Ladies Prefer Rogues: Four Novellas of Time-Travel Passion

by Janet Chapman

  “I love you.”

  “And I you, Ty. Now, about flappers . . .

  Keep reading for a preview of Sandra Hill’s next romance

  Even Vikings Get the Blues

  Coming Fall 2010 from Berkley Sensation!

  Double or nothing . . .

  Rita Sawyer prepared to set her body aflame and catapult through the fifteenth floor window of the burning skyscraper. A master of double tasking, she also pondered whether she’d have time, or the inclination, to shave her legs before her date this evening with her ex-husband’s brother.

  Well, it wasn’t a date exactly. Darron wanted her to meet the latest love of his life, Dirk Severino. Darron and Dirk. Doesn’t that say it all? In addition, he was bringing along the “perfect man” for her. His words. Presumably heterosexual, and with a job. Absolute essentials for her as a twenty-eight-year-old veteran of the dating wars.

  Darron was suffering major post-divorce guilt—on his brother Scott’s behalf, of all things—and had made it his mission in life to find her a mate to make up for his hound dog brother’s betrayal during Scott and Rita’s short-lived marriage. To her embarrassment, after plying her with Fuzzy Navels last week, Darron had discovered that she hadn’t been with a man in more than two years, not since the divorce. It was none of his business, of course, but Darron was a busybody from way back.

  To be honest, she was still raw and angry over Scott’s infidelity, whether it was one time, as he’d laughably claimed, or dozens, as she rightly suspected. Adultery was adultery in her book. She’d seen what it had done to her mother. Rita had suffered the pain herself.

  She’d known Scott since kindergarten. Darron, too, who had been younger. She’d seen Scott at his worst, and it wasn’t even when she’d caught him in bed with a fellow architect. Think seven years old and green snot. Therefore, she shouldn’t have been surprised when he’d turned out to be an adulterous snot when he grew up. Females had been drawn to his blond good looks from a young age. As if that was any excuse!

  Actually, she had her own ulterior motive for meeting with Darron tonight. He was a top notch financial advisor, and Rita was facing monumental money problems since her mother had died and left her with medical bills out the wazoo. It wasn’t the long bout with cancer that caused all the problems, but the experimental treatments not covered by insurance—for which Rita had gladly taken out loans—and the year she’d spent as a caretaker when she’d had no income. Unfortunately, it was all in vain. Collection agencies now had her on speed dial. And, no, she still wouldn’t accept alimony from Scott the Snot.

  “Scene three, take two. Lights! Camera! Action!” Larry Winters, the director of this latest spy thriller starring Jennifer Garner and Hugh Jackman, shouted through his bullhorn.

  Whoosh! Bursting into a ball of flame, Jennifer went sailing through the glass and the air with expertise, landing on a trampoline that looked like the roof of another building, from which she then front-flipped onto yet another rooftop, aka a padded platform. Of course, it wasn’t really the fifteenth floor, but rather the third, and it wasn’t really a skyscraper, but a set prop, and it wasn’t really Jennifer Garner, but Rita Sawyer, her stunt double.

  “Cut!” the director yelled. “That’s a wrap! Great job, Rita!”

  Immediately, a technician began hosing down her flames while others were peeling back her flameproof wig along with the tight cap which protected her short, spiky blonde hair ala the singer Pink, two nomex jumpsuits, and gloves. Still others wiped the flame-retardant gel off her face.

  “Hey, Rita. Got a minute?” Dean Witherow, the producer, called out to her. “I have a couple gentlemen who’d like to meet you.”

  Noticing the two military types in the visitors’ area, probably consultants on the film, she sighed with resignation. Folks were fascinated with her after witnessing some of her stunts, especially men who fantasized about what she could do in bed. Being a proud lady of the SWAMP, as in Stunt Women’s Association of Motion Pictures, she’d heard it all. One lawyer from Denver once asked, before they’d even got to the entree in a fancy L.A. restaurant, if she could do any kinky stunts during sex. Jeesh! And, yes, she could, actually. Not that she’d told him that.

