Seeing You (8 page)

Two men on trajectory for an explosive collision.

Star Flyer

© 2009 Bonnie Dee

Still mourning the loss of his lover to invading forces, Marr Hingo operates his farm under a dictatorship while keeping his mind—and feet—planted firmly on the ground. Spring arrives right on schedule, bringing with it something completely unexpected—an unconscious pilot from a downed star jet. Unable to bring himself to give up the handsome aviator to searching troops, Marr hides him in the barn’s cellar.

The last thing Davan Siedel remembers before ejecting is getting in a couple of good blasts against a Galactic Forces F150. He wakes to find his vague memory of being carried by an angel wasn’t far off the mark. A tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed farmer has brought him to safety and is tending his injured leg.

The attraction between solid, earthy Marr and clever, quicksilver Davan catches them off guard—and their sexual union is as sweet as it is powerful. Yet the longer Davan lingers, the tighter the enemy’s web grows, threatening their love, their freedom…and their lives.

Warning: Contains hot male/male loving, sweet sexual healing, a down-to-earth farmer who knows how to wield a…plow, a smart-mouthed pilot with fast…jets.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Star Flyer:

Marr descended the narrow steps, tripped and caught himself with a stumbling leap to the ground. He cursed his clumsiness as he held up the glow stick and peered into the darkness. The rumpled pile of sacking was empty. His guest was nowhere in sight. “Are you all right?”

“Still here.” Davan’s voice floated quietly through the still air. He crawled out from behind one of the wooden vegetable bins, dragging his injured leg. He had a mag-blaster in his hand and a quizzical expression on his face. “I heard a lot of activity up there. What happened?”

“Tandus soldiers searching the area. I sent them into the forest in the opposite direction from where you came down. Had to wait for them to leave before I could come back.”

Davan holstered his weapon and blew a long breath. “Thought I was going to have to shoot my way out.” His frown returned as he cursed in Antian. “Ob-coms! They’ve probably got the place bugged.”

“I checked and didn’t find any.”

“I’ve got a scanner in my flight suit if you want to sweep the area.” Davan reached into the bin behind him and pulled out the folded suit. He handed Marr a small device and showed him how to turn on the beam.

For a moment their hands touched and Marr was shocked by the effect the brief touch had on him. His cock grew rigid as if it imagined what the other man’s hand would feel like touching it. Marr had stripped Davan practically naked and wrapped his leg from thigh to heel without feeling a jolt of lust like this. He pushed the feeling away and turned to climb back up the stairs.

“I’ll be back with some dinner,” he promised.

After sweeping the barn from rafters to floor and finding it clean, he hurried to the house and did the same. The sun had set by the time he emerged from the house and crossed the yard.

He moved awkwardly down the steps to the cellar with his arms full of the box of supplies. The glow stick illuminated the cellar, the empty vegetable bins, the dirt floor and Davan. The pilot’s skin was so white he practically glowed, creating illumination of his own. Marr wondered if he was pale from trauma or if it was his natural color.

“I’ve brought more medication for you if you’re in pain.” He set down the box and unpacked it, tossing the water bottle to Davan, who caught it in one hand. “I have clothes, blankets, pillows and a camp bed. I didn’t have time to make dinner, but there’s leftover stew. If you don’t like the stew, I can make something else.”

Marr realized he hadn’t strung that many words together in weeks. Solitude had become such a part of his life without Sasch that he remained quiet even when he was with people. But now it was as if a dam had burst. He wanted to talk. He wanted to find out everything about the young pilot and to tell him things about himself.

Davan accepted the T-shirt he offered and slipped it over his head. It was big for him and the long-sleeved shirt he added on top of it was even bigger. Marr thought it was a shame to cover such a beautiful body. The man’s muscles were taut and toned, making him look like a white marble statue. He imagined sliding his hands over that smooth, perfect skin, warm and alive—not like marble or glass at all. But the young flier also looked really good in Marr’s old clothes. There was something erotic about having a shirt he’d worn against his own body so many times now intimately touching Davan’s.

“I can help you into the pants,” Marr offered, then remembered the splint on Davan’s leg. “Or maybe just cover you with blankets for now.”

