Sun, Sand, Sex

by Linda Lael Miller; Jennifer Apodaca; Shelly Laurenston

  “Those ain’t nothin’, darlin’.” He leaned down and kissed her forehead, her cheek, then her neck. “Tully can’t hurt me. Ain’t no dog alive can hurt me.”

  He bit her neck and she groaned, her hand tightening on him. “He doesn’t like to be called dog, ya know? He nearly ripped Jamie’s head off when she called him Marmaduke again the other day.”

  “She keeps calling him that, and I am loving every minute of it,” Kyle laughed.

  Emma grinned, her small body leaning into his as he stroked his hands over her wet flesh.

  “Look, darlin’, I don’t want you to worry about me and Tully. We just like to argue over stupid stuff. It’s instinctual.”

  She giggled. “Cats and dogs?”

  He unwrapped her hand from his cock and kneeled in front of her, kissing her lower stomach and loving that her breath rushed out in a gasp at his touch. “Yankees and Rebels,” he whispered.

  Her hands tightened in his hair. “You’re never letting me forget that, are you,” she moaned.

  “Nope.” He licked her deep, and her hips moved against his face. “Who’d have thought it, darlin’? Me and a Yankee. Momma and Daddy are still trying to deal with that.”

  “It could be worse,” she sighed out while his hands kneaded her adorable little ass.

  “Is that right?”

  “Yeah. I could be a dog person.”

  Before she could say another word, he had her slammed up against the far shower wall, with her legs around his hips, his cock buried deep inside her. He stared down into her beautiful face and growled. “Never say that to me again.”

  Then Kyle proved what a cat lover Emma really was.

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  “Do not be fooled by her outward appearance. Yes, she is short of stature and tiny, but she is an asp waiting to strike.”

  Christopher St. John settled more firmly in his seat, disregarding the agent of the Crown who shared the box with him. His eyes were riveted to the crimson-clad woman who sat across the theater expanse. Having spent his entire life living amongst the dregs of society, he knew affinity when he saw it.

  Wearing a dress that gave the impression of warmth and bearing the coloring of hot-blooded Spanish sirens, Lady Winter was nevertheless as icy as her title. And his assignment was to warm her up, ingratiate himself into her life, and then learn enough about her to see her hanged in his place.

  A distasteful business, that. But a fair trade in his estimation. He was a pirate and thief by trade, she a bloodthirsty and greedy vixen.

  “She has at least a dozen men working for her,” Viscount Sedgewick said. “Some watch the wharves, others roam the countryside. Her interest in the agency is obvious and deadly. With your reputation for mayhem, you two are very much alike. We cannot see how she could resist any offer of assistance on your part.”

  Christopher sighed; the prospect of sharing his bed with the beautiful Wintry Widow was vastly unappealing. He knew her kind, too concerned over their appearance to enjoy an abandoned tumble. Her livelihood was contingent upon her ability to attract wealthy suitors. She would not wish to become sweaty or tax herself overmuch. It could ruin her hair.

  Yawning, he asked, “May I depart now, my lord?”

  Sedgewick shook his head. “You must begin immediately, or you will forfeit this opportunity.”

  It took great effort on Christopher’s part to bite back his retort. The agency would learn soon enough that he danced to no one’s tune but his own. “Leave the details to me. You wish me to pursue both personal and professional relations with Lady Winter, and I shall.”

  Christopher stood and casually adjusted his coat. “However, she is a woman who seeks the secure financial prospects of marriage, which makes it impossible for a bachelor such as myself to woo her first and then progress from the bed outward. We will instead have to start with business and seal our association with sex. It is how these things are done.”

  “You are a frightening individual,” Sedgewick said dryly.

  Christopher glanced over his shoulder as he pushed the black curtain aside. “It would be wise of you to remember that.”

  The sensation of being studied with predatory intent caused the hair at Maria’s nape to rise. Turning her head, she studied every box across from her but saw nothing untoward. Still, her instincts were what kept her alive, and she trusted them implicitly.

