Guns and Roses

by Brennan, Allison; Armstrong, Lori G. ; Tabke, Karin; Causey, Toni McGee; St. Claire, Roxanne; Brown, Josie; Littlefield, Sophie; Griffin, Laura; James, Lorelei; Day, Sylvia

  He just planted a kiss on her head. “You’d fit right in.”

  “Damn right I would.”

  “Aw, hell, Callie. I corrupted you.”

  “Not totally.” She gave him a warm, sexy smile. “Not yet.”

  ~*~

  A lilting baby giggle floated down the massive staircase that Callie climbed on her way to meet Lucy Sharpe.

  “Sounds like little Gracie is up from her nap.” Avery Cole, the attractive young assistant who’d greeted them in the Tudor mansion’s circular drive, turned to give them a smile. “Hope you don’t mind an extra in your meeting.”

  “Are you kidding?” Ben asked. “The kid puts her in a good mood.”

  Avery laughed. “You can say that again. And Jack’s up there, so she’s doubly happy.”

  “Who’s Jack?” Callie asked, unable to squash the few butterflies that had been fluttering ever since they’d left New York City to make the drive to the Bullet Catchers’ headquarters. Over the past few days—and gloriously sexy nights—spent with Ben, she’d heard enough about the legendary Lucy Sharpe to be more than a little intimidated.

  “Her husband, Jack Culver,” Ben said. “The only Bullet Catcher she can’t control.”

  Avery stepped aside to motion them toward a set of carved mahogany doors as oversized as everything else in the house, her beautifully made-up eyes twinkling with humor. “She does a fine job of trying, though. Go on in; they’re ready.”

  Immediately, the door was opened by a tall, rugged-looking man with a day’s worth of whiskers and an arm full of a not-quite-two-year-old.

  “Hello.” He held out a hand to greet Callie, nodding to Ben. “Youngblood, good to see you back.”

  “Is it?” Ben asked. “Or has your better half been honing the guillotine blades?”

  “After your performance in Florida, your neck is safe,” the man said, giving Callie a slow, wicked smile that perfectly complimented the hint of New York City in his raspy voice. “I understand congratulations are in order for you, Ms. Parrish. Not only has the governor been charged with attempted murder and removed from office, his replacement has hired the Bullet Catchers for security. My wife is pleased.” He leaned a little closer, bringing the baby with him to playfully whisper in her ear. “When Momma’s pleased, everybody’s pleased, right G-girl?”

  The child giggled and slapped pudgy hands on her daddy’s face, her expression raw adoration.

  “I heard that.” A woman stepped into view, crossing the massive library with one arm outstretched. A curtain of coal-black hair fell over her shoulders, a sharp contrast with the white silk jacket that hugged a long, lean figure. “I’m Lucy Sharpe.” She greeted Callie and raised a manila folder with her other hand. “I believe this is the information you’re looking for.”

  The butterflies settled instantly, replaced by the tendrils of hope that had been wrapping around Callie’s heart for days. Ever since Ben first told her that his boss’s deep connections to the CIA could actually unearth information she thought would stay buried forever, Callie had dared to hope.

  “You found him?” Her voice almost cracked with disbelief. “With nothing more than the name Jeremiah?”

  “Easily,” Lucy said, gesturing for Callie to join her in a sitting area. “Quite honestly, you probably could have found him yourself with about an hour of internet searching.”

  “Really?” If only Granny Belle had known that. If she hadn’t kept her dark secret until her last day on earth, maybe Callie could have done that research and sent her great-grandmother to Heaven with the real identity of a man she said she’d loved at first sight. But she’d been shamed by a one night stand and had managed to live the lie her whole adult life.

  Callie gestured toward the two-inch thick file. “You got all that from an internet search?”

  “Oh, no. I pulled some strings in Washington. This file contains photos, medical history, and even a copy of his will. There’s also a letter in here that I think will interest you, found in his personal effects after he passed away in 1972.”

  Somehow, Callie managed to sit, her whole body liquefied at the words. He’d passed. She had his history, his picture. “A… letter?”