“That would be good. I’m a little cold.” From the way his jaw clenched to keep his teeth from chattering, he was more than a little cold. Perhaps he was in shock from the trauma of his injury.

Marr quickly inflated the insta-mattress with a flick of the switch, glad he hadn’t gotten rid of it along with the rest of Sasch’s stuff. He’d never expected to go camping again and certainly didn’t want to be reminded of the times they’d used it together, but instead of giving it to charity he’d left it up in the attic.

After spreading a blanket over it, he helped Davan to lie on top, gently positioning his hurt leg. The younger man suppressed a groan.

“Sorry.”

“No problem. I owe you my life. All I can do is keep thanking you for taking such a risk.” He placed his mag-gun close at hand on the floor beside the mattress.

Marr covered him with one of the blankets and propped a pillow behind his head. He added a quick-dissolving pain tablet to his water bottle and handed it back. Davan took a long drink while Marr pulled the container of leftover stew from the box and apologized for not having warmed it.

“I don’t care. I’ll eat the stew and the container, too. I’m starving.”

It was a pleasure to watch him enjoy the food Marr had made, reminding him of how many solitary meals he’d had in the past two years. His appetite had dulled after Sasch left and he’d lost weight. Neighbors and friends kept inviting him over for dinner as if he might not eat if they didn’t feed him. Maybe he wouldn’t have.

Davan didn’t speak until the bowl was empty then he belched, sighed and handed Marr the empty bowl. “Best stew I ever tasted. You’re a good cook.”

“Or you’re really hungry. It’s nothing special.”

Davan raised an eyebrow. “Not used to compliments, are you? You’re supposed to say, ‘thanks’.” His gaze traveled around the cellar then back to Marr. “Do you live here alone or is there someone else I’m putting in danger?”

“Just me. No family or anything.” He paused, but felt compelled to explain. “There was someone, my partner, Sasch, but he’s gone now.”

Sky blue turned to silver as Davan turned his head and the light reflected from a different facet of his diamond eyes. “Gone where?”

Marr hesitated again. He hadn’t spoken about Sasch to anyone and didn’t know why he felt compelled to tell this stranger. “When Theon was invaded, Sasch went to fight the Tandus. I didn’t want him to go, but he felt he had to. And I stayed behind.”

He shrugged, unable to express the guilt he felt for not going with his lover and trying to keep him safe. But he was no freedom fighter. He was a farmer and someone needed to grow the crops and feed the people no matter what else was going on in the world. He couldn’t persuade Sasch to stay and Sasch would never have asked him to go.

“The resistance was crushed in a few months. He was killed.” The words fell like pebbles from his mouth and Marr realized it was the first time he’d ever said them aloud.

“I’m sorry.” Davan’s silver eyes shifted back to a soft blue. Marr couldn’t take his sympathy and didn’t want to talk about Sasch anymore. He began unpacking the last of the items from his box.

“You’ll need this.” He handed Davan the empty jar he’d brought for him to piss in and set a palm reader on the ground. “Do you like Gindre adventures?”

“I don’t need to read ’em. I live ’em.” Davan winked and a cocky grin twisted his lips. But the shadows under his eyes and sheen of sweat on his brow belied his teasing manner. He looked like he was in pain.

Marr leaned forward and rested a hand on his forehead, a little hot, but not too feverish. He stroked Davan’s hair back from his face. It was an absurd gesture of comfort to offer a man he barely knew, but he couldn’t resist touching that shiny, white-blond hair. It slid like silk between his fingers and the color shifted from white to burnished gold to a kind of toffee-brown depending on how the light reflected from the fine strands.

Davan didn’t pull away. Instead, he closed his eyes and his grin softened to a faint smile.

A quirky holiday romance about Faith, Hope, and…er…glow-in-the-dark condoms!

The Dickens with Love

© 2009 Josh Lanyon

Three years ago, a scandal cost antiquarian “book hunter” James Winter everything that mattered to him: his job, his lover and his self-respect. But now the rich and unscrupulous Mr. Stephanopoulos has a proposition. A previously unpublished Christmas book by Charles Dickens has turned up in the hands of an English chemistry professor by the name of Sedgwick Crisparkle. Mr. S. wants that book at any price, and he needs James to get it for him. There’s just one catch. James can’t tell the nutty professor who the buyer is.

