Beauty and the Brit
Page 38
“Ooo-kay, there’s not much of a story in that teaser.” She lifted her eyes and got a wink.
“Hop on and I’ll tell it to you.”
“Now, that sounds like a bad biker boy’s version of ‘come see my etchings.’”
“I’ll have to remember that.” His laugh added to the warmth emanating from his jacket.
“How far have you come in two days?”
“From Memphis.”
She let out a low, appreciative whistle. “How much farther are you going?”
“I’m not entirely sure. I’m heading for a town somewhere around here called Northfield.”
“Oh, it’s close. Maybe fifteen miles once you go through Kennison Falls.”
His Elvis smile enchanted her as always. “That’s very, very good news.”
He stood and held out his hand to pull her to her feet. Jill brushed away a smudge of dust on her thigh. She wasn’t wary by nature, and strangers weren’t rare. Kennison Falls, Minnesota got enough through-traffic to keep the local merchants in good business. But leather-jacketed bikers with gorgeous, penetrating eyes were not the norm.
She wished she could control the sudden pounding of her pulse, but tangled as she was in his eyes, his accent, and her ridiculous fear, containing her heartbeat was a lost cause.
“My mama warned me about taking rides from strangers.”
“I won’t let the big, bad Triumph hurt you, you know.”
She closed her eyes and took another deep breath. “This is nuts.”
He peered at her. “You really are scared.”
“Always was.” She forced herself not to look embarrassed. “Even when my father had one.”
He didn’t tease or even comment. From the seat, he picked up a black, shiny-visored helmet and held it out to her. “You can wear this. It possesses the power to keep you safe. Put your arms into the jacket, too, that’s more protection.”
Twice, now, he’d promised to protect her. Something primitive finally calmed her nerves, if only slightly. With resignation she pulled the helmet over her head. It fit like a fishbowl and dimmed the light like three pairs of sunglasses.
Chase rapped on the hard shell while she snapped the chinstrap.
“Where’s your bag of boots?” He chuckled.
She grabbed it from the grass, and he plopped it atop a small duffel, pushing them to the metal tail behind the seat and stretching a bungee cord around both bags. He flipped down the passenger foot pegs and swung his leg over the seat.
“Squeeze on,” he said blithely, and she did. The padded seat cushioned her better than her best riding saddle did, but there was no life beneath her, no living thing to partner with. “Put your feet on the rests here over the pipes. Don’t let them dangle—the metal gets good and hot. Hang on to me or hold that strap on the seat. And don’t worry.”
She flipped up the visor. “I ride horses not Hogs. You can reason with a horse. And they’re smart enough to keep from doing stupid things because they don’t want to die any more than I do.” She snapped the visor back in place.
“Well, this isn’t a Hog, it’s a Triumph. And, honey, I’m smart enough to know I don’t want to die either.” He laughed and shifted one hip to bring a boot heel down on the kick-starter.
The bike answered with a grumpy rumble but didn’t catch. He stomped again. The Bonneville sprang to life, vibrating beneath Jill like a purring lion. The pulsations went through her like electrical current.
“One more thing,” he called, twisting over his shoulder. “Lean with me into the turns. It won’t be your instinct, but it’ll be safer. Ready?”
She clutched the seat strap, and the motorcycle rolled forward a foot. Chase let out the clutch. With a slight jolt, and a tilt to the right, the bike roared onto the road.
They picked up speed like a launched rocket, and Jill swayed from side to side, her wimpy grip on the leather seat strap not nearly secure enough to keep her stable. As they followed a curve to the left and the bike leaned, she held in a screech, squeezed her eyes shut, and threw her arms around Chase’s waist. Immediately her torso quit swaying.
Don’t crash. Don’t crash. Don’t crash. The mantra played through her mind until, finally, they’d been underway long enough that the silliness of her fear hit home. She opened her eyes and watched familiar sights flash past in an unfamiliar way. The wind whipped at Chase’s jacket, but sheltered in its folds she felt no chill. Beneath her hands, Chase’s stomach muscles contracted and flexed as he moved as one with the motorcycle. Hanging on to him was like pressing up against a safe, brick wall. It took a second for her to comprehend when his fingers pried gently at hers, wiggling and loosening her grip.
“Relax!” he called over his shoulder, the word barely audible as it whizzed past her helmeted ear with the wind.
She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been squeezing. With effort, she pulled her hands apart and let go, grasping for a hold on the leather again, but he caught one hand and tugged her arm forward, patting it when the hold was just right. A hard shiver rolled through her body and then, for the first time, Jill found the ability to relax as he’d commanded. Beneath her hold, he came to life, not a brick wall at all but a supple, tensile lifeline.
“Be ready to tell me where to turn,” he shouted again. “I’ve got you. Trust me.”
