Playing Love's Odds (A Classic Sexy Romantic Suspense) (28 page)

"Let's talk about what you
are
wrapped around and what you're gonna do about it."

"I'm doing."

"Not fast enough to suit me," he griped, grabbing her hips, pulling her against him, pushing her back, reaching under her skirt, between their bodies, stroking his thumb over her sensitive skin, pressing hard against the center of her pleasure.

Panting, a shudder rippling through her, one interminable wave after another, Hannah managed to ask, "Are you trying to distract me?"

"I'm doing my damnedest."

"Well, stop a minute." She socked his shoulder playfully, drawing her thighs together and squeezing him in retribution for the sweet havoc he was unleashing in her body. "I want to know where you got the money for the car."

"Gid made me a deal," he said, his voice tobacco rough, strangely hoarse for a man who didn't smoke.

"I can buy that. But still, a '67 Corvette does not come cheap. Deal or no deal. And especially painted yellow."

"Hey," he began, loosening the ties down the front of her lacy peasant blouse. He freed one breast and took it in his mouth, his tongue a wicked, wet brush over the palette of her skin. "No wife of mine is gonna be caught dead in anything less," he finished, his words blowing hot air over her damp skin.

Her nipple drew taut. Her fingers clenched around his neck. She arched her neck back in wanton invitation. "You're gonna be caught dead if you don't answer me."

"I forgot the question." His fingers dug into her hips, lifting and separating her bottom, sliding further into the dampest, welcoming part of her body. "I'm a bit preoccupied in case you haven't noticed."

She framed his face with her hands, wondering if her eyes were as glazed as his. Or if he was as close to exploding. "You didn't do something stupid like sell one of your cars, did you?"

He copied the gesture, his palms warm on her face. "You always were too nosy for your own good."

"And look where it got me," she replied, squeezing his hardness that filled her to bursting.

"I can feel where it got you."

"Logan," she glared at him nose to nose. "I'm going to get up and walk home."

He caught her lip between his teeth and bit gently. "No. Don't move. I'll tell you. Just let me catch my breath."

She sat as still as she could, feeling his throbbing lessen by degrees. Finally, she asked, "Better?"

"Worse. But I think I can talk." He sucked in a shaky breath. "I got a check. From Vandale and the other chemical companies. A thank-you. Spent it on a wedding present for my wife."

"That must've been some kind of check."

"There's some left. Enough to get you off to a good start in med school."

She pulled back to look at him. She didn't want to be an obligation. "Why?"

The glassy look in his eyes softened to a glowing warmth, rich and fiery like the smoothest of bourbons. "Because I love you, Hannah."

"Oh, Logan," she began, then stopped. No words could convey the love she felt, the contentment, the out-and-out desire that went way beyond the physical.

Right now, however, the physical was what she wanted. As ready as she was, she knew he was primed for explosion, his body quivering with restraint.

She moved, up and down, grinding her hips in his lap, wanting to feel his eruption bathe her with slick heat the same way his love washed over her with the promise of forever. The splintering surge began, sweeping her away.

Logan howled, a primal, animalistic call of completion. Hannah shuddered, collapsed against his damp chest, his heart thundering beneath her cheek. It was a new beginning, a mating not tender, but replete with life's potential.

When his breathing once again returned to normal, Logan threaded his fingers through her hair, tilted her head back and settled his mouth over hers for a kiss that went on forever. Too soon for her liking he raised up and, with a wicked grin tilting the corners of his mouth, said, "The Corvette I had never went this fast."

"You never had me for a driver," she answered, grinning against his chest with complete female satisfaction.

And then she began the journey again, knowing the adventure would last beyond her lifetime.

###

PLAYING LOVE'S ODDS

Alison Kent

Kindle Edition

Originally published by Kismet Romance, Meteor Publising Corp.

Copyright 1993, 2011 Alison Kent. All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author. This also pertains to uploading to free download sites, which is considered piracy and does not recognize the labor of this author or their livelihood from that work. Please discourage piracy and purchase works (other than those offered by the Author or Publisher as "Free Books"). Thank you.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Alison Kent was a born reader, but it wasn't until she reached 30 that she knew she wanted to be a writer when she grew up. Five years later, she made her first sale. Two years after that, she accepted an offer issued by the senior editor of Harlequin Temptation live on the "Isn't It Romantic?" episode of CBS 48 Hours. The resulting book, CALL ME, was a Romantic Times finalist for Best First Series Book.

