Take the Key and Lock Her Up (47 page)

An Excerpt from

An Elite Ops Novel

by Kay Thomas

One minute Jennifer Grayson is housesitting and the next she’s abducted to a foreign
brothel. Jennifer is planning her escape when her first “customer” arrives. Nick,
the man who broke her heart years ago, has come to her rescue. Now, as they race for
their lives, passion for each other reignites and old secrets resurface. Can Nick
keep the woman he loves safe against an enemy with a personal vendetta?

T
he woman at the vanity turned, and his breath caught in his throat. Nick had known
it would be Jenny, and despite what he’d thought about downstairs when he’d seen her
on the tablet screen, he hadn’t prepared himself for seeing her like this. Seated
at the table with candles all around, she was wearing a sheer robe over a grey thong
and a bustier kind of thing—or that’s what he thought the full-length bra was called.

He spotted the unicorn tat peeping out from the edge of whatever the lingerie piece
was, and his brain quit processing details as all the blood in his head rushed south.
He’d been primed to come in and tell Jenny exactly how they were getting out of the
house and away from these people, and now . . . this. His mouth went dry at the sight
of her. She looked like every fantasy he’d ever had about her rolled into one.

He continued to stare as recognition flared in her eyes.

“Oh my god,” she murmured. “It’s . . .”

She clapped her mouth closed, and her eyes widened. That struck him as odd. The relief
on her face was obvious, but instead of looking at him, she took an audible breath
and studied the walls of the room. When she finally did glance at him again, her eyes
had changed.

“So you’re who they’ve sent me for my first time?” Her voice sounded bored, not the
tone he remembered. “What do you want me to do?”

What a question. He raised an eyebrow, but she shook her head. In warning?

Nothing here was as he’d anticipated. He continued staring at her, hoping the lust
would quit fogging his brain long enough for him to figure out what was going on.

“I’ve been told to show you a good time.” Her voice was cold, downright chilly. Without
another word she stood and crossed the floor, slipping into his arms with her breasts
pressing into his chest. “It’s you.” She murmured the words in the barest of whispers.

Nick’s mind froze, but his body didn’t. His hands automatically went to her waist
as she kissed his neck, working her way up to his ear. This was not at all what he’d
planned.

“I can’t believe you’re here.” She breathed the words into his ear.

Me either
, he thought, but kept the words to himself as he pulled her closer. His senses flooded
with all that smooth skin pressing against him. His body tightened, and his right
hand moved to cup her ass. Her cheek’s bare skin was silky soft, just like he remembered.
God, he’d missed her. She melted into him as his body switched into overdrive.

“What do you want?” She spoke louder. The arctic tone was back. He was confused and
knew he was just too stupid with wanting her to figure out what the hell was going
on. There was no way the woman could mistake the effect she was having.

She moved her lips closer to his ear and nipped his earlobe as she whispered, “Cameras
are everywhere. I’m not sure about microphones.”

And like that, cold reality slapped him in the face. He should have been expecting
it, but he’d been so focused on getting her out and making sure she was all right.
She might be glad to see him because he was there to save her, but throwing her body
at him was an act.

Jesus.
He had to get them both out of here without tipping his hand to the cameras and those
watching what he was doing. He was crazy not to have considered it once he saw those
tablets downstairs, but it had never occurred to him that he would have to play this
encounter through as if he were really a client.

He slipped her arms from around his neck and moved to the table to pour himself some
wine, willing his hands not to shake. “I want you,” he said.

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 . . .