Her Highland Fling (16 page)

An Excerpt from

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.

A
lanna 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

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.

“T
ake 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

A Billionaires and Bikers 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—

Voices murmur outside the condo’s door, the sound piercing my delightful daydream. I swing the telescope upward, not wanting to be caught using it. The snippets of conversation drift away.

I don’t relax. If the telescope isn’t positioned in the same way as it was last night, Cyndi will realize I’ve been using it. She’ll tease me about being a fellow pervert, sharing the story, embellished for dramatic effect, with her stern, serious dad—or, worse, with Angel, that snobby friend of hers.

I’ll die. It’ll be worse than being the butt of jokes in high school because that ridicule was about my clothes and this will center on the part of my soul I’ve always kept hidden. It’ll also be the truth, and I won’t be able to deny it. I am a pervert.

I have to return the telescope to its original position. This is the only acceptable solution. I tap the metal tube.

Last night, my man-crazy roommate was giggling over the new guy in three-eleven north. The previous occupant was a gray-haired, bowtie-wearing tax auditor, his luxurious accommodations supplied by Nicolas. The most exciting thing he ever did was drink his tea on the balcony.

According to Cyndi, the new occupant is a delicious piece of man candy—tattooed, buff, and head-to-toe lickable. He was completing armcurls outside, and she enthusiastically counted his reps, oohing and aahing over his bulging biceps, calling to me to take a look.

I resisted that temptation, focusing on making macaroni and cheese for the two of us, the recipe snagged from the diner my mom works in. After we scarfed down dinner, Cyndi licking her plate clean, she left for the club and hasn’t returned.

Three-eleven north is the mirror condo to ours. I straighten the telescope. That position looks about right, but then, the imitation UGGs I bought in my second year of college looked about right also. The first time I wore the boots in the rain, the sheepskin fell apart, leaving me barefoot in Economics 201.

Unwilling to risk Cyndi’s friendship on “about right,” I gaze through the eyepiece. The view consists of rippling golden planes, almost like . . .

Tanned skin pulled over defined abs.

I blink. It can’t be. I take another look. A perfect pearl of perspiration clings to a puckered scar. The drop elongates more and more, stretching, snapping. It trickles downward, navigating the swells and valleys of a man’s honed torso.

No. I straighten. This is wrong. I shouldn’t watch our sexy neighbor as he stands on his balcony. If anyone catches me . . .

Parts 1 – 6 available now!