  “Apparently, he tried to find your great-grandmother, but never could. He was told she’d died in a fire.”

  That actually made sense. “She didn’t, but when she was first married and living in Georgia, her farm burned to the ground.” And with it, Granny Belle had said, all of her personal records, which gave her a chance to hide the truth about her first-born son. “She and the man she married and her young son had moved to Florida as a family after that.”

  So, it really wasn’t a surprise that back in the fifties even a spy like Jeremiah couldn’t find a woman he’d spent one night with in Paris.

  An ache squeezed her chest. What if…

  It didn’t matter anymore. Perhaps the star-crossed lovers had met again on a bridge in Heaven.

  “All my great-grandmother knew was that he went by the name of Jeremiah,” Callie said. “And the night they were together, he admitted he worked for the government. She couldn’t ever find him, either, after they parted.”

  “Because the day after the D-Day invasion he was ordered out of Paris and into hiding,” Lucy said. “He told your great-grandmother the truth because he believed he would die, but he didn’t. In fact, he went on to do great things to help the Allies win the war.”

  Slowly, Callie opened the cover of the file, her gaze falling on a yellowed Polaroid photo of an older man in a loose-fitting suit, a smile crinkling his eyes, white hair still thick.

  “His real name was Jacob Haines,” Lucy said. “He was an American agent who worked for Winston Churchill’s Special Operations Executive, known as the SOE, in Nazi-occupied France. For months before the D-Day invasion, he risked his life daily working undercover as a florist on the streets of Paris.”

  “A florist?” Callie looked up from the picture, a laugh bubbling up. “Really?”

  “That’s irony for you,” Ben said, moving closer to look at the picture and put a strong, supportive arm around her. “Heroics and flowers are in your blood.”

  “He distributed top-secret information to the network of SIS spies, his messages tucked away in bouquets of flowers,” Lucy continued. “A fascinating technique that’s all in the file.”

  “Oh…” Callie squeezed the folder, not at all surprised her vision blurred with tears. “This is such a gift to me.”

  “There’s more,” Lucy added. “He never married nor had children—”

  “That he knew of,” Callie interjected. Because he had a child and that child had five more and one of those children had… Callie.

  “Which is why I was able to get this for you.” Lucy reached to the table between them and lifted a square leather box trimmed in gold. “After the war ended, he was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for extraordinary heroism in connection with military operations against the enemy.”

  Tears stung Callie’s eyes as Lucy slowly open the box to present a gold cross with an eagle overlaid, a red and blue ribbon hanging from it.

  “By all rights,” Lucy said. “You earned this, Ms. Parrish.”

  “She certainly did,” Ben agreed, tightening his grip.

  “And you, Mr. Youngblood”—Lucy leaned back in the chair, leveling a dark look of warning at Ben—“have earned another chance.”

  He grinned and then laughed. “Like there was ever any doubt.”

  “There’s always doubt.” Lucy stood, sweeping her hands over her silky trousers. “Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I’m spending the rest of the day with my daughter and husband. Have a lovely trip.”

  Callie blinked. “Trip… home?”

  Lucy gestured toward the window where a private plane sat on a runway in the distance. “Where ever that can take you, home and then…” She just smiled. “I know Paris is lovely this time of year.”

  Paris. Paris. Callie didn’t bother to wipe
the tear that fell and landed on the medal. “Thank you, Ms. Sharpe.”

  Lucy nodded. “We’ve arranged for special payment to your bank account, a somewhat larger sum than you and Ben originally discussed. At some point, I hope we can talk again. I’m always looking for fresh, smart talent.”

  When Lucy left, Ben leaned a little closer and started to whistle La Vie en Rose.

  Epilogue

  “It’s time, farm girl.”

  Callie moaned softly, moved more by the touch of strong, warm fingers over her breasts than the words Ben whispered in her ear.

  “One more minute.” She kissed him, sliding a leg over his, rustling the French silk sheets.

  “It’s always one more minute with you.” But he obliged, caressing her lightly and then pulling her on top of him so that every inch of their bodies touched. “And it’s never really one minute.”

