Sinful Rewards 1 (11 page)

By Lecia Cornwall

THE GUNSLINGER

By Lorraine Heath

An Excerpt from

by Shelly Bell

In Shelly Bell's four-­part serialized erotic thriller, a young law student enters a world of dark secrets and seductive fantasies when she goes undercover at an exclusive sex club in order to prove her client is not guilty of murder.

 

A
fter three hours of computer research on piercing the corporate veil, Kate's vision blurred, the words on the screen bleeding into one another until they resembled a giant Rorschach inkblot. She lowered her mug of lukewarm coffee to her cubicle's mahogany tabletop and rubbed her tired eyes.

Without warning, the door to the interns' windowless office flew open, banging against the wall. Light streamed into the dim room, casting the elongated shadow of her boss, Nicholas Trenton, on the beige carpet.

“Ms. Martin, take your jacket and come with me.” He didn't wait for a response, simply issued his command and strode down the hall.

Jumping to her feet, she teetered on her secondhand heels and grabbed her suit jacket from the back of her chair. As Mr. Trenton's intern for the year, she'd follow him off the edge of a cliff. She had no choice in the matter if she wanted a junior associate position at Detroit's most prestigious law firm, Joseph and Long, after graduation. Because of the fierce competition for an internship and because several qualified lackeys waited patiently in the wings for an opening, one minor screwup would result in termination.

Most of the other interns ignored the interruption, but her best friend Hannah took a second to raise an arched eyebrow. Kate shrugged, having no idea what her boss required. He hadn't spoken to her since her initial interview a few months earlier.

She collected her briefcase, her heart pounding. As far as she knew, she hadn't made a mistake since starting two months ago. Other than class time, she'd spent virtually every waking moment at this firm, a schedule her boyfriend, Tom, resented.

She raced as fast as she could down the hallway and found her boss pacing and talking on his cell phone in the marbled lobby. He frowned and pointedly looked at his watch, demonstrating his displeasure at her delay. Still on the phone, he stalked out of the firm and headed toward the elevator. She chased him, cursing her short legs as she remained a step or two behind until catching up with him on the elevator.

When the doors slid shut, he ended his call and slipped his cell into the pocket of his Armani jacket. She risked a quick glance at him to ascertain his mood, careful not to visually suggest anything more than casual regard.

He was an extremely handsome man whose picture frequently appeared in local magazines and papers beside prominent judges and legislative officials. But photos couldn't do him justice, film lacking the capability of capturing his commanding presence. Often she'd had to fight her instinct to look directly into his blue eyes. At the office, his every move, his every word overshadowed anyone and everything around her.

Standing close to him in the claustrophobic space, she inhaled the musky scent of his aftershave, felt his radiating heat.

Mr. Trenton spoke, fracturing the quiet of the small space with his deep and powerful voice. “This morning, our firm's biggest client, Jaxon Deveroux, arrived home from his business trip and found his wife dead from multiple stab wounds.”

Once the elevator doors opened, they stepped out into the bustling main floor lobby, and she fought to match Mr. Trenton's brisk pace as they headed toward the parking garage. “While typically I would refer my clients to Jeffrey Reaver, the head of our criminal division, Mr. Deveroux and I have been friends for many years, and he requested me personally. Jaxon's a very private man, but those who are in his circle are aware of certain . . . proclivities that may come up in the police's line of questioning.”

What sort of proclivities?

An Excerpt from

The Wallflower Wedding Series

by Vivienne Lorret

When her betrothed suddenly announces his plans to marry another, Merribeth Wakefield knows only a bold move will bring him back and restore her tattered reputation: She must take a lesson in seduction from a master of the art. But when the dark and brooding rake, Lord Knightswold, takes her under his wing, her education quickly goes from theory to hands-­on practice, and her heart is given a crash course in true desire!

 

“N
ow, give back my handkerchief,” Lord Knightswold said, holding out his hand as he returned to her side. “You're the sort to keep it as a memento. I cannot bear the thought of my handkerchief being worshipped by a forlorn Miss by moonlight or tucked away with mawkish reverence beneath a pillow.”