  After a quick shower in the doubles’ trailer and a change of clothes to jeans and an Aerosmith T-shirt, she walked up and let Dean introduce them. “This is Commander Ian MacLean and Lieutenant Jacob Mendozo. They’re Navy SEALs stationed at Coronado.”

  Seals, huh? I’ve heard they can be kinky on occasion. They’re certainly buff enough.

  But then she chastised herself. Unbelievable! I am flippin’ unbelievable. If I don’t go ga-ga over Hugh Jackman, why would I be ogling these two grunts?

  Her eyes widened with interest, nevertheless. Like many others in this country, she had a proud appreciation for the good job SEALs did in fighting terrorism.

  The one guy, the commander, was in his early forties with a receding hairline that didn’t detract at all from his overall attractiveness. He was too somber for her tastes, though.

  Lieutenant Mendozo, on the other hand, was whoo-ee sex personified. From his Hispanic good looks to his mischievous eyes, he was eye candy of the best sort. And she’d bet her skydiving helmet that he knew his way around a bed, too.

  Rita Sawyer, get your mind out of the gutter.

  Maybe I am suffering from sex deprivation, like Darron thinks.

  “Were either of you among those SEALs who got in trouble for riding horseback into Afghanistan a few years back? I saw it on CNN.”

  Both men’s faces reddened.

  “We don’t talk about that,” the commander said.

  Which means yes. “Why so shy? It was really impressive.”

  “The Pentagon didn’t think so,” Lieutenant Mendozo explained with a wink—a wink his superior did not appreciate if his glare was any indication.

  “Heads rolled,” the commander agreed with a grimace. “With good reason. Necessity might be the mother of invention, but in the case of SEALs, they better be private ones.”

  “What he’s trying to say is that a SEAL scalp is a coup for many tangos . . . uh, terrorists. It’s important that we stay covert. That episode in Afghanistan was a monumental brain fart.”

  “Well, it’s been nice meeting you. Maybe you can—” she started to say.

  “We have a proposition for you,” Commander MacLean interrupted.

  Gutter, here I come. She laughed. She couldn’t help herself.

  “Not that kind of proposition.”

  “Oh, heck!” she joked.

  “I’m a happily married man. In fact, my wife would whack me with the flat side of her broadsword if I even looked at another female.”

  The lieutenant smiled in a way that indicated he wouldn’t mind that kind of proposition.

  But wait a minute. Did he say broadsword?

  “Can we go somewhere for a cup of coffee?” the commander suggested.

  Or a cool drink to lower my temperature.

  Soon they were seated at a table in the commissary.

  “So, what’s this all about?” she asked, impatient to get home if she was going to make her “date.” Now that her initial testosterone buzz had tamed down to a hum, she accepted that these two were here on business of some sort, not to put the make on her.

  “How would you like to become a female SEAL?”

  She choked on her iced tea and had to dab at her mouth and shirt with the paper napkins the lieutenant handed her with a chuckle. “You mean, like GI Jane?” she finally sputtered out.

  “Exactly,” Commander MacLean said. “It’s a grueling training program. Not many women—or men for that matter—can handle the regimen.”

  What a load of hooey! “Why me?”

  “The WEALS program, Women on Earth, Air, Land and Sea, needs more good women who are physically fit to the extreme. With terrorism running rampant today, Uncle Sam needs more elite forces, and our current supply of seasoned SEALs is deploying on eight to ten
combat tours. Way too many! So, we’re recruiting special people under a mentoring program. Bottom line, we need a thousand more SEALs over the next few years, and a few hundred more WEALS.”

  “I repeat, why me?”

  The commander shrugged. “We want the best of the best. Men and women who are patriotic . . .”

  I do get teary when the National Anthem plays.

  “. . . adventuresome,”

  Did they hear about my wrestling an alligator? Jeesh! Can’t anyone keep a secret? It was an accident, for heaven’s sake! I fell on the damn beast.

  “. . . extreme athletes,”

  You got me on that one.

