by Laura Simcox
He’d fallen. Memory returned like water seeping into a basement. He’d been on the roof, and then he’d fallen through, and now he was . . . here. His PASS device was sounding in a high-decibel shriek, and its strobe light flashed, giving him quick, garish glimpses of his surroundings.
Mulligan looked around cautiously. The collapse must have put out much of the fire, because he saw only a few remnants of flames flickering listlessly on the far end of the space. Every surface was blackened and charred except for one corner, in which he spotted blurry flashes of gold and red and green.
He squinted and blinked his stinging eyes, trying to get them to focus. Finally the glimpse of gold formed itself into a display of dangling ball-shaped ornaments. He gawked at them. What were those things made from? How had they managed to survive the fire? He sought out the red and squinted at it through his face mask. A Santa suit, that’s what it was, with great, blackened holes in the sleeves. It was propped on a rocking chair, which looked quite scorched. Mulligan wondered if a mannequin or something had been wearing the suit. If so, it was long gone. Next to the chair stood half of a plastic Christmas tree. One side had melted into black goo, while the other side looked pretty good.
Where am I? He formed the words with his mouth, though no sound came out. And it came back to him. Under the Mistletoe. He’d been about to die inside a Christmas store. But he hadn’t. So far.
He tried to sit up, but something was pinning him down. Taking careful inventory, he realized that he lay on his left side, his tank pressing uncomfortably against his back, his left arm immobilized beneath him. What was on top of him? He craned his neck, feeling his face mask press against his chest. A tree. A freaking Christmas tree. Fully decorated and only slightly charred. It was enormous, at least ten feet high, its trunk a good foot in diameter. At its tip, an angel in a gold pleated skirt dangled precariously, as if she wanted to leap to the floor but couldn’t summon the nerve. Steel brackets hung from the tree’s trunk; it must have been mounted somewhere, maybe on a balcony or something. A few twisted ironwork bars confirmed that theory.
How the hell had a Christmas tree survived the inferno in here? It was wood! Granted, it was still a live tree, and its trunk and needles held plenty of sap. And fires were always unpredictable. The one thing you could be sure of was that they’d surprise you. Maybe the balcony had been protected somehow.
He moved his body, trying to shift the tree, but it was extremely heavy and he was pinned so flat he had no leverage. He spotted his radio a few feet away. It must have been knocked out of his pouch. Underneath the horrible, insistent whine of his PASS device, he heard the murmuring chatter of communication on the radio. If he could get a finger on it, he could hit his emergency trigger and switch to Channel 6, the May Day channel. His left arm was useless, but he could try with his right. But when he moved it, pain ripped through his shoulder.
Hell. Well, he could at least shut off the freaking PASS device. If a rapid intervention team made it in here, he’d yell for them. But no way could he stand listening to that sound for the next whatever-amount-of-time it took. Gritting his teeth against the agony, he reached for the device at the front of his turnout, then hit the button. The strobe light stopped and sudden silence descended, though his ears still rang. While he was at it, he checked the gauge that indicated how much air he had left in his tank. Ten minutes. He must have been in here for some time, sucking up air, since it was a thirty-minute tank.
A croak issued from his throat. “I’m in hell. No surprise.”
Water. He needed water.
“I can’t give you any water,” a bright female voice said. For some reason, he had the impression that the angel on the tip of the Christmas tree had spoken. So he answered her back.
“Of course you can’t. Because I’m in hell. They don’t exactly hand out water bottles in hell.”
“Who said you’re in hell?”
Even though he watched the angel’s lips closely, he didn’t see them move. So it must not be her speaking. Besides, the voice seemed to be coming from behind him. “I figured it out all by myself.”
Amazingly, he had no more trouble with his throat. Maybe he wasn’t really speaking aloud. Maybe he was having this bizarre conversation with his own imagination. That theory was confirmed when a girl’s shapely calves stepped into his field of vision. She wore red silk stockings the exact color of holly berries. She wore nothing else on her feet, which had a very familiar shape.
