We're escaping the bonds of reality on today's Tantalizing Thursday by taking a peek inside the page of Dakota Skye's collection of paranormal erotic short stories, Daydreams.
Think ghosts, witches, and other-worldly visitors all mixed in with some intense romance and sizzling passion...let's look inside each one!
From the back cover...
Daydreams, moments of
what-ifs and possibility.
Imagine...a ghostly mariner
haunting the shores of Ireland who reminds a lonely woman how beautiful life
is...a bounty hunter who gets more than he bargained for with his bail-jumping
witch of a jewel thief...and a bar owner who discovers the joy of being loved
by two other-worldly visitors trapped in a desperate situation...Daydreams, a
collection of paranormal erotic short stories.
Escape the madness of the
world, indulge your naughty side, and lose yourself in fantasy.
**sexually explicit,
paranormal, and some dark themes**
Currently available exclusive to Amazon (releasing December 31, preorder now, read free on Kindle Unlimited)
Excerpts below (18+ content)
Story 1, The Mariner
She was tired of being in
charge—didn't want any responsibility outside of walking up and going to sleep
for awhile. She tipped the driver with a curt 'thank you', somewhat embarrassed
by her lack of social skills so far on this trip.
She stared up at the stone cottage
banked by lush green cliffs and storm clouds. Declining the driver's help with
her two suitcases and backpack, she maneuvered them toward the front door on
her own.
Pleased to see smoke wafting from
the chimney, she inhaled the scent and paused a minute to soak up the serenity.
She could hear the roar of the sea from here. Mist settled on her skin. She
watched the sedan pull away before opening the red door—somewhat surprised that
it hadn't been locked.
She stopped in mid-stride at the
sight of a tall, dark-haired man dressed in all black standing in front of the
fireplace. She didn't know what shocked her more—the fact that she wasn't alone
as expected or that he was the most handsome man she'd ever seen face-to-face.
Hair the color of midnight fell across his forehead over even darker eyes
framed by chiseled cheekbones. His sheer size dominated the room. A scar marred
his top lip, giving him a sexy sneer when he smiled at her gawking at him.
"Hello," he said as if
speaking to a small child.
"Is this the Clancy
cottage?"
"Yes." He looked as
surprised as she felt.
"I'm renting it for the next
two weeks—"
"Oh, yes, of course." He
shoved a restless hand through his hair and glanced at her luggage. "I
didn't expect you to see me."
"See you?" She frowned at the use of the word, suddenly on
guard. A shiver shimmied over her spine. "Why would you say that?"
I shouldn't have sent the driver
home yet, should have accepted his help.
"I'm Finnegan Clancy." He
stepped forward and extended his hand, as if sensing her unease. "The
cottage has been in the family for a long time."
She took his hand and gasped at the
energy that zapped from his skin onto hers like a live wire. Damn, she hoped he
came with the cottage as some sort of handyman or live-in sex slave or nude
chef. She'd blow off the much-anticipated sleep if he were available as a
distraction.
He smiled as if reading her mind
and pulled his hand from her fingers.
"I'm Karen Powell," she
said after finding her voice again. "I think I just met your wife...at the
pub? Mary?"
"Not my wife." His dark
eyes seemed to know exactly what she wanted. His lips twitched as if he held
back a laugh.
Unsure what to do with him, she
propped her fists on her hips and studied him through narrowed eyes.
"Thank you for starting the fire for me. That was very thoughtful. One
less thing I need to do."
He looked over his shoulder toward
the fireplace as if just now realizing that he'd started the blaze. "You
are welcome. I...um...I suppose I should go?"
The fact that he sounded as if he
was asking confused her even more. Perhaps she had finally lost her mind. It
had been one helluva month.
"Yes, if you don't mind."
She sank onto the worn loveseat, so sick of small talk that could scream yet
not wanting to alienate Mr. Irish Hottie in case she snapped out of her funk
before the end of her stay. "I really do appreciate your thoughtfulness.
Do you live near here?"
He crossed his arms across his
chest and tilted his head to the left as if utterly fascinated with her. After
an awkward silence, he answered, "I am always close by, yes."
She rubbed the back of her neck and
closed her eyes.
"I should go," he said,
again sounding surprised at the notion that he needed to leave.