  “. . . controlled risk takers,”

  That one, too. Stunt doubles take risks, but well-planned, safe-as-possible risks. But, boy, is he pouring it on!

  “. . . intelligent,”

  I barely passed calculus, and how intelligent had it been to marry a serial adulterer?

  “. . . skilled competitors who enjoy challenges and games,”

  Does he see “Sucker” tattooed on my forehead?

  “. . . people who love to travel,”

  Yeah, like downtown Kabul is my idea of a Club Med vacation.

  “. . . men and women with a fire in the gut.”

  The fire in my gut comes from the enchiladas I ate for lunch. And worry over paying my bills.

  “Only one in a hundred applicants make it through Hell Week, you know.”

  And you think I want to put myself through that? “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

  Both men shook their heads.

  “Each WEALS trainee has a mentor to get them through the process,” Commander MacLean added, as if that made everything more palatable.

  “And my mentor would be?”

  The sexy lieutenant gave her a little wave.

  Okay, I’m officially tempted.

  But not enough. She’d read about Hell Week. She’d watched Demi Moore get creamed in G.I. Jane. Who needs that? No. Way. She started to rise from her seat. “I’m flattered that you would consider me, but—”

  “Plus there’s a sizeable signing bonus,” Lieutenant Mendozo added.

  Rita plopped back down into her chair. “Tell me more.”

  And she could swear she heard the cute lieutenant murmur “Hoo-yah!”

  Keep reading for a preview of Veronica Wolff’s next romance

  Devil’s Highlander

  Coming Summer 2010 from Berkley Sensation!

  Marjorie skittered down the steep path, purposely descending too quickly to think. The specter of Dunnottar Castle felt heavy over her shoulder, looming in near-ruin high atop Dunnottar Rock, a massive stone plinth that punched free of Scotland’s northeastern coast like a gargantuan fist. Waves roiled and licked at its base far below. Chilled, she clambered even faster, skidding and galloping downhill, unsure whether she was fleeing closer to or farther from that grim mountain of rubble the MacAlpins called home.

  She shook her head. She’d sworn not to think on it.

  She’d done entirely too much thinking already. Much to her uncle’s consternation, she’d chosen her gray mare, not his carriage, for her ride from Aberdeen. She’d realized too late that the daylong ride offered her altogether too much time to brood over what felt like a lifetime of missteps. And she hoped she wasn’t about to make the grandest, most humiliating one of all.

  She was going to see Cormac.

  Whenever she’d thought of it—and she’d thought of little else on her interminable ride—she’d turn her horse around and head straight back to home. But then those same thoughts of him would have her spinning that mare right around again, until her horse tossed its head, surly from the constant tugging and turning.

  She reached the bottom of the hill, where the knotted grass turned rocky, its greens and browns giving way to the reds and grays of the pebbled shore. The beach curved like a thin scimitar around the bay, its far side concealed from view by the ragged hillocks and blades of rock that limned the shore as though the land only reluctantly surrendered to the sea.

  Marjorie slid the leather slippers from her feet and set them carefully down. She wriggled her toes, leaning against the swell of land by her side. The pebbles blanketing the shore were large and rounded, and looked warmed by the late afternoon sun. She stepped forward, moving slowly now. The water between the stones was cold, but their smooth tops were not, and they sounded a soothing clack with each step.

  She was close. She could feel it.

  Cormac. He was close. Amidst the gentle slapping of the waves and the sultry brine in the air, she sensed him.

  She’d not needed to stop in at Dunnottar to ask his siblings where to find him. She and Cormac had known each other since birth, and Marjorie had spent every one of her twenty-three years feeling as though she were tied to him in some mysterious and inextricable way. Though they hadn’t spoken in what felt like a lifetime, she’d spared not a penny nor her pride to glean word of him, writing to his sisters for news, aching for rare glimpses of him through the years.

  She’d offered up the prayers of a wretched soul when he’d gone off to war, and then prayers of thanks when he returned home whole. And God help her the relief she felt knowing he’d never married. She couldn’t have borne the thought of another woman in Cormac’s arms.