Actually, two catches. The nutty Professor Crisparkle turns out to be totally gorgeous—and on the prowl. Faster than you can say, “Old Saint Nick,” James is mixing business with pleasure…and in real danger of forgetting that this is just a holiday romance.

Just as they’re well on the way to having their peppermint sticks and eating them too, Sedgwick discovers the truth. James has been a very bad boy. And any chance Santa will bring him what he wants most is disappearing quicker than the Jolly Old Elf’s sleigh.

Warning: This book contains an ocelot, songs by America, Stardust martinis, tinsel, long-lost manuscripts, Faith, Hope and…Love.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
The Dickens with Love:

I dreamed that an ocelot was chewing on a first edition of
A Christmas Carol
. When I tried to snatch the book away, it sank its fangs into my hand.

Head throbbing, I opened my eyes to watery green daylight. I was in a hotel room. A very comfortable hotel room that smelled of orange furniture polish and sex. The fluffy duvet and long draperies were in matching old-fashioned pink and gray cabbage rose print. Rain trickled down the windowpanes of a pair of French doors and sent sperm-shaped shadows twitching and jerking across the sage green walls.

My head hurt. That was because I’d had too much to drink. My hand hurt. That was because a strange man was lying on it.

I wriggled my hand out from under my naked companion and studied him. Sedgwick Crisparkle looked less angelic and more rakishly debauched that morning. He had quite a heavy beard and the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen on a guy. He did not snore, but he made a gentle puffing sound. He looked deeply asleep and unreasonably content.

I flexed my fingers a couple of times, then sat up carefully, wincing, and looked around for my clothes. They were on the floor near the door where I’d apparently dropped them. I inched over, trying not to wake my host, and got slowly, cautiously, out of bed.

I had to stop halfway to the door to give my spinning head a rest. How the hell much had I had to drink the night before? Not that much really, but I hadn’t eaten. Those shooting stars, or whatever they were called, packed an unexpected wallop. I tried to make out the numbers on my watch. They seemed very tiny. I peered harder.

Six thirty. Plenty of time. I didn’t need to be at work until four. I could go home, sleep more, shower, and…call Mr. S.

“Not feeling well?”

I jumped, whimpered and clutched my head. “Must you shout?”

“Sorry.” Part of what he said was lost in a gigantic yawn. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

I heard the rustle of bedclothes being thrown back and the pad of bare feet on carpet. The drapes were jerked shut and the room returned to a soothing darkness. I heard him pad past me on his way back to bed, so when a warm hand was laid on my naked shoulder I did another of those starts and yelps.

“You have a very nervous disposition,” Sedgwick said disapprovingly. “You ought to consider supplementing your diet with bee pollen.”

I gazed up at him, opened my mouth. Closed it. Closed my eyes. Why not? I was clearly still dreaming.
Bee pollen
?

“I think you should come back to bed.” I opened my eyes at that particular note in his voice. Sedgwick was smiling a funny sort of shy half-smile. “I think you’d feel much better in bed.”

He put his arm around me and I permitted myself to be led back to bed.

When I woke the next time the sun was shining and a busboy was carefully lowering a large tray with covered dishes to the table in front of the fireplace.

“Lovely,” Sedgwick was saying as he signed the busboy’s chit.

I raised my head, peering owlishly over the edge of the duvet, and the busboy grinned at me before taking his bill book and departing.

When the door had safely closed, I climbed out of bed, pulled on my jeans—to Sedgwick’s evident disappointment—and investigated the breakfast tray. A white teapot, two gold-rimmed china cups, a jar of honey, a small basket of muffins and nut breads, a bowl of fresh berries. One plate offered eggs Benedict with shaved honey ham and what appeared to be an herbed Hollandaise sauce. Another plate had thick round Belgian waffles, richly, sweetly scented of vanilla, cinnamon and topped with whipped cream, fresh strawberries and pecans.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” Sedgwick said at whatever he read in my expression. “We can share or I can order you something completely different.” He was wearing the kind of gorgeous silk dressing gown people only wear in old movies and the horn-rimmed glasses, but even behind those severe glasses his face looked much younger and softer that morning.

