A Private Gentleman (42 page)

if I didn’t allow it?”

Ignoring the wail of protest from his prick and balls, Ian transferred his

grasp to Nicky’s wrist to still the motion of his palm. “I am well aware that many

now consider me less a man, but with all your protestations, I would have

thought—”

Nicky laughed. “Christ, Ian, try not to be more of an ass than the good Lord

intended you to be. You couldn’t best me even when you had four inches and

two-stone advantage.”

“I’ve never had two stones on you, you country-fed beast.” The retort came

unbidden to his lips, their long habit of verbal sparring impossible to amend.

“By God, how I’ve missed you.” Nicky chuckled and yanked Ian’s cravat

free.

Ian felt his own lips curve in answer. There had always been so much

laughter between them. For years, that absence cut as keenly as the loss of

Nicky’s touch.

Shoving away bolster and counterpane, Nicky flung himself onto the bed.

“Now. Kindly divest yourself of those clothes and get up here before I am forced

to seek other amusements.”

Nicky arranged himself in a gloriously naked display, familiar laugh and

cornflower-blue eyes at odds with the strangeness of a body more heavily

muscled, more thickly pelted, but no less enthralling than the one that had filled

Ian’s dreams as he slept in tents on the edges of battlefields. Longing clawed

deeper hollows than all those years of denial, until again Ian was deprived of

sufficient breath.

Such was the assault wrought on his senses by Nicky’s sprawl across the

mattress that Ian had stripped away waistcoat and shirt and unfastened his

breeches before Nicky’s last words attached themselves to a meaning. The haze

of lust clouding Ian’s mind took on a red veil of anger.

“Other amusements?”

Nicky sighed and leaned forward, taking Ian by the arm. “I swear to provide

you with a detailed history of the past five years in writing and affix the bloody

Carleigh seal to my testimony. But if I don’t have you right now, one of us will

end up dead.”

Nicky pulled him with a force too gentle to be compelling, but it was easier

by far to let Nicky drag Ian onto the bed than to make the decision himself.

Nicky rolled, trapping Ian beneath, the press of hard warm skin such a shock

Ian had to close his eyes against the sensation. When he opened them, there was

Nicky, the achingly familiar blue eyes and full lips all Ian could hope of

heaven“Which of us?”

“Does it matter?” Nicky rocked against him.

Ian thought again of Aristophanes and Phaedrus and their tales of separated

lovers. Of Achilles’ terrible grief for Patroclus. “No.”

Nicky kissed the word from his mouth in a gentle press of lips, but Ian

brought his hand up to tangle at last in those curls and pinned Nicky tight, an

upward thrust of hips to feel the harder, wetter kiss of Nicky’s cock on Ian’s

belly.

Nicky wrenched free and reared up, hands working to finish his duty as

substitute valet, shoving away Ian’s breeches and small clothes until at last their

pricks slapped together. Ian thought he had exorcised it from his memory, but

there was no forgetting that sensation, the silky heat of Nicky’s cock against his.

Adding his spit to slick the way, Nicky held them together, rubbing the thick

ridges against each other, washing the whole shaft with heat and pressure. Sweet

enough to die from but not enough. God, not enough.

Trusting a psychic flash might solve a mystery…and lead to love.

The Psychic and the Sleuth

© 2011 Bonnie Dee and Summer Devon

Inspector Robert Court should have felt a sense of justice when a rag-and-

bones man went to the gallows for murdering his cousin. Yet something has

never felt right about the investigation. Robert’s relentless quest for the truth has annoyed his superintendent, landing him lowly assignments such as foiling a

false medium who’s fleecing the wives of the elite.

Oliver Marsh plays the confidence game of spiritualism, though his flashes

of insight often offer his clients some comfort. Despite the presence of an

attractive, if sneering, non-believer at a séance, he carries on—and experiences a

horrifying psychic episode in which he experiences a murder
as the victim
.