Sane
women probably don't toss his gorgeous butt out so he's in complete shock that
I'm not falling to my knees, she realized with a sigh. The image of her on
her knees with her mouth full of his cock made her blush with embarrassment. My
God, I need to be medicated.
"I'm leaving," he said
more to himself than her as he retrieved a long black coat, stocking cap, and
red scarf from a hook on the wall.
"Maybe I'll run into you in a
few days," she said weakly, hating that her words were now slurring
together.
He looked at her curiously and
nodded. "Perhaps. That would definitely be interesting."
She frowned at his retreating back,
locked the door behind him, and peeked out the side window to watch him walking
toward the cliffs even as the first raindrop splashed against the glass.
Alone at last, Karen left her bags
near the door and dragged her feet up the narrow staircase. Finding a bedroom,
she pulled back the comforter, kicked off her shoes, and curled against the
mattress fully clothed. She blinked at the rain streaking down the window and
hugged a pillow. Alone in peace, she fell asleep listening to the splatter of
rain against the roof and hoping she'd be spared any dreams.
*
Karen blew on the cup of hot tea
she'd made herself before curling her legs beneath her on the padded window
seat. The scent of homemade bread filled the room. A fire snapped and crackled
in the stone fireplace at her back.
She watched the mist of the Irish
coast curl over the cliffs plunging to the sea below where waves had smashed
relentlessly all night. She'd sworn the walls of her stone cottage had rocked
with the force—kaboom, kaboom, over and over again.
Whispers had chatted away until
dawn—winding down the narrow staircases with their secrets. She'd always heard
ghosts and had grown accustomed to ignoring them. She'd expected no less than a
ghost when booking the lonely-looking cottage on the internet.
The sudden knock on the front door
caused her to spill the hot tea onto her pajama-clad knee. Grimacing at the
realization that she hadn't bothered combing her hair because she'd planned on
spending the day baking and reading, she carefully set the mug down before
walking cautiously toward the heavy wooden door.
A quick look through the side
window showed Finnegan Clancy standing on the front step, collar pulled up
around his face and secured with his blood-colored scarf.
Hesitantly, she opened the door a
crack and squinted at him through the mist.
"You survived the night I see.
Are you feeling better this morning?" he asked with his heavy Irish
accent. He'd pulled his black stocking cap low over his forehead.
"Somewhat."
"Can I do anything to make you
feel better?" He smiled at the question in her voice and stepped closer.
Why the thought of stripping him
naked popped into mind as an answer, she didn't know. Men—no matter how
gorgeous—were off of her to-do list for the indefinite future.
She gripped the door and swayed
forward as if pulled by some invisible string that connected her chest to his.
"I'm fine, you don't need to check on me."
He stood at least a foot taller
than her own 5'4, but it wasn't his height that caused her breath to snag in
her throat as if caught on a thousand fishhooks. Energy snapped around him like
a force field.
"Are you baking
something?" He stepped around her, pulling off his stocking cap as he
moved. Thick black hair stuck out at random intervals with a few tendrils
sticking to the side of his face.
"Bread. With the rain, I
thought some homemade bread and soup would be the perfect lunch." She
rubbed a quick hand over her long tangled blonde hair and wished she'd thought
to at least shower. Between yesterday's long day of planes, busses, and car
rides, she probably smelled and looked like a derelict. "I have some tea
made if you'd like some."
He turned and looked her in the eye. "I
wanted to check on you—make sure you were okay. I heard you crying."
Karen folded her arms across her
chest, suddenly uncomfortable. How could he have possibly heard her crying? Had
she been waling in her sleep?
As if sensing her questions, he
said, "I was walking by earlier this morning—outside on the cliffs. I walk
there every day just before sunrise and I heard you. I thought I should
come."
She gulped as heat rose up on her
cheeks with embarrassment. She'd been sad over Trevor's crimes and manipulations—had
cursed him to the moon and back—but, more than that, she was sad that she'd
believed in him to the point of losing herself under a mind fuck of constant lies.
Fin ripped his gaze from hers and
motioned toward the kitchen. "Are you a baker?"
"Amateur—nothing to brag
about."
"It smells good."
Frowning at his broad back, she
followed him into the narrow space surrounded by chipped counters.
"Listen, Mr. Clancy—"
"Fin." He smiled with his
scarred lip and looked at her with his dark eyes until she felt like sagging
against the wall on weak knees. "I didn't mean to embarrass you. You're
far too beautiful to be sad like that."