I dropped down on the fat comfortable chair cattycorner to the table. “No. This is…amazing. Any of this is fine.” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a breakfast like this.

He looked smug. “We’ll split everything down the middle.”

“We will if we eat all this.”

He laughed. “I admit I don’t usually eat like this, although I do like my breakfasts. I’m on holiday, though, so…when in Rome.”

“I’m very glad you’re not in Rome this morning.” I heard myself say that and cringed. Talk about sappy. I added quickly, “I’d be eating a bowl of Cheerios right now.”

“I’m glad I’m not in Rome too.” He smiled right into my eyes.

After that I couldn’t think of anything to say, and I devoted myself to eating that fantastic breakfast.

As vocal as Sedgwick had been in bed, he was not terribly chatty over breakfast. It seemed to be a replete and satisfied silence, though. He appeared content, and each time our eyes met, he offered that disarming smile.

In fact, it felt so natural and comfortable between us, I was encouraged to ask, “Will you let me have another look at
The Christmas Cake
?”

Sedgwick’s gaze dropped to the egg-topped muffin he was neatly cutting through. “No.”

“
No
?” I felt bewildered, not least by the brusqueness of this. “Why?”

He sighed. “After last night I’d hoped you’d let this go.”

What the hell did last night have to do with it? “I was hired to appraise the book. I’m being paid to do that. If I ‘let this go’ I also have to let go of that commission. Which I need.”

He said quietly, “James, I think we’re both realists.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“If you don’t stop now, you’re liable to spoil this, you know.”

“No, I don’t know. Spoil this? How is asking to see the book spoiling anything?” And now I was starting to get annoyed.

Behind the severe glasses, Sedgwick raised his green-gold eyes, gave me a long, direct stare.

“I don’t know what that look is supposed to mean.”

“It means we’re having a very nice time together. Let’s not ruin it by bringing up…unpleasant memories.”

It took me a beat or two to work out what he was referring to. The rush of anger and hurt left me feeling winded. Lack of oxygen made my voice come out flat and compressed. “I thought you didn’t believe the rumors about me.”

He said with all the dispassionate exactitude one could ask of a science teacher, “What I said was, no one accused you of being directly involved in murder or forgery. That is
all
I said.”

I’m sure my disbelief showed on my face. Hopefully nothing else showed. The laugh that escaped me took us both by surprise. “You’re right. My mistake.”

I got up, my knee knocking the edge of my plate and tipping it over. The waffle landed in a sticky plop face down on the plush carpet. I didn’t give a fuck about that. I didn’t give a fuck about anything at that point. It was all very clear, diamond-edged and razor-bright. He didn’t trust me. He thought I had possibly been involved in murder and forgery, but he liked having sex with me—or possibly with anyone and I happened to be willing—and he didn’t want me to spoil that by bringing up something as awkward as business.

Sedgwick rose too. “James.”

I ignored him, finding my shirt and buttoning it up quickly. I got one of the buttonholes misaligned, so it hung crookedly—appropriately, it seemed—but I didn’t care. Was not going to stay in that room one instant longer than I had to.

“James—?”

I was hunting with fierce attention for my other shoe. I found it under his side of the bed.

“Apparently I’ve offended you. I…didn’t intend to.”

Now that was almost funny. I slipped the shoe on. I was missing my socks, but that really seemed a small price to pay for getting out of there without committing murder for real.

“I’m not sure what I—oft times I put things more bluntly than I intend,” Sedgwick was saying. He sounded a fraction impatient. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”

I found my jacket and headed for the door. He was right behind me.

“James, I really don’t
see
—” He put a hand on my shoulder, and I spun around and shoved him back. The arm of the sofa caught him behind his thighs, and he half fell back over it, glasses crooked, blinking up in astonishment at me.

I said, “Enjoy the rest of your stay in L.A., arsehole.”

I managed not to slam the door on my way out.