With her first three Temptations on the shelf, she took a break from writing romance novels and spent a few months living one, finding her own hero and practicing every technique she'd learned from a lifetime of reading the best "how-to" manuals around! She currently lives in Houston, Texas with her petroleum geologist husband and two rescue dogs, one a Hurricane Katrina survivor.

Alison's 2009 Harlequin Blaze, A LONG, HARD RIDE, part of Harlequin's 60th Anniversary celebration, was nominated for a 2009 RT Reviewer's Choice Award for Best Harlequin Blaze of 2009. STRIPTEASE, a 2003 release from Harlequin Blaze and part of her popular gIRL-gEAR series, was also an RT Reviewer's Choice Award nominee. NO LIMITS, book nine in her Smithson Group series from Kensington Brava, was excerpted in the October 2009 issue of COSMOPOLITAN as a Red-Hot Read.

Her 2005 Kensington Brava release, THE BEACH ALIBI, book four in her Smithson Group series, was a nominee for the national Quill Awards, sponsored by Reed Business Information. Alison is also the author of THE COMPLETE IDIOT'S GUIDE TO WRITING EROTIC ROMANCE and a partner in the
Access Romance
author community and in
DreamForge Media
as a website designer. Visit her online at
http://www.alisonkent.com
or on Facebook at
http://www.facebook.com/author.alisonkent
, or follow her on Twitter at
http://www.twitter.com/alisonkent
.

Love In Bloom
Love Me Tender
At His Mercy
Coming May 2011

from Kensington Brava

With Extreme Pleasure
No Limits
Maximum Exposure
The Perfect Stranger
Beyond A Shadow
Deep Breath
Larger Than Life
The Bane Affair

from Harlequin Blaze

One Good Man
A Long, Hard Ride
Indiscreet
Kiss & Tell
The Sweetest Taboo
Kiss & Makeup
Goes Down Easy
Infatuation

read an excerpt from AT HIS MERCY
a brand new erotic romance short story coming in May 2011 from Alison Kent

 

No matter how many times Lise Kimball told herself to ignore the clutch of dread in her stomach, it wasn’t happening. Her life was packed, tossed, and squeezed into every square inch of her SUV and now she had a flat tire.

For a couple of miles, her steering wheel had been pulling to the right, and as the truth of her situation had weighed on her shoulders, she’d put on her flashers, hoping to avoid a rear-end collision while creeping along the break down lane.

She knew the mechanics of changing a tire, but since this would be her first time, and she was going to have to unload a lot of boxes to get to her spare, she had her fingers crossed the tire would hold until she reached the highway exit a quarter mile ahead.

The fact that the night was as dark as burned oil and the oasis ahead well-lighted had her encouraging the steel belted radial to hang in there. And while she was at it, she promised any greater power listening that she would never again trust her vehicle’s maintenance—or any part of her life—to someone who twisted that trust to suit
his
needs.

Wouldn’t her soon-to-be-ex love seeing her at the mercy of a car jack and a tire iron?

She wondered how Mark had reacted when the divorce papers had been served at his law office this morning? And then she laughed, the sound tinged with the hysteria she’d been trying to keep at bay because she didn’t need to wonder. She knew.

The tic in his jaw as he ground it. The strain around his mouth as he pressed his lips tight. The military set of his shoulders as he held himself stiffly in check. In public, Mark Kimball was made of ice. He saved all shows of emotion for the juries deciding his clients’ fates.

No, he’d strike out later. At the racquetball court. On the freeway between his firm’s downtown Atlanta location and their suburban home. At her. Never with his fists, of course, but with words. And he was so,
so
good with words. As good as he was with silences. As good as he was with his body, sharing it when in his best interest to do so.

Yeah. She’d had enough. Or rather, she hadn’t had enough. It had been weeks,
months
since the man who’d sworn ten years ago to cherish her until death did them part had visited her bed. Last she'd looked, cherishing went a lot farther than seeing to her material needs and whims as
he
pleased. A master manipulator, Mark Kimball.