"I'm not embarrassed,"
she lied before forcing her gaze toward the oven. "It's not done yet or
I'd offer you a piece."
"I don't want to intrude—only
to let you know that you aren't alone. If you need me, I'm usually walking the
cliffs." Abruptly, he stepped around her and walked back into the tiny
living room toward the door.
"Even in the rain?" She
frowned at this odd man in front of her.
"Always." His gaze locked
on hers and held.
She had the overwhelming urge to
beg him to stay, but she remained silent with her arms hugging her chest. For a
month, she'd been in a perpetual state of shock where she'd been in a steady
state of fight or flight. Taking this trip had been the first conscious choice
she'd made in weeks—not fight or flight, just her way of saying 'enough' to the
madness.
"You're not intruding,
Fin," she said, finding his company strangely comforting despite him being
a complete stranger in an isolated cottage. "I'm not trying to be rude or
cold—I'm not myself yet."
"Then who are you if not
yourself?"
Feeling foolish, she smoothed her
hands over her hips and looked anywhere but into his face.
You're
an independent, successful woman—act like it.
But she didn't feel like that
anymore—not after all that happened.
"I'm tired," she
whispered more to herself than to him.
"I'll leave you alone
then." He adjusted the stocking cap back on his head before refocusing
those black eyes on her. "The pub has good food. You should get out and
meet the locals. If you don't, they will make up all sorts of stories about the
mysterious woman in the Clancy cottage. You will be a legend by
nightfall."
"Let them talk." She
laughed at that and shrugged. "I'm here for the solitude."
"You underestimate
yourself." He stepped toward the door and hesitated with his hand on the
doorknob. "Karen?"
She smiled at the way her name
sounded in his deep Irish brogue. "Yes?"
He looked as if he wanted to say
more even though he remained silent, gaze locked on hers.
Her smile faded at the intensity of
his gaze. She suddenly wanted to run to him, smash her mouth against his, and
spend the rest of the day making love in front of the fireplace.
Shocked at her thoughts about a
stranger, she stepped back until her hip collided with the arm of a chair.
As if needing the cold air as much
as she did, Fin flung open the door, slammed it behind him, and disappeared
from sight.
She rushed to the window and
watched him striding toward the cliffs. His red scarf tossed in the wind behind
him. She watched until she couldn't see him anymore.
With a sigh, she reclaimed her mug
of tea and leaned heavily against the wall. All the stress of the past months
pressed down on her shoulders. Because she'd believed Trevor's manipulations,
she'd lost every friend she'd ever had. They'd all distanced themselves after
she had repeatedly stood up for her boyfriend no matter who said what or how
long the friendship had been compared to the misguided love affair. But when
he'd been arrested five weeks ago for being a serial rapist and the cops had
questioned her ceaselessly about what she had or had not known, her entire
world had crumbled into disrepair.
She was an attorney—not just any
lawyer either, but an assistant district attorney who enjoyed putting bad guys
behind bars. No one missed the irony. Her boss had put her on administrative
leave until the matter could be 'sorted out.'
From the looks she'd received from co-workers as she'd left the office
two days ago, she got the message loud and clear—she'd need a new job when she
returned.
How could she go back? How could
she trust a man again? How could she ever trust herself after this?
Her mind drifted to Fin and the
thoughtfulness he'd shown the two times she'd met him. When had she begun
distrusting kindness?
Tea forgotten in her hands, she
slid down the wall until she sat cross-legged on the wooden floor and stared at
the crackling fire.
*
Tired of her own company, she'd
walked to the pub for dinner. The town felt more like home than Boston ever
had, which seemed odd since she'd never been to Ireland until now. Then again, she'd
grown up in a small town in Iowa, a world away from both places. The news of
Trevor's horrors had gone national—the Facebook messages from 'old friends' she
hadn't spoken to since high school started showing up in her inbox voicing
their deep concern. More like looking for gossip, an inside track to the latest
internet shocker. She'd deleted her social media accounts without remorse and
had no intention of charging her cell phone while here. The laptop remained in
her backpack, untouched, exactly where it should be.
She'd deliberately disconnected and
disappeared.
She'd never felt so liberated in
her life, so free.
After settling in a chair against
the back wall, she ordered a beer before sliding her gaze over the menu and
ignoring the curious glances toward her.