There’s only one way for Court to learn if the young, dangerously attractive

Marsh is his cousin’s killer or a real psychic: spend as much time with him as

possible. Despite his resolve to focus on his job, Marsh somehow manages to

weave a seductive spell around the inspector’s straight-laced heart.

Gradually, undeniable attraction overcomes caution. The two men are on the

case, and on each other, as they race to stop a murderer before he kills again.

Warning: Graphic language and hot male/male sex with light BDSM themes.

Despite “Descriptions of Murderous Acts” perpetrated by an unhinged killer, resist the
temptation to cover your eyes—you’ll miss the good parts!

Enjoy the following excerpt for
The Psychic and the Sleuth:

Court walked with his shoulders hunched, head bent low and hands jammed

into his coat pockets as he strode toward Oliver Marsh’s flat. The afternoon mist

had turned to a steady drizzle, and he’d left his umbrella at home. He should’ve

taken a cab, but he’d decided to walk, since he was already so close to

Northhampton Square. Ironic that the scene of Lily’s murder wasn’t many streets

away.

He’d visited the site today as he had so many times before, staring at the spot

and examining every cobblestone, every brick in the surrounding buildings,

every lamppost, doorway and window frame as if the location would give him

the clue he needed to find her killer. But now, nearly a year later, the rusty stain

that marked the pool of blood beneath her body had long ago washed away.

There was no indication a murder had even taken place in that quiet back street.

Superintendent Hardy would’ve told him he was spinning his wheels in a

quagmire of mud, searching for something that wasn’t there. Inspector Childs

would’ve reminded him the killer had been found, tried and hanged, and he

should allow Lily to rest in peace. Recently Court had nearly begun to believe

them. It had been some weeks since he’d even looked into his investigative file.

But Lily
wasn’t
resting in peace, was she? If Marsh wasn’t a scam artist, then Lily was rattling around inside the medium’s head and trying to send Court a

message.

Marsh. He took a moment to dwell on the man who’d turned his life upside

down in more ways than one. In addition to reigniting Court’s fire to find a

killer, Marsh had ignited other things inside him—attraction, heady lust, the

desire to touch…

Court prided himself on keeping his appetites firmly under control,

satisfying them only very occasionally and with utmost discretion. He did not

like the way Marsh sent longing racketing through him. The mere thought of

Marsh’s bowed upper lip, his soft brown waves of hair, the soothing tenor of his

voice and those damned unearthly blue eyes was enough to make his cock rise.

Court willed it to calm. Damned if he’d let this young man have such control

over him. He must be clearheaded tonight as he observed Marsh channel Lily—if

Marsh even
could
channel Lily. He must be wary and clever, not ensnared in a

web of lust.

Rain dripped off the brim of his bowler. A few drops landed on his nose, and

he brushed them away as he entered the door of Marsh’s building. His heart beat

faster as he climbed the narrow staircase leading to the man’s apartment. The air

was dank and musty-smelling, and it was nearly as cold and damp inside as out.

Court knocked on the door and listened to the thud of footsteps crossing the

floor. He caught his breath just before the door opened. Marsh’s fine-featured

face was as he remembered it—pretty. If he was a girl, Court would’ve described

him as winsome, for there was something inherently charming in Marsh’s

manner. His eyes and smile drew one to him.

Marsh dipped his head. “Mr. Peeler.” He held out his hands to take Court’s

dripping hat and coat.

Court glanced around the room, comparing it to the previous evening,

wanting to see if Marsh had removed anything he thought might be

incriminating. It looked the same, though perhaps slightly neater. His gaze swept

over Marsh, taking in the sharp cut of his gray coat, the muted colors of his

paisley waistcoat. He still dressed the dandy but more subdued than in

yesterday’s eye-burning checked coat.

Marsh hung his coat, then handed him a bit of toweling to dry off with. “The

afternoon is damp,” he remarked.