But that was all behind her. In front of her stretched the rest of her life, many nights spent in a lover’s arms, and the beautiful highway exit ramp. She limped down its length, following the blacktop to the stop sign and the beacon of lights which had beckoned her.

The lights turned out to be big square halogens, mounted on tall pines ringing the parking lot of a restaurant and bar. Across the intersection, the exit ramp became an entrance ramp, feeding back into to the highway. Signs indicated a right turn would take her into a town called Danport. She didn’t need a town.

With patience, the bright lamps shining, and her upper body sculpted and strengthened by months spent in the care of Mark’s personal trainer, she’d be fine. Because really. If she couldn't change a tire by herself, she wasn't going to make it very far on her own.

 

 

The screen door catching behind him, Donovan True stepped off the bar’s back stairs and onto the parking lot’s asphalt. He turned for the recycle bins, tossed a bag of longnecks into the first, one of aluminum cans into the other.

Glass clanked and rattled, breaking, cracking like a shot. The sound brought the two strays who lived in the woods behind the building running as if Pavlov himself had whistled. Both were mutts, one a beagle mix, the other a coarse-haired terrier. Neither wore tags on their collars.

He hadn’t been able to get close enough to check the collars themselves for engraving. And folks around here weren’t into microchipping anymore than they were into fencing their yards. Danport was a small burg with a mostly rural population. No leash laws. Pets ran free. He got that.

What he didn’t get was people not seeing to the welfare of what—or who—they’d taken on or been charged with. Whether that something was a dog, another human being, or as in his case, a bar. Not that he minded living in Danport for now. Or keeping the place afloat for a friend doing time.

But if Donovan hadn’t been in a position to make the move to Mississippi and the commitment to the business while his buddy learned the truth about drinking and driving at the hands of the state, there would’ve been nothing for said buddy to come back to, The Swamp Pit having gone to the dogs … so to speak.

At the sound of metal clattering and groaning from the building’s front, Donovan pushed up from the roasting pan of scraps he’d set down for the strays, wiping his hands on the towel flung over his shoulder and heading that way.

He stopped when he got to the corner because he had to. There was something about a woman stretching—arms reaching high, back arched, long torso twisting to pull her clothes tight—that turned him dumb. And this one … Yep. Dumb as a bump on a log.

It was when she bent forward, her ass gorgeously rounded beneath the flowered skirt skimming her calves, that he realized the source of the sounds. She was changing a flat. At least she was trying to. Boxes and packing crates and shopping bags and carry-alls sat on the ground at the rear of her SUV.

The cargo door stood open, the vehicle titled to the side on its jack. She’d gotten that far, but watching her throw her full weight into the tire iron, he realized she’d hit her limit. He had to give it to her for trying. He’d seen grown men three times her size struggle to break an impact wrench seal.

She stood again, yelled as she kicked at the tire, then hands on her hips, turned to face the bar. That’s when she saw him coming. Looking over, she lifted a hand, a weak wave, the smile on her mouth less nervous, and more self-deprecating and defeated.

“Hi. I was just about to see if Danport might have a mechanic before I called Triple A.”

Yes, Danport had a mechanic. But Donovan didn’t want the man getting close to this one’s tires. “Will a good Samaritan do?”

“As long as you’ll let me pay you for your time. Or at least let me …” She stopped, looked from the towel in his hands and the apron at his waist to the bar’s front door, shrugged as she looked back. “I was going to add, ‘buy you a drink.’ But since I’m guessing you work here, you might not be interested. Or able.”

He was interested. And he was able. Though he was pretty sure they were talking about two different things. He bent for the tire iron. “I do work here, and a drink is not a problem.”

“Does that mean you’re the boss?”

He stood slowly, watched as she tucked one trim ankle behind the other, her skirt floating around her bare legs. The fabric was summer sheer, and he could see right through it. Her knees, her thighs, the rib of her panties at her hip. His breath hitched as he met her gaze, desire a snake wrapped around the base of his spine.

“Donovan True. At your service.”

“I’m Lise. Lise Kimball.” She paused, one heartbeat, two. “At your mercy.”

 

 

Copyright 2011 Alison Kent
.
All Rights Are Reserved.