No
one knows me here, no one knows my story, she coached herself as she gulped
the beer with enthusiasm.
"How is the cottage working
out for you?" Mary Clancy slid into the chair opposite her and grinned.
"I thought about coming over earlier, but wanted to give you some time to
rest. You looked tired yesterday."
"I love it. It couldn't be
more perfect." She cupped the beer mug between her palms and smiled at the
woman who appeared to be her same age. "I baked some bread this morning
and then some muffins this afternoon. Stop by anytime. I'm happy to
share."
"Are you a good baker?"
"Not bad." She shrugged.
"And are the ghosts keeping
you up or are they behaving themselves?" Mary's blue eyes twinkled with
the question as she leaned her elbows on the table. "I told them yesterday
to be nice."
Pretty sure that Mary was trying to
add to the charm of the place more than anything else, Karen laughed.
"They were a bit rowdy but I ignored them."
"Oh, ya?" Mary tipped her
head back and laughed. "It's the old Clancy bunch, rowdy and rude.
Stubborn. So you're happy then?"
Happy? That would be a stretch.
Instead of answering, Karen nodded and finished off her beer.
"Dennis! Come here! This is
Karen from Boston. Come say hello!"
Soon her table was full of people
telling local stories and singing along to the lone pianist in the corner. By
the time she left the pub to walk toward the cabin, she felt like a new person.
Awake. Bold. Maybe not a new person exactly—more like she the way she'd once
felt before her job prosecuting criminals and personal betrayals from those
she'd trusted had created a cynicism about life. She stopped in the path and
looked up at the dark sky where clouds rolled. Mist clung to her skin. The
sound of the sea echoed through the night. She could taste it on her lips.
She stumbled over a rock along the
side of the road and righted herself before swaying back onto the path leading
to her cottage.
"You took my advice, I
see."
Fin stood several feet away, his
face hidden in shadow. Again, his jacket collar had been turned up and the scarf
billowed around his shoulders with the steady wind coming inland from the
ocean.
"Why weren't you there?"
she asked, hating to admit she'd secretly hoped to see him again.
He held his hand out to her when
she stepped within touching distance. "Can I walk you back to the cottage?
I think you're a little drunk."
With her recent history, she
surprised herself by curling her fingers into his. A wave of peace washed over
her at his touch, a feeling so profound that even the blood flowing through her
veins warmed.
"Who are you?" she
whispered, certain that he was more than some guy who took a lot of walks.
"I mean—"
"I know what you mean. I don't
want to answer."
"Shockingly honest." She
fell into step next to him, their legs in sync, and her fingers snugly tangled
with his.
He shook his head. "Selfish,
actually."
"Walking me home is selfish?"
"Have you always been able to
hear ghosts?" he asked.
His question stopped her in her
tracks.
"How do you know that?"
"You told Mary...I overheard
you."
"Did I? I don't remember
saying anything. You were there? How did you overhear me?"
"You ask a lot of questions
rather than answering one."
She tilted her head to the side and
laughed at his observation. "I've heard ghosts as long as I can remember.
I learned long ago, though, that it was best not to admit such things or risk
being called crazy." Her voice trailed off at the realization of how many
ghosts had called to her in the past year that she'd forced away—had they been
trying to warn her about Trevor? Had she been so disconnected from herself that
she had turned a blind eye?
The laughter faded with memories of
her ex. How could he have been such a vile monster and she hadn't had a clue?
Again, she wondered if that stain would forever taint her life. Guilt for
ignoring her intuition, for disregarding her friends' concerns, for standing up
for him while he'd lied to her with every breath he took.
She stopped walking, released Fin's
hand, and pressed her palms over her eyes.
What
am I doing here? Why am I not back there fighting to get my life back, standing
up for my reputation, holding my head high?
Because
fighting had become so damn exhausting.
Fin pulled her hands away from her
face and waited until she met his gaze before speaking, "You're too
beautiful to be sad."
"You said that this
morning," she whispered.
"You need to hear it again and
again..."
"You don't know me."
"Does that matter?"
He bent his head, hesitated a
fraction from her lips, and looked her in the eye. Energy zapped between the
space separating them like its own tiny electrical storm. The red scarf flapped
around his neck and over her shoulder in the ever-increasing wind blowing
inland from the Atlantic.