  She laughed into their kiss, so comfortable and happy. “I wish we didn’t have to go back tomorrow,” she said, threading her fingers into his thick, soft hair and trailing kisses over his neck. “I don’t want Paris to end.”

  He lifted her face to look into her eyes. “I don’t want this to end.”

  The words were like hot honey, so sweet and so delicious on her heart. “You know where I live,” she whispered.

  “Too far away. Sell the farm and move to New York.”

  Every day the possibility seemed more real and right. “You never know what can happen,” she said. But, deep inside, they both knew.

  They kissed again, the easy, trusting kiss of two people who belonged together.

  “But it’s time.” He slowly slid her to the side. “You wanted to wait until the last night and, honestly, you can’t do it in daylight. It’s three-thirty. We have to go before sunrise.”

  “Did you… pack it all?”

  “I did. Everything’s ready.” He kissed her cheek. “Let’s get Granny Belle home.”

  “Okay.”

  An hour later, Callie ran her fingers over the rutted, aged marble balustrade along the Pont au Change and let her vision blur, turning the City of Lights into a haze of sparkle. A nearly full moon peeked from behind a cloud, sending a streak of gold over calm waters of the Seine.

  Did Paris look like this that June night in 1944? Quite possibly. Despite the German occupation, Granny Belle had described a city where Picasso painted, Sartre wrote, and Coco Chanel sketched fashion that brought Callie’s great-grandmother to tears.

  And a spy named Jeremiah sold flowers to defeat the enemy.

  “There’s a plaque over there that says the Romans first built this bridge almost two thousand years ago.” Ben’s voice, low and close, sent a familiar chill over her as he stepped behind Callie and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Lot of history right here.”

  “A lot,” she agreed. History that had changed her life. “Do you think what we’re about to do is illegal?”

  He lifted her hair and kissed her neck, nearly melting her. “In some countries, this is illegal.” He flicked his tongue on her skin, the gesture hot and sweet and full of promise. “But certainly not France.”

  She smiled at the innuendo. “I meant the ashes.”

  “Yes, it’s illegal.” He let her hair fall and lifted the small satchel he’d brought from the hotel. “But there’s no law against dropping roses in the Seine.” He set the bag on the wide bridge railing. “And no one is looking.”

  “I think someone’s looking.” Callie glanced up to the sky, finding a star. “And I think she likes our idea to mix the flowers with… her.”

  “I bet she does,” Ben agreed. “So go ahead, Callie. Send her home.”

  Callie opened the bag and tipped it over, the first few white rose petals floating like snow toward the water. “Au revoir, Belle Dumond. Je t’aime.”

  When the last of the petals and the ashes drifted onto the water, Ben took the bag and put it on the ground, turning Callie to wipe away the tears on her cheeks.

  “Someday,” he said softly. “I want you to say that to me.”

  “Goodbye?”

  He just smiled. “I love you.”

  “Maybe I will, Benjamin Youngblood. Maybe someday I will.”

  Arm in arm, they crossed the bridge as the petals dusted with love disappeared down the Seine and two stars uncrossed to twinkle in the heavens.

  *****

  ROXANNE ST. CLAIRE

  Roxanne St. Claire is a RITA™-winning New York Times bestselling author of nearly thirty titles published worldwide. The author of the multi-book Bullet Catchers series and numerous other romantic suspense novels, Roxanne’s new contemporary romance, Barefoot in the Sand, as well as her debut young adult novel, Don’t You Wish, hit bookstores in 2012. In addition to the RITA, her books have won the Daphne du Maurier Award, multiple National Readers’ Choice Awards, the Holt Medallion, Booksellers Best, and Border’s Top Romance Pick for 2007. Visit her website, www.roxannestclaire.com or Facebook Reader page, www.facebook.com/roxannestclaire.

  Laura Griffin

  NIGHTFALL

  Chapter One

  Holly Henriksen skidded toward the guardrail at fifty miles an hour and realized she was going to die because of a piece of pie. She shouldn’t have pulled into Mae’s Truck Stop. She shouldn’t have taken that booth. And she definitely shouldn’t have ordered a generous wedge of the blackberry ala mode.