  Someone’s interest was more than mere curiosity.

  The low tone of men’s voices in the gallery behind her drew her attention away from the fruitless visual search. Most would hear nothing over the rabble in the pit below and the carrying notes of the singer, but she was a hunter, her senses fine-tuned.

  “The Wintry Widow’s box.”

  “Ah…” a man murmured knowingly. “Worth the risk for a few hours in that fancy piece. She is incomparable, a goddess amongst women.”

  Maria snorted. A curse, that.

  Suddenly eager to be productive in some manner, Maria rose to her feet. She pushed the curtain aside and stepped out to the gallery. The two footmen who stood on either side to keep the ambitiously amorous away snapped to attention. “My carriage,” she said to one. He hurried away.

  Then she was bumped none too gently from behind, and as she stumbled, was caught close to a hard body.

  “I beg your pardon,” murmured a deliciously raspy voice so close to her ear she felt the vibration of it.

  The sound stilled her, caught her breath and held it. She stood unmoving, her senses flaring to awareness far more acute than usual. One after another, impressions bombarded her—a hard chest at her back, a firm arm wrapped beneath her breasts, a hand at her waist, and the rich scent of bergamot mixed with virile male. He did not release her; instead his grip upon her person tightened.

  “Unhand me,” she said, her voice low and filled with command.

  “When I am ready to, I will.”

  His ungloved hand lifted to cup her throat, his touch heating the rubies that circled her neck until they burned. Calloused fingertips touched her pulse, stroking it, making it race. He moved with utter confidence, no hesitation, as if he possessed the right to fondle her whenever and wherever he chose, even in this public venue. Yet he was undeniably gentle. Despite the possession of his hold, she could writhe free if she chose, but a sudden weakness in her limbs prevented her from moving.

  Her gaze moved to her remaining footman, ordering him silently to do something to assist her. The servant’s wide eyes were trained above her head, his throat working convulsively as he swallowed hard. Then he looked away.

  She sighed. Apparently, she would have to save herself.

  Again.

  Her next action was goaded as much by instinct as by forethought. She moved her hand, setting it over his wrist, allowing him to feel the sharp point of the blade she hid in a custom-made ring. The man froze. And then laughed. “I do so love a good surprise.”

  “I cannot say the same.”

  “Frightened?” he queried.

  “Of blood on my gown? Yes,” she retorted dryly. “It is one of my favorites.”

  “Ah, but then it would more aptly match the blood on your hands”—he paused, his tongue tracing the shell of her ear, making her shiver even as her skin flushed—“and mine.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am what you need.”

  Maria inhaled deeply, pressing her corset-flattened bosom against an unyielding forearm. Questions sifted through her mind faster than she could collect them. “I have everything I require.”

  As he released her, her captor allowed his fingers to drift across the bare flesh above her bodice. Her skin tingled, gooseflesh spreading in his wake. “If you find you are mistaken,” he rasped, “come find me.”

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  No one appreciated tradition, she thoug
ht with a spark of mutiny as she stepped backward toward the curb. Her gaze was trained on the hotel, counting floors and picking out the windows of the suite where she had grown up. Everyone wanted everything to change, all the time. Newer, improved, bigger, better. It was absurd. Some things deserved to stay just the way they were. And Callender House was one of them. Her father had entrusted her with it, and she wasn’t going to let him down.

  It was a little disconcerting that she couldn’t pick out the old suite’s windows automatically, however. Once upon a time, she’d been able to do it in her sleep—she’d spent the first eighteen years of her life there, after all. She took another step backward, craning her neck as she counted up each floor, then over five windows—or was it six? The perspective was a little different now that she was taller.

  She stepped backward again, squinting now, trying to remember—until a pair of very strong hands thrust her forward and a cab blared its horn.

  She was still stumbling for balance when she heard something else hit the pavement with a wet splat, and then an irritable, “Oh, bloody hell.”

  Uh-oh.