Lizzie.
His gaze traveled upward, along the swell of her calves. The stockings stopped just above her knees, where they were fastened by a red velvet bow. “Christmas stockings,” he murmured.
“I told you.”
“All right. I was wrong. Maybe it’s heaven after all. Come here.” He wanted to hold her close. His heart wanted to burst with joy that she was here with him, that he wasn’t alone. That he wasn’t going to die without seeing Lizzie again.
“I can’t. There’s a tree on top of you,” she said in a teasing voice. “Either that, or you’re very happy to see me.”
“Oh, you noticed that? You can move it, can’t you? Either you’re an angel and have magical powers, or you’re real and you can push it off me.”
She laughed. A real Lizzie laugh, starting as a giggle and swooping up the register until it became a whoop. “Do you really think an angel would dress like this?”
“Hmm, good point. What are you wearing besides those stockings? I can’t even see. At least step closer so I can see.”
“Fine.” A blur of holly red, and then she perched on the pile of beams and concrete that blocked the east end of his world. In addition to the red stockings, she wore a red velvet teddy and a green peaked hat, which sat at an angle on her flowing dark hair. Talk about a “hot elf” look.
“Whoa. How’d you do that?”
“You did it.”
“I did it?” How could he do it? He was incapacitated. Couldn’t even move a finger. Well, maybe he could move a finger. He gave it a shot, wiggling the fingers on both hands. At least he wasn’t paralyzed.
But he did seem to be mentally unstable. “I’m hallucinating, aren’t I?”
“Bingo.”
An Excerpt from
ONCE UPON A HIGHLAND CHRISTMAS
by Lecia Cornwall
Lady Alanna McNabb is bound by duty to her family, who insist she must marry a gentleman of wealth and title. When she meets the man of her dreams, she knows it’s much too late, but her heart is no longer hers.
Laird Iain MacGillivray is on his way to propose to another woman when he discovers Alanna half-frozen in the snow and barely alive. She isn’t his to love, yet she’s everything he’s ever wanted.
As Christmas comes closer, the snow thickens, and the magic grows stronger. Alanna and Iain must choose between desire and duty, love and obligation.
Alanna McNabb woke with a terrible headache. In fact, every inch of her body ached. She could smell peat smoke, and dampness, and hear wind. She remembered the storm and opened her eyes. She was in a small dark room, a hut, she realized, a shieling, perhaps, or was it one of the crofter’s cottages at Glenlorne? Was she home, among the people who knew her, loved her? She looked around, trying to decide where exactly she was, whose home she was in. The roof beams above her head were blackened with age and soot, and a thick stoneware jug dangled from a nail hammered into the beam as a hook. But that offered no clues at all—it was the same in every Highland cott. She turned her head a little, knowing there would be a hearth, and—
A few feet from her, a man crouched by the fire.
A very big, very naked man.
She stared at his back, which was broad and smooth. She took note of well-muscled arms as he poked the fire. She followed the bumps of his spine down to a pair of dimples just above his round white buttocks.
Her throat dried. She tried to sit up, but pain shot through her body, and the room wavered before her eyes. Her leg was on fire, pure agony. She let out a
soft cry.
He half turned at the sound and glanced over his shoulder, and she had a quick impression of a high cheekbone lit by the firelight, and a gleaming eye that instantly widened with surprise. He dropped the poker and fell on his backside with a grunt.
“You’re awake!” he cried. She stared at him sprawled on the hearthstones, and he gasped again and cupped his hands over his— She shut her eyes tight, as he grabbed the nearest thing at hand to cover himself—a corner of the plaid—but she yanked it back, holding tight. He instantly let go and reached for the closest garment dangling from the line above him, which turned out to be her red cloak. He wrapped it awkwardly around his waist, trying to rise to his feet at the same time. He stood above her in his makeshift kilt, holding it in place with a white knuckled grip, his face almost as red as the wool. She kept her eyes on his face and pulled her own blanket tight around her throat.