The portrait he painted was so laughable that she smiled, heedless of exposing her flaw. “You flatter yourself. Here.” She dropped it into his hand as she swept past him, prepared to leave. “I have no desire to touch it a moment longer. I will leave you to your pretense of sociability.”

“ 'Tis no pretense. I have kept good company this evening.” Either the brandy had gone to her head, impairing her hearing, or he actually sounded sincere.

She paused and rested her hands on the carved rosewood filigree edging the top of the sofa. “Much to my own folly. I never should have listened to Lady Eve Sterling. It was her lark that sent me here.”

He feigned surprise. “Oh? How so?”

If it weren't for the brandy, she would have left by now. Merribeth rarely had patience for such games, and she knew his question was part of a game he must have concocted with Eve. However, his company had turned out to be exactly the diversion she'd needed, and she was willing to linger. “She claimed to have forgotten her reticule and sent me here to fetch it—­no doubt wanting me to find you.”

He looked at her as if confused.

“I've no mind to explain it to you. After all, you were abetting her plot, lying in wait, here on this very sofa.” She brushed her fingers over the smooth fabric, thinking of him lying there in the dark. “Not that I blame you. Lady Eve is difficult to say no to. However, I will conceal the truth from her, and we can carry on as if her plan had come to fruition. It would hardly have served its purpose anyway.”

He moved toward her, his broad shoulders outlined by the distant torchlight filtering in through the window behind him. “Refresh my memory then. What was it I was supposed to do whilst in her employ?”

She blushed again. Was he going to make her say the words aloud? No gentleman would.

So of course
he
would. She decided to get it over with as quickly as possible. “She professed that a kiss from a rake could instill confidence and mend a broken heart.”

He stopped, impeded by the sofa between them. His brow lifted in curiosity. “Have you a broken heart in need of mending?”

The deep murmur of his voice, the heated intensity in his gaze—­and quite possibly the brandy—­all worked against her better sense and sent those tingles dancing in a pagan circle again.

Oh, yes,
the thought as she looked up at him.
Yes, Lord Knightswold. Mend my broken heart.

However, her mouth intervened. “I don't believe so.” She gasped at the realization. “I should, you know. After five years, my heart should be in shreds. Shouldn't it?”

He turned before she could read his expression and then sat down on the sofa, affording her a view of the top of his head. “I know nothing of broken hearts, or their mending.”

“Pity,” she said, distracted by the dark silken locks that unexpectedly brushed her fingers. “Neither do I.”

However accidental the touch of his hair had been, now her fingers threaded through the fine strands with untamed curiosity and blatant disregard for propriety.

Lord Knightswold let his head fall back, permitting—­perhaps even encouraging—­her to continue. She did, without thought to right, wrong, who he was, or who she was supposed to be. Running both hands through his hair, massaging his scalp, she watched his eyes drift closed.

Then, Merribeth Wakefield did something she never intended to do.

She kissed a rake.

An Excerpt from

A Billionaire Bachelors Club Novella

by Monica Murphy

It's Gage and Marina's wedding day, but wedded bliss seems a long way off: Ivy's just gone into labor, Marina's missing her matron of honor, and Bryn's giving Matt the silent treatment. It's up to Archer, Gage, and Matt to make sure this day goes off without a hitch. But between brides and babies, there's the not-­so-­little issue of the million-­dollar bet to attend to. If only they can figure out who won . . . and who's paying up. Is everyone a winner? Or will someone leave broke—­and brokenhearted?

 

Gage

I
'm a freaking mess.

“Calm down, dude,” Matt whispers out of the side of his mouth. We're standing so close our shoulders are practically touching. Wonder whether he'd catch me if I fell. “You look like you're gonna drop.”

“I
feel
like I'm gonna drop,” I tell him, sounding like an idiot but not really caring. He's my new best man, so I need him to step it up. If I pass out, it's on him.