  She grabbed a parking meter to right herself, and turned around to find a cabbie giving her a one-fingered salute as he drove off—and a rock star covered with what looked like a mocha latte, an exploded suitcase, and a dropped backpack at his feet. The sidewalk was littered with jeans and Tshirts.

  He looked like a rock star, at least. First there were the faded jeans and what appeared to Olivia like motorcycle boots, black leather that had seen better days and plenty of wear. Then the layered shirts, a long-sleeved gray one under a short-sleeved dark blue one with Mick Jagger’s luscious pout on the front. Finally there was his hair, dark and shaggy around his face—and splattered with creamy white foam, just like his visage. And the white snakes of his iPod, which he pulled from his ears and shook over the sidewalk, spraying foam and coffee.

  She swallowed hard. “I’m so sorry. So sorry. You don’t even know…”

  “I can imagine well enough,” he said with a dry smile, shaking latte out of his hair like a wet dog. His eyes were gray, she noticed. Deep, stormy gray, and fixed on her face. “You and that cab would have ended in blood and tears, now wouldn’t you?”

  “Um…” She knew, vaguely, that her mouth was hanging open, but she couldn’t seem to close it, much less find an intelligent response. She hadn’t expected the British accent. Something inside her melted into a warm puddle.

  She’d dreamed about men like him. Well, “fantasized” was probably more accurate. In her sleeping dreams, men tended to be a strange combination of Cary Grant and that guy from the Verizon commercials.

  But men like this one, those were the kind in her daydreams. Except this one possibly was better.

  And she’d…splattered him.

  “You’re all right, yeah?” he asked, wiping his face. “I didn’t mean to shove you quite so hard.”

  “You…Well, you saved me from being hit by a cab.” She shrugged as a heated blush spread over her cheeks. “I’m fine. You’re…”

  “A bit of a wreck at the moment, I know.” He grinned at her then, a sudden flash of mischief and sunshine. Licking his upper lip, he added with a wink, “Brilliant latte.”

  Completely cool. Completely confident.

  Completely unlike any man she had ever met.

  In her head, there was no problem, She would say something witty, or smart, or maybe even flirty. He would lean in and flirt back, invite her to dinner. She would give him a mysterious little wave when she left, maybe flip her hair a bit. In her imagination, hair-flipping got them every time.

  But this wasn’t her imagination. This was real, right here, right now. This was overwhelming.

  Especially when he pulled up the hems of his Tshirts and wiped off his face, revealing a lean, muscled abdomen.

  So much for offering him a towel from the hotel. So much for any hope of getting her racing pulse under control.

  And he wasn’t even going to give her a chance to try. “Bit of a trick, walking backward, yeah?” he said, letting his shirts fall and wiping his hands on the back of his jeans.

  “Oh. Right.” Her cheeks were on fire. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see an actual flame lick the tip of her nose. “That was…dumb.”

  “Not in an empty meadow, maybe.” His grin was as lopsided as the hotel’s nameplate and a lot more appealing. “On a Manhattan street now…”

  “I know. I am sorry.” She gestured helplessly at his ruined shirts, at the empty cup on the pavement.

  “No worries, love. Pleasure to meet you…”

  “Olivia.” She put her hand in his when he offered it, and an actual thrill of excitement raced through her. Which was silly, because he was simply being nice. It was probably a British thing. Nothing to do with her at all.

  “Rhys,” he said, and she realized he was still holding her hand. His was nice, firm and warm and stronger than she would have imagined for a man with such long, lean fingers.

  But she couldn’t stand here all day holding hands, pining after him like some teenager, even if she wanted to. It was time to step away. Get back to work. Take her tattered dignity back to her office and mend it with a big fat muffin.

  Right. She was stepping away now. Yes, now.

  Except for the fact that it wouldn’t be polite to leave him to the scattered contents of his suitcase all by himself, would it?

  She untangled her fingers from his and knelt down to pick up a pair of jeans—and found a jumbled pile of boxer briefs beneath them. She dropped the jeans with a little gasp of embarrassment, and looked up to see Rhys grinning at her.