"I shouldn't kiss you. It
crosses a line," he muttered.
"Fun begins on the other side
of the line."
He smiled. "Sounds like
something I would have said once."
"I'm saying it now." She
snagged the scarf in her fists, and smashed her lips against his. To hell with
it all, the desire she felt for him trashed all common sense and hesitation.
Energy from the contact jolted through her body like one helluva prelude to an
orgasm.
He crushed her against him and
lifted her until only her toes dragged along the path toward the cottage. The
howling wind, the smell of salt in the air, the flapping of the scarf against
their faces—all disappeared in the heat consuming her body.
Fin pushed open the door to the
cottage without taking his mouth from hers. In a frenzy of hands colliding with
each other as fingers removed layers of clothing, they stumbled against a chair
and landed in a tangle of limbs on the floor. He broke the kiss only long
enough to pull his sweater over his head and looked her in the eye.
Afraid that words would destroy the
spell, she bit her lip and squirmed free of her clothes without comment until
only the flimsy lace of her panties and bra stopped them from being
skin-on-skin.
He traced a long, calloused finger
along her chin before smiling slowly, the scar on his lip and the fall of his
black hair over his dark eyes making him look doubly dangerous in the glow of
the firelight.
She slid her hands over his chest
and felt the raised skin of scars crisscrossing his skin. Fascinated by the
shivers of electricity that shimmied through her blood at the slightest caress,
she ached for more...and more...and more.
He nibbled her neck before his
hands squeezed her breast through the lace. His hard cock pressed against her
thigh as his thumb teased the raised nipple that threatened to poke through the
thin material. With a growl low in his throat, he reached down and ripped the
bra in two before capturing her breast with his mouth. He sucked, licked, and
squeezed until she whimpered for mercy.
She sank her fingernails into his
shoulders and slid her feet over the backs of his legs, aching for him to be
inside of her. The more desperate she felt for satisfaction, the more he slowed
his movements—as if torturing her were part of his plan.
He left one breast and moved to the
other with a slow deliberation that had her writhing on the floor.
Frustrated, she slapped the floor
with a closed fist and lifted her head to watch as he moved his lips along her
abdomen. Still afraid to speak for reasons she didn't understand, she bit her
lip so hard that she tasted blood on her tongue.
He glanced up long enough to grin
at her before ripping her panties off her body and tossing them toward the
fireplace. With a gleam in his chocolate-colored eyes, he pushed her legs wide
apart. He slipped his fingers inside her, the same electric current that had
been rippling over her skin now surged inside of her.
She gasped and dropped her head
back against the wood floor. The fire snapped less than a foot away from her
head, its embers floating up the chimney, the only light in the room flickered
with the movement of flames. She closed her eyes as one jolt of energy after
another coursed through her body with the force of a tsunami until she screamed
with an orgasm like she'd never before experienced.
Fin's lips returned to ravage her
neck before his mouth claimed hers with a hunger that silenced her cries. He
thrust his cock inside her while her cunt still quivered in climax. With one
hand propped above her head and pulling her hair and the other squeezing her
breast with incomprehensible strength and his girth stretching her with every
plunging thrust, he owned her body.
She clung to his shoulders,
wrapping arms and legs around him while their tongues played with one another
and his hips slammed her into the floor.
He lifted his head and arched his
back upward, their bodies fused as one, and shouted at the ceiling.
She held onto his hips and watched
his body shudder over hers. The glow of the fire shadowed his body to
perfection, the scars appearing almost alive with the movement of the flames.
He collapsed against her, his lips
moving silently against the side of her face while his fingers curled into her
hair.
"Stay with me," she
whispered.
"That's my plan," he
responded with a slight chuckle as he rose up on his elbows to look her in the
eye.
She dragged a finger along the
jagged scar on his shoulder and smiled. "You have stories to tell."
"You wouldn't believe them if I told
you," he said against her lips before kissing her breath away once again.
Story 2, Bounty
Instinct warned him to proceed with
caution. Despite the mess of scattered clothes and discarded take-out boxes,
Jake knew without a doubt that someone had been snooping in his hotel room. Obviously,
it hadn't been the maid, thanks to the 'do not disturb' sign he'd purposely
kept in place for two days.
He shut the door and immediately
flattened his back against it. He pulled the gun from where he'd concealed it
in the back of his jeans beneath his t-shirt. All senses were full-on high
alert mode.