“Your girl is going to make her appearance at any minute.” Matt nods toward the beginning of the aisle, where no one stands. Where are the girls? We already made our walk down the aisle, Matt taking Marina's mom to her seat, me leading my mother.

“Hope she shows up soon,” I mutter, meaning it. I feel antsy. My suit is too tight. My throat is dry. I'm dying for a drink. Preferably booze.

Probably not a good idea.

The flower girl suddenly struts down the aisle, cute as can be in a white lacy gown. Louisa is one of Marina's cousins. She has about a bazillion of them.

Almost all of them are sitting in the crowd, watching me. Probably pissed because Marina and I both agreed that we didn't want a huge, ridiculous wedding party. We blew their chance to wear bridesmaids' gowns.

Then Bryn appears, a freaking vision in pale yellow. She walks down the aisle slowly, a coy smile on her face as she shoots me a glance, then trains her gaze on Matt. As her smile disappears, her eyes widen, and I look at Matt, who's staring at Bryn like she's the most beautiful creature he's ever seen in his life.

Poor dude is straight up in love with Bryn. Like, a complete and total goner. I get what he's feeling.

The music fades, and a new song starts, a low, melodic tune played to perfection by the small group of musicians set up off to the right. I straighten my spine, clasp my hands behind my back as I wait for my bride to make her appearance.

And then . . . there she is. Her arm curls around her father's, he looking respectably intimidating in his tuxedo. A frothy veil covers her face, and the skirt of her gown is wide, nearly as wide as the aisle they're walking down.

Tears threaten, and I blink once. Hard. Damn it, I'm not going to cry. I'm happy, not sad. But I'm also overwhelmed, filled with love for this woman who's about to become my partner in life.

They approach and stop just before us, turning to each other so her father can lift the veil, revealing her face to me for the first time. He leans in and kisses her cheek as the minister asks who gives this woman to this man, just as we rehearsed yesterday. Her father says,
I do
, his deep voice a little shaky and my sympathy goes out to him.

I'm still feeling pretty shaky myself.

Marina steps up to stand beside me and I take her hand, unable to stop from leaning in and brushing a quick kiss against her cheek. “You look beautiful,” I murmur, my voice just as unsteady as her dad's.

But I don't care. I have no shame. I'm getting married, damn it. I'm allowed to cry. To smile. To laugh. I'm making this woman mine.

Forever.

An Excerpt from

by Lecia Cornwall

Legends say a curse lurks among the shattered stones of Glen Dorian Castle. Will the love that is beginning to grow between Megan and Kit be able to withstand fate? For only the living, those with bold hearts and true love, can restore peace to Glen Dorian at last.

 

M
egan scanned the valley once more and ignored her sister. “I'm just saying goodbye to Glenlorne. At least for now.”

“Better to say farewell to ­people than places,” Sorcha said. “I've already been to the village, telling folk I'll be back come spring.” She grinned mischievously at her sister. “You won't, though—­you'll be in London, bothered by the attentions of all those daft English lairds at your first Season.”

Megan felt a rush of irritation. “Lords, Sorcha, not lairds—­and stop teasing,” she commanded, and flounced down the steep path that led back to the castle.

Sorcha picked a flower and skipped beside her sister like a mountain goat. One by one, she plucked at the petals. “How many English
lords
will Megan McNabb kiss?” she asked, dancing around her sister. “One . . . two . . . three . . .”

“Stop it,” Megan said, and snatched the flower away. She wouldn't kiss anyone but Eachann. But her sister picked another flower.

“How many English lords will come and ask Alec for Meggy's delicate hand in marriage?” she mused, but Megan snatched that blossom too, before Sorcha could begin counting again.

“I shan't go to London, and I will never marry an English lord,” she said fiercely.

“We'll see what mama says to that,” Sorcha replied. “And Muira would say never is a very long time indeed.”

Megan stopped. “What exactly did Muira say?” she asked. Old Muira had the sight, or so it was said.

Sorcha grinned like a pirate and rubbed a dusty hand over her face, leaving a dark smudge. “I thought you didn't believe in the old ways.”