“I see you’re awake,” he said, staring at her, his voice an octave lower now. “How do you feel?”
How did she feel? She assessed her injuries, tried to remember the details of how she came to be here, wherever here might be. She recalled being lost in a storm, and falling. There’d been blood on her glove. She frowned. After that she didn’t remember anything at all.
She shifted carefully, and the room dissolved. She saw stars, and black spots, and excruciating pain streaked through her body, radiating from her knee. She gasped, panted, stiffened against it.
“Don’t move,” he said, holding out a hand, fingers splayed, though he didn’t touch her. He grinned, a sudden flash of white teeth, the firelight bright in his eyes. “I found you out in the snow. I feared . . . well, it doesn’t matter now. Your knee is injured, cut, and probably sprained, but it isn’t broken,” he said in a rush. He grinned again, as if that was all very good news, and dropped to one knee beside her. “You’ve got some color back.”
He reached out and touched her cheek with the back of his hand, a gentle enough caress, but she flinched away and gasped at the pain that caused. He dropped his hand at once, looked apologetic. “I mean no harm, lass—I was just checking that you’re warm, but not too warm. Or too cold . . .” He was babbling, and he broke off, gave her a wan smile, and stood up again, holding onto her cloak, taking a step back away from her. Was he blushing, or was it the light of the fire on his skin? She tried not to stare at the breadth of his naked chest, or the naked legs that showed beneath the trailing edge of the cloak.
She gingerly reached down under the covers and found her knee was bound up in a bandage of some sort. He turned away, flushing again, and she realized the plaid had slipped down. She was as naked as he was. She gasped, drew the blanket tight to her chin, and stared at him. She looked up and saw that her clothes were hanging on a line above the fireplace—all of them, even her shift.
“Where—?” she swallowed. Her voice was hoarse, her throat as raw as her knee. “Who are you?” she tried again. She felt hot blood fill her cheeks, and panic formed a tight knot in her chest, and she tried again to remember what had happened, but her mind was blank. If he was—unclothed, and she was equally unclothed—
“What—” she began again, then swallowed the question she couldn’t frame. She hardly knew what to ask first, Where, Who, or What? Her mind was moving slowly, her thoughts as thick and rusty as her tongue.
“You’re safe, lass,” he said, and she wondered if she was. She stared at him. She’d seen men working in the summer sun, their shirts off, their bodies tanned, their muscles straining, but she’d never thought anything of it. This—he—was different. And she was as naked as he was.
An Excerpt from
RUNNING HOT
A Bad Boys Undercover Novella
by HelenKay Dimon
Ward Bennett and Tasha Gregory aren’t on the same team. But while hunting a dictator on the run, these two must decide whether they can trust one another—and their ability to stay professional. Working together might just make everyone safer, but getting cozy . . . might just get them killed.
“Take your clothes off.”
He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Excuse me?”
“You’re attracted to me.” Good Lord, now Tasha was waving her hands in the air. Once she realized it, she stopped. Curled her hands into balls at her sides. “I find you . . . fine.”
Ward covered his mouth and produced a fake cough. She assumed it hid a smile. That was almost enough to make her rescind the offer.
“Really? That’s all you can muster?” This time he did smile. “You think I’m fine?”
He was hot and tall and had a face that played in her head long after she closed her eyes each night. And that body. Long and lean, with the stalk of a predator. Ward was a man who protected and fought. She got the impression he wrestled demons that had to do with reconciling chivalry and decency with the work they performed.
The combination of all that made her wild with need. “Your clothes are still on.”
“Are you saying you want to—”
Since he was saying the sentence so slowly—emphasizing, and halting after, each word—she finished it fast. “Shag.”
Both eyebrows rose now. “Please tell me that’s British for ‘have sex.’ ”
“Yes.”