  “I’ll take the unmentionables, love.”

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  Reaching for her beer, Elizabeth took a sip, and for the first time that night felt a little normal. The atmosphere of the bar seemed to envelope her, like she was meant to be there. A much needed sense of contentment filled her. The talking, the laughter, the smell of drinks and salty roasted peanuts. It made her feel oddly better. This was a good idea—a good distraction. Tomorrow she’d return to her research in a more relaxed and focused state.

  Elizabeth smiled as Jill Lewis finally took the stage. The reluctant woman shook her head, glaring good-naturedly at her friends.

  “All right!” Jolee cheered from over her microphone, and much of the bar exploded into applause. Elizabeth clapped along with them.

  Jolee started the music and the woman’s voice filled the room almost from the first note, asking the listeners to go on and leave her breathless. Elizabeth recognized the tune as a song from the radio with a happy, contagious beat. And the woman sang it well—better than well. It was little wonder that her pals had been urging her to get up there. She was great.

  Elizabeth looked back to the woman’s table of friends to see their reaction to the woman’s fantastic singing. Two of them, a man and a woman, beamed and clapped. While the other at the table, a male, just watched, somehow distant from the other two. The clapping male leaned over to say something to him; and the one who only watched turned toward his friend, giving Elizabeth her first full view of his face.

  Elizabeth’s smile disappeared. Desire, so strong that it almost made her cry out, ripped through her, shredding any impression of calm she’d found. Every muscle in her body tensed, every sense sharpening until her whole being was centered on the man before her.

  Without saying a word to Christian, she rose. Carefully, purposefully, she zigzagged through the tables, her eyes never leaving the man. Just tables away, she stopped herself, fragments of her reasonable mind taking control. She glanced back at the bar. Christian watched her, but when he saw her looking, he busied himself by taking an order from one of the patrons.

  Her brother could sense her desire now. Of course he could. Vampires could sense emotions—and she knew hers ran very strong. Shame filled her, but
still her gaze returned to the male at the table.

  The man was beautiful: dark hair, sculpted features, perfectly shaped lips that any woman would have killed for—yet on him they were sinfully masculine. He was beyond handsome.

  But while Elizabeth had seen many handsome men in her life, never had her body reacted like this.

  She swallowed. Control yourself! What was she doing?

  But instead of walking back to her barstool as her brain ordered her to, she took another step toward the table of friends. Then another. She sauntered slowly past the man’s chair, not getting too close, not drawing attention to herself—not just yet. She had to assess, she had to watch. Stalk her prey.

  She lifted her head to breathe in his scent. The hint of woodsy cologne, the freshness of soap and shampoo, the minty traces of toothpaste. And a warm, rich aroma—a scent that made her want to tip back her head and howl.

  She continued around the table until he was directly in her line of sight, and she sat down at an empty table. Eyes trained on him, she studied. Oh yeah, she wanted him.

  For just a moment, she closed her eyes as her rational mind took tenuous control. Why was this happening? It was as if the wolf was in control. But that didn’t happen. She didn’t stay in human form and think like the wolf. She didn’t allow that. Some werewolves did. Brody did. He was more wolf than man at all times. She didn’t allow that. She didn’t.

  Her eyes snapped open. The man was looking at her. She’d felt his gaze before she’d actually seen it. Their gazes met; but even in the dim light, she could see his eyes were a mixture of brown and green.

  Again her body told her this was what she needed. This was what she’d been wanting. He was what she wanted. She continued to stare, meeting his gaze, until he looked away. Still she watched him. Unable to do otherwise. The need was in control now.

  She was acting like a bitch in heat. And she didn’t care.

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  Copyright © 2007 by Kensington Publishing Corp. “One Last Weekend” copyright © 2007 by Linda Lael Miller “You Give Love a Good Name” copyright © 2007 by Jennifer Apodaca “My Kind of Town” copyright © 2007 by Shelly Laurenston