“The rain’s diminishing.” Court moved past him to the chair his host

indicated, the same he’d occupied last night. A small table with a lit candle on it

sat between the chair and the sofa.

“I’ll pour you a cup of tea to warm you up.” Marsh removed his jacket before

going into the small kitchen. When he returned a few moments later with the tea

tray, his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow. The muscles in his forearms

flexed slightly as he set the tray down, and Court couldn’t stop watching his deft

hands as he poured them each a cup and presented one to Court.

Fragrant steam rose from the cup, bathing his icy face. He sipped the

scalding brew, then placed the cup on the edge of the table. “How do we begin?

No tricks of the trade or setting an atmosphere. If you can really commune with

the dead, show me.”

Marsh nodded and put his own cup aside. “First we must be honest with

each other. If you wish to hear from your dead relative, you must at least give me

your true name.”

“Why is that necessary? I told you, the more facts I feed you about either

myself or Lily, the more likely you’ll invent some fiction to appease me.”

If Marsh was irritated, he didn’t betray it by more than a slight tightening of

his lips. “Shall I continue to call you Robert Peeler, then?”

Court hesitated. There was still the fraud investigation to consider, but his

undercover persona was already destroyed with Marsh. He should stick with the

pseudonym, yet he suddenly found himself blurting, “Court. You may call me

Court.”

“Mr. Court.” Marsh looked at him with a small, grave smile. He inclined his

head as if accepting the name. “And I’m still Oliver Marsh. I don’t have a hidden

identity or a hidden agenda. The service I provide to my clients is real—I comfort

them about the afterlife. I reassure them. There is no harm in what I do.”

Court bit his tongue. There was plenty he could say about taking money

from grieving people for pretending to pass on messages from their departed

loved ones, but tonight he was here as a believer himself. Or mostly a believer. It

seemed apparent
something
otherworldly had happened at that séance. “I’m

ready to see if you are the genuine article. We should find out if you can make it

happen again.”

“I’m not sure.” Marsh blushed.

“Go on,” Court said. “You don’t know how to establish a true connection to

the dead, do you?”

Marsh ignored him. “It would be good if you had some personal possession

of the girl’s I could hold. I should’ve asked you to bring something.”

“I brought a photograph.” Court went to where his greatcoat was hung and

took the tintype from the pocket. He returned to his seat and handed it to the

medium. “My cousins, Lily and her older sister, Rose. She’s the one on the left.”

Marsh studied the photo. “Lovely girls.” He glanced up at Court. “If I forgot

to say it last night, I’m dreadfully sorry for your loss. A death in the family is

hard enough, but murder…”

“Yes. Thank you.” Court cut him short. “So, will that help? Can you begin

now?”

Marsh set the photo on the table beside the candle. He nodded at Court’s

teacup. “Could you set that on the side table, please, and then take my hands.”

Court obeyed, removing the cup and hesitating only a moment before

grasping the other man’s hands. They were warm and dry and slender in his

grip. Long fingers wrapped around the backs of his hands, palm slid over palm,

and Court fought back the tingle of excited anticipation that shot through him.

His body reacted beyond his control, imagining he was there for some other

purpose. He steadied his breathing and concentrated. “Now what?”

Marsh’s lashes shielded his eyes. “We wait,” he murmured.

Is there room for love in a heart full of secrets?

Scrap Metal

© 2012 Harper Fox

One year ago, before Fate took a wrecking ball to his life, Nichol was happily

working on his doctorate in linguistics. Now he’s hip deep in sheep, mud and

collies. His late brother and mother had been well suited to life on Seacliff Farm.

Nichol? Not so much.

As lambing season progresses in the teeth of an icy north wind, the last straw

is the intruder Nichol catches in the barn. He says his name is Cam, and he’s on

the run from a Glasgow gang. Something about the young man’s tired

resignation touches Nichol deeply, and instead of giving him the business end of