  What she should have done—what she’d almost done—was gone to the Mickey D’s drive-thru, ordered an extra-large cup of coffee, and resumed her journey. But instead, she’d caved. And now the decadent combination of warm fruit and flaky golden crust, just like her grandmother used to make, was going kill her.

  I’m too young to die, she thought as she eased her foot off the accelerator and resisted the urge to fight the skid. She’d driven in icy conditions countless times and before this moment, she’d never lost control of a vehicle.

  But then again, before this moment, she’d never settled in for an evening road trip with a giant dessert dulling her senses and a monotonous stretch of highway in front of her, without even a radio to keep her company.

  Holly’s hands gripped the wheel. She braced for impact. Despite her best efforts, her foot jabbed the brake in an uncontrollable last-ditch attempt to stop the inevitable. Metal crunched. A giant wall of branches came at her and her head whipped forward—thunk!—into the steering wheel.

  Seconds or minutes ticked by. She opened her eyes to find herself surrounded by a dark cocoon of foliage. The van was eerily silent. She tasted something warm and coppery. She touched her finger to her lip and looked around dazedly.

  The silence was drowned out by a roaring in her head as she processed what had happened. She’d careened off the road. She’d wrecked the company van. And not only that—she’d wrecked it on a seldom-used road just before dusk on an evening when every weatherman in the state of Montana was predicting snow.

  Holly’s heart flip-flopped as she looked around once more. What little daylight remained was blocked out by the branches smashed against the windows, and the only illumination was coming from the dashboard. Her gaze landed on the shadowy shape of her purse, which had tumbled to the floor. She reached for it and felt a sharp pain as the seatbelt bit into her skin once again.

  Holly unbuckled herself and felt around for the bag. The contents had spilled out, but it didn’t take her long to grope through the clutter and locate her phone. She clutched it in her hand and it lit up, creating a bluish glow in the front seat.

  Relief swamped her. But it quickly vanished as she jabbed her thumb against the screen and saw only the slightest hint of a bar. No signal.

  Holly tried to open her door, but the branches pinned it shut. She threw her shoulder against it and managed to force it open. Sticks and pine needles clawed at her as she wedged herself out, but the relative light outside the van made her feel better. She took a deep breath and tried to calm her racing heart. It wasn’t dark yet. She still had time to wave someone down. Surely, s
omeone else would be traveling between Eulee and White Falls on this chilly November evening.

  Wind whipped through her long-sleeve T-shirt, and she reached inside for her green ski vest. She shrugged into it and gazed down at her phone again.

  Still no bars.

  She looked around to assess the damage. She’d plowed through the guardrail and landed nose-first in a ditch. Her front tire looked punctured. How had that happened? Not that it mattered. Although the incline wasn’t steep, there was still no way she was driving out of here. This definitely called for a tow truck.

  Her stomach tightened with dread as she thought through the implications. Even if she managed to get a truck out here soon, there was no chance she’d reach White Falls by eight tonight. Which meant no chance she’d deliver her cargo on time. Which meant no chance she’d collect that check from the client—the one she and her sister had already earmarked for luxuries such as rent and groceries and heat.

  I am so screwed.

  Holly gazed at the crumpled bumper. Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back as she looked around. She was in a valley between two foothills. To the east, where the valley widened and mountains rose up on either side, was Eulee. To the west, through a twisty mountain pass, was White Falls. She remembered a ranch a few minutes back and set out in that direction. She glanced at the phone again.

  Signal!

  Holly felt a rush of relief and immediately dialed her sister, praying the signal wouldn’t vanish before the call went through. Her sister could get on the phone with the client and make excuses while Holly figured out how to get a tow truck out here.

  Crack.

  She dropped to her knees beside the road. What the hell? Who would be stupid enough shoot a rifle so close to—

  Crack.

  Her chin hit pavement. She darted her gaze around. The smell of wet asphalt filled her nostrils as panic spurted through her.

  That was no careless hunter. Someone was shooting at her.