About the Author
* * *
Lizbeth Selvig writes fun, heartwarming contemporary romantic fiction. Her debut novel, The Rancher and the Rock Star, was released in 2012. Her second, Rescued by a Stranger is a 2014 RWA RITA® Award nominee. Lizbeth lives in Minnesota with her best friend (aka her husband), a hyperactive border collie, and a gray Arabian gelding. After working as a newspaper journalist and magazine editor, and raising an equine veterinarian daughter and a talented musician son, Lizbeth entered Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart® contest in 2010 with The Rancher and the Rock Star (then titled Songbird) and won the Single Title Contemporary category. In her spare time, she loves to hike, quilt, read, horseback ride, and spend time with her new granddaughter. She also has four-legged grandchildren—more than twenty—including a wallaby, two alpacas, a donkey, a pig, a sugar glider, and many dogs, cats, and horses (pics of all appear on her website www.lizbethselvig.com). She loves connecting with all her readers.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Also by Lizbeth Selvig
Rescued by a Stranger
The Rancher and the Rock Star
Give in to your impulses . . .
Read on for a sneak peek at eight brand-new
e-book original tales of romance from Avon Books.
Available now wherever e-books are sold.
THE COWBOY AND THE ANGEL
By T. J. Kline
FINDING MISS McFARLAND
THE WALLFLOWER WEDDING SERIES
By Vivienne Lorret
TAKE THE KEY AND LOCK HER UP
By Lena Diaz
DYLAN’S REDEMPTION
BOOK THREE: THE MCBRIDES
By Jennifer Ryan
SINFUL REWARDS 1
A BILLIONAIRES AND BIKERS NOVELLA
By Cynthia Sax
WHATEVER IT TAKES
A TRUST NO ONE NOVEL
By Dixie Lee Brown
HARD TO HOLD ON TO
A HARD INK NOVELLA
By Laura Kaye
KISS ME, CAPTAIN
A FRENCH KISS NOVEL
By Gwen Jones
An Excerpt from
THE COWBOY AND THE ANGEL
By T. J. Kline
From author T. J. Kline comes the stunning follow-up to Rodeo Queen. Reporter Angela McCallister needs the scoop of her career in order to save her father from the bad decisions that have depleted their savings. When the opportunity to spend a week at the Findley Brothers ranch arises, she sees a chance to get a behind-the-scenes scoop on rodeo. That certainly doesn’t include kissing the devastatingly handsome and charming cowboy Derek
Chandler, who insists on calling her “Angel.”
“Angela, call on line three.”
“Can’t you just handle it, Joe? I don’t have time for this B.S.” It was probably just another stupid mom calling, hoping Angela would feature her daughter’s viral video in some feel-good news story. When was she ever going to get her break and find some hard-hitting news?
“They asked for you.”
Angela sighed. Maybe if she left them listening to that horrible elevator music long enough, they’d hang up. Joe edged closer to her desk.
“Just pick up the damn phone and see what they want.”
“Fine.” She glared at him as she punched the button. The look she gave him belied the sweet tone of her voice. “Angela McCallister, how can I help you?”
Joe leaned against her cubical wall, listening to her part of the conversation. She waved at him irritably. It wasn’t always easy when your boss was your oldest friend, and ex-boyfriend. He quirked a brow at her.
Go away, she mouthed.
“Are you really looking for new stories?”
She assumed the male voice on the line was talking about the calls the station ran at the ends of several news programs asking for stories of interest. Most of them wound up in her mental “ignore” file, but once in a while she’d found one worth pursuing.
“We’re always looking for events and stories of interest to our local viewers.” She rolled her eyes, reciting the words Joe had taught her early on in her career as a reporter. She was tired of pretending any of this sucking up was getting her anywhere. Viewers only saw her as a pretty face.
“I have a lead that might interest you.” She didn’t answer, waiting for the caller to elaborate. “There’s a rodeo coming to town, and they are full of animal cruelty and abuse.”
This didn’t sound like a feel-good piece. The caller had her attention now. “Do you have proof?”
The voice gave a bitter laugh, sounding vaguely familiar. “Have you ever seen a rodeo? Electric prods, cinches wrapped around genitals, sharp objects placed under saddles to get horses to buck . . . it’s all there.”
She listened as the caller detailed several incidents at nearby rodeos where animals had to be euthanized due to injuries. Angela arched a brow, taking notes as the man gave her several websites she could research that backed the accusations.
“Can I contact you for more information?” She heard him hemming. “You don’t have to give me your name. Maybe just a phone number or an email address where I can reach you?” The caller gave her both. “Do you mind if I ask one more question—why me?”
“Because you seem like you care about animal rights. That story you did about the stray kittens and the way you found them a home, it really showed who you were inside.”
Angela barely remembered the story other than that Joe had forced it on her when she’d asked for one about a local politician sleeping with his secretary, reminding her that viewers saw her as their small-town sweetheart. She’d found herself reporting about a litter of stray kittens, smiling at the animal shelter as families adopted their favorites, and Jennifer Michaels had broken the infidelity story and was now anchoring at a station in Los Angeles. She was tired of this innocent, girl-next-door act.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she promised, deciding how to best pitch this story to Joe and whether it would be worth it at all.