  No, Marjorie knew. Alone by the sea was exactly where she’d find him.

  She screwed her face, shutting her eyes tight. There were many things she knew.

  She knew that Cormac blamed her. To this day, he blamed her, just as she blamed herself for the foolish, girlish dare that had ripped Aidan from their lives. Because of her silliness, the MacAlpin family had lost a son and brother that day. And Marjorie had lost more still than that: She’d also lost Cormac.

  She froze again. What was she thinking? She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t bear to see him.

  But she couldn’t bear not to.

  The draw was too powerful to resist. Her feet stepped inexorably forward before her mind had a chance to stop them. She told herself she had no other choice. Events in her life had led her just there. She needed help, and Cormac was the only man with skills enough to come to her aid.

  The hillock at her side dropped away, revealing the far edge of the beach. Revealing Cormac.

  His shirtless back was to her, his breacan feile slapping at his legs in the wind. He was hauling in his nets. A fisherman now, as his sister had said. Hand over hand, the flex of muscle in his arms and back was visible even from a distance.

  Gasping, Marjorie stumbled back a step, leaning into the rocks for support. She’d told herself she came because he could help her. But she knew in that instant the real reason she’d come: The only place for her in this treacherous world stood just there, down the beach. Cormac.

  She’d willingly suffer his blame, suffer his indifference; yet still, like the embers from a long-banked fire, she knew Cormac would give her solace, despite himself.

  She hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken, but he turned, as though he’d felt her there. Her hand went to her chest, reminding her heart to beat, her lungs to draw breath.

  He turned away, abruptly, and tears stung her eyes. Would he spurn her?

  But she saw he merely bent to gather his nets, dragging them farther up the shore where he carefully spread them out.

  Relief flooded her. She scrubbed at her face, gathering herself, and tucked errant wisps of hair behind her ears. She knew it was purely a nervous gesture; the strong sea wind would only whip her curls free again.

  She tempered herself. This meeting would not go well if she were this vulnerable from the start. But of course she was this vulnerable, she thought with a heavy heart, considering all that had recently come to pass.

  She took a deep breath. He’d seen her. She couldn’t go back now. She wouldn’t go back—Cormac was the only one who could help her.

  Marjorie picked her way toward him. He stood still as granite, waiting for her, watching her. His dark hair blew in
the wind, and his brow was furrowed. Was he upset to see her? Simply thoughtful?

  Suddenly, she regretted the absence of her slippers. She loved the sensation of the smooth rocks beneath her feet, but now felt somehow naked without every stitch of her clothing. She fisted her hands in her skirts. She imagined she’d always been sort of naked before Cormac, and there was nothing that could truly ever conceal her. He was the only one who’d ever been able to read her soul, laid bare in her eyes.

  He was silent and still. What would he see in her eyes now?

  She felt as though she’d forgotten how to walk. She made herself stand tall, focused on placing one foot in front of the other, but she felt awkward and ungainly, unbearably self-aware as she made her way to him. Lift the foot, place it down, lift and down.

  He was not ten paces away. He was tall, but with a man’s body now, broad with muscles carved from hauling nets, from firing guns. That last gave her pause. She spotted the fine sheen of scars on his forearm, a sliver of a scar on his brow. He’d been long at war. What kind of a man had he become?

  Inhaling deeply, she let her eyes linger over his face. She was close enough to see the color of his eyes. Blue-gray, like the sea. Her heart sped. She forced herself to step closer.

  She’d been unable to summon an exact picture of him in her thoughts, but now that he stood before her, his face was as familiar to her as her own. There was Cormac’s strong, square jaw. The long fringe of dark lashes. But he was somehow foreign, too. The boy had become a man. A vague crook had appeared in his nose, and she wondered what long-ago break had put it there. Where had she been the moment it happened, what had shebeen doing while he’d been living his life?

  She stopped an arm’s length from him. Intensity radiated from him like the sun’s glare off the sea.

  Her throat clenched. She couldn’t do it. What had she been thinking?

  He blamed her still. He didn’t want to speak to her. He didn’t welcome the sight of her.