unless she was dreadfully mistaken—which she almost never was—his fingers were hooked casually into a pocket that held a weapon.
Sound and fury, she thought looking back at Captain America. No mistaking which cousin was which.
“Good afternoon, Ranger Guthrie,”
she said. She sent him a friendly smile but didn’t move in for the handshake. She wasn’t about to crowd a guy with his particular skill set.
“Agent di Guzman.”
“May I speak with you?”
“Regarding?”
God, that voice. It was low, slow and a little rusty, like he’d just woken up, or maybe hadn’t used it in a while. She’d bet on the second scenario, though it was the first that caught her imagination. An image of him waking up hijacked her mind’s eye—all those efficient muscles and long limbs tangled up in some plain white sheets, the sleep in his gray eyes giving way to that powerful focus.
Another spark shot through her body, but this one wasn’t wary. It was all heat, and it didn’t make it to her toes. It detoured to places best left unmentioned and set up a nice little glow there. A bolt of fear, pure and reflexive, chased it down. Snuffed it out before it did anything stupid, like bloom into actual desire.
Because desire, Goose knew, was not her friend. It ran through her character like a fault line—thin, deep and potentially catastrophic. It could lie dormant for years, but then, out of nowhere, she would simply want. Want with a passion that drove her beyond reason, limits or perspective. A passion that left her heedless. Unpredictable. Uncontrolled.
Dangerous.
She’d indulged that passion exactly once, and though she’d survived, others had not. The experience had marked her. Defined her. At this point, resisting desire was no harder than putting on her badge, firing up her laptop or straightening her hair. Just one more thing she did every day that made her who she was.