An Excerpt from
FINDING MISS McFARLAND
The Wallflower Wedding Series
by Vivienne Lorret
Delany McFarland is on the hunt for a husband—preferably one who needs her embarrassingly large dowry more than a dutiful wife. Griffin Croft hasn’t been able to get Miss McFarland out of his mind, but now that she’s determined to hand over her fortune to a rake, Griffin knows he must step in. Yet when his noble intentions flee in a moment of unexpected passion, his true course becomes clear: tame Delaney’s wild heart and save her from a fate worse than death . . . a life without love.
She had been purposely avoiding him.
Griffin clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace around her in a circle. “Do you have spies informing you on my whereabouts at all times, or only for social gatherings?”
Miss McFarland watched his movements for a moment, but then she pursed those pink lips and smoothed the front of her cream gown. “I do what I must to avoid being seen at the same function with you. Until recently, I imagined we shared this unspoken agreement.”
“Rumormongers rarely remember innocent bystanders.”
She scoffed. “How nice for you.”
“Yes, and until recently, I was under the impression that I came and went of my own accord. That my decisions were mine alone. Instead, I learn that every choice I make falls under your scrutiny.” He was more agitated than angered. Not to mention intrigued and unaccountably aroused by her admission. During a season packed full of social engagements, she must require daily reports of his activities. Which begged the question, how often did she think of him? “Shall I quiz you on how I take my tea? Or if my valet prefers to tie my cravat into a barrel knot or horse collar?”
“I do not know, nor do I care, how you take your tea, Mr. Croft,” she said, and he clenched his teeth to keep from asking her to say it once more. “However, since I am something of an expert on fashion, I’d say that the elegant fall of the mail coach knot you’re wearing this evening suits the structure of your face. The sapphire pin could make one imagine that your eyes are blue—”
“But you know differently.”
Her cheeks went pink before she drew in a breath and settled her hand over her middle. Before he could stop the thought, he wondered whether she was experiencing the fluttering his sister had mentioned.
“You are determined to be disagreeable. I have made my attempts at civility, but now I am quite through with you. If you’ll excuse me . . .” She started forward to leave.
He blocked her path, unable to forget what he’d heard when he first arrived. “I cannot let you go without a dire warning for your own benefit.”
“If this is in regard to what you overheard—when you were eavesdropping on a private matter—I won’t hear it.”
He doubted she would listen to him if he meant to warn her about a great hole in the earth directly in her path either, but his conscience demanded he speak the words nonetheless. “Montwood is a desperate man, and you have put yourself in his power.”
Her eyes flashed. “That is where you are wrong. I am the one with the fortune, ergo the one with the power.”
How little she knew of men. “And what of your reputation?”
Her laugh did nothing to amuse him. “What I have left of my reputation will remain unscathed. He is not interested in my person. He only needs my fortune. In addition, as a second son, he does not require an heir; therefore, our living apart should not cause a problem with his family. And should he need companionship, he is free to find it elsewhere, so long as he’s discreet.”
“You sell yourself so easily, believing your worth is nothing more than your father’s account ledger,” he growled, his temper getting the better of him. He’d never lost control of it before, but for some reason this tested his limits. If he could see she was more than a sum of wealth, then she should damn well put a higher value on herself. “If you were my sister, I’d lock you in a convent for the rest of your days.”
Miss McFarland stepped forward and pressed the tip of her manicured finger in between the buttons of his waistcoat. “I am not your sister, Mr. Croft. And thank the heavens for that gift, too. I can barely stand to be in the same room with you. You make it impossible to breathe, let alone think. Neither my lungs nor my stomach recalls how to function. Not only that, but you cause this terrible crackling sensation beneath my skin, and it feels like I’m about to catch fire.” Her lips parted, and her small bosom rose and fell with each breath. “I do believe I loathe you to the very core of your being, Mr. Croft.”
Somewhere
between the first Mis-ter-Croft and the last, he’d lost all sense.
Because in the very next moment, he gripped her shoulders, hauled her against him, and crushed his mouth to hers.
An Excerpt from
TAKE THE KEY AND LOCK HER UP
by Lena Diaz
As a trained assassin for EXIT Inc—a top-secret mercenary group—Devlin “Devil” Buchanan isn’t afraid to take justice into his own hands. But with EXIT Inc closing in and several women’s lives on the line, Detective Emily O’Malley and Devlin must work together to find the missing women and clear both their names before time runs out . . . and their key to freedom is thrown away.
“I want to talk to you about what you do at EXIT.”
“No.”
She blinked. “No?” Her cell phone beeped. She grabbed it impatiently and took the call. A few seconds later she shoved the phone back in her pocket. “Tuck’s outside. The SWAT team is set up and ready to cover us in case those two yokels decide to start shooting again. The area is secure. Let’s go.” She headed toward the door.
“Wait.”
She turned, her brows raised in question.
He braced his legs in a wide stance and crossed his arms. “If I’m not under arrest, there’s no reason for me to go to the police station.”
Her mouth firmed into a tight line. “You’re not under arrest only if you agree to the deal I offered. The man who killed Shannon Garrett and the unidentified victims in that basement is holding at least two other women right now, doing God only knows what to them. All I’m asking is that you answer some questions to help me find them, so I can save their lives. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”