He blew out a long, staggered breath. “Thank God, because right now my body is in a race to see what will explode first, my brain or my dick.”
Uh? “Is that a compliment?”
“Believe it or not, yes.” Two steps, and he was in front of her, his fingers playing with the small white button at the top of her slim tee. “So, are you talking about now or sometime in the future to celebrate ending Tigana?”
Both. “I need to work off this extra energy and get back in control.” She was half-ready to rip off her clothes and throw him on the mattress.
Maybe he knew because he just stood there and stared at her, his gaze not leaving her face.
She stared back.
Just as he started to lower his head, a ripple moved through her. She shoved a hand against his shoulder. “Don’t think that I always break protocol like this.”
“I don’t care if you do.” He ripped his shirt out of his pants and whipped it over his head, revealing miles of tanned muscles and skin.
“You’re taking off your clothes.” Not the smartest thing she’d ever said, but it was out there and she couldn’t snatch it back.
“You’re the boss, remember?”
A shot of regret nearly knocked her over. Not at making the pass but at wanting him this much in the first place. Here and now, when her mind should be on the assignment, not on his chest.
She’d buried this part of herself for so long under a pile of work and professionalism that bringing it out now made her twitchy. “This isn’t—”
His hands went to her arms, and he brushed those palms up and down, soothing her. “Do you want me?”
She couldn’t lie. He had to feel it in the tremor shaking through her. “Yes.”
“Then stop justifying not working this very second and enjoy. It won’t make you less of a professional.”
That was exactly what she needed to hear. “Okay.”
His hands stopped at her elbows, and he dragged her in closer, until the heat of his body radiated against her. “You’re a stunning woman, and we’ve been circling each other for days. Honestly, your ability to handle weapons only makes you hotter in my eyes.”
The words spun through her. They felt so good. So right. “Not the way I would say it, but okay.”
“You want me. I sure as hell want you. We need to lie low until it gets dark and we can hide our movements better.” The corner of his mouth kicked up in a smile filled with promise. “And, for the record, there is nothing sexier than a woman who goes after what she wants.”
He meant it. She knew it with every cell inside her.
Screw being safe.
An Excerpt from
SINFUL REWARDS 1
A Billionaires and Bi
kers Novella
by Cynthia Sax
Belinda “Bee” Carter is a good girl; at least, that’s what she tells herself. And a good girl deserves a nice guy—just like the gorgeous and moody billionaire Nicolas Rainer. Or so she thinks, until she takes a look through her telescope and sees a naked, tattooed man on the balcony across the courtyard. He has been watching her, and that makes him all the more enticing. But when a mysterious and anonymous text message dares her to do something bad, she must decide if she is really the good girl she has always claimed to be, or if she’s willing to risk everything for her secret fantasy of being watched.
An Avon Red Novella
I’d told Cyndi I’d never use it, that it was an instrument purchased by perverts to spy on their neighbors. She’d laughed and called me a prude, not knowing that I was one of those perverts, that I secretly yearned to watch and be watched, to care and be cared for.
If I’m cautious, and I’m always cautious, she’ll never realize I used her telescope this morning. I swing the tube toward the bench and adjust the knob, bringing the mysterious object into focus.
It’s a phone. Nicolas’s phone. I bounce on the balls of my feet. This is a sign, another declaration from fate that we belong together. I’ll return Nicolas’s much-needed device to him. As a thank you, he’ll invite me to dinner. We’ll talk. He’ll realize how perfect I am for him, fall in love with me, marry me.
Cyndi will find a fiancé also—everyone loves her—and we’ll have a double wedding, as sisters of the heart often do. It’ll be the first wedding my family has had in generations.
Everyone will watch us as we walk down the aisle. I’ll wear a strapless white Vera Wang mermaid gown with organza and lace details, crystal and pearl embroidery accents, the bodice fitted, and the skirt hemmed for my shorter height. My hair will be swept up. My shoes—