Although he'd never been
face-to-face with his bail jumping thief, he somehow knew the faint scent of
perfume in the air belonged to her.
A black cat stood on the railing of
the balcony and peered inside with overly large green eyes, its fluffy tail
twitching as if waiting to pounce.
"I wish you could talk,"
he whispered when he noticed that the sliding glass door had been left open a
few inches.
Hot on the trail of a bail jumper,
the notorious Michelle Whitaker, he couldn't risk mistakes like leaving a door
open. She'd slipped away one too many times, almost as if toying with him.
He walked onto the balcony and
looked over the edge of the railing. Four stories down a few kids swamp in the
pool surrounded by palm trees and empty lounge chairs.
The cat jumped to the neighboring
balcony, then down a level, and so on. Jake watched it, captivated by its grace
yet thinking it was odd that a cat roamed the hotel. Something about it made
him uneasy.
Michelle reminded him of a cat.
Stealth. Elusive. Arrogant.
He counted on that cockiness being
her downfall.
How many nights had he twisted and
turned in his sheets tormented by visions of her? He'd wake up certain she'd
been in his room—he'd smell perfume and intuition would whisper that he hadn't
been alone. After turning on the lights, he'd see an empty room.
But this was different. Broad
daylight. He was not only awake, but also alert and edgy.
His cellphone vibrated in his back
pocket. Reluctantly, he grabbed it with one hand while keeping a firm grip on
the gun with his other. One look at the caller ID and he knew he was screwed.
He'd been chasing Michelle for two months since she'd missed her court date—why
they'd given a thief bail, he couldn't understand, probably a bribe—and his
partners wanted him to give up and go home.
"Yes, Bernie?" He sighed
against the phone, already bored with the same argument they had every day
around this time.
"The trail is cold, Jake. Time
to chalk this one up as a defeat. We have other bonds to chase and my mortgage
doesn't pay itself."
"It isn't cold." He
kicked open the closet doors. Empty.
"Jake...I know you hate
admitting failure...but..."
He pushed open the bathroom door
and leaped inside, ready to tackle the evil little witch. Nothing except wet
towels and his toothbrush.
Sighing, he set the gun down on the
nightstand and walked onto the balcony. He looked out over the Los Angeles
skyline from his perch high in the Hollywood hills.
"I know she's here, Bernie. I
can feel it. This is her prime hunting ground."
"Do you hear yourself? Hunting
ground? Get your ass back to Dallas. Pronto."
"She's here." He turned
his back on the view and squinted at the chaos in his room.
You're
playing a dangerous game, Michelle. He chewed his lower lip.
"Jake..." Bernie sighed.
"That's what you said in Seattle....and Denver...and Scottsdale...and San Francisco..."
"I'd bet my life that she's
here. I can feel it. I swear she was in my room this afternoon."
Silence.
Then an exaggerated sigh followed
by a muttered curse.
"Jake, I'm just gonna come out
and say it—you're obsessed with this woman."
"Obsessed is a strong word. I
prefer dedicated to the—"
"I don't give a shit what you prefer, you're acting like an idiot. We
have other jobs and we're running a business here. Get your butt back home and
leave Miss Whitaker to the cops."
A sparkle distracted Jake from the
conversation—a glint of something shiny and out of place in the mayhem. He
walked inside and stopped short at the sight of the diamond resting dead center
on the top of the laptop.
"That bitch!" He growled into the phone. "She left me a fucking
present, Bernie. Still want to tell me that the trail is cold? She's fucking
with my head."
"Are you sure? Do you have any
proof that it was her?"
Jake picked up the diamond—at least
ten karats—and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. "Yeah, I have
proof."
He disconnected the call, tossed
his phone onto the unmade bed, and stared at the diamond.
The pursuit of Michelle Whitaker—if
that was her real name, which he doubted—had consumed him from the moment he'd
taken her case. The fact that the FBI also hunted the elusive thief upped the
ante. Of all the people who chased her, she singled him out to torment.
Why?
Or was she doing this to others who
were too embarrassed to admit it?
Somehow he knew she only played
with him.
Other bounty hunters sniffed at her
trail—she was worth millions if caught, but yet here was with a diamond. He
doubted she sprinkled these sorts of gifts to everyone.
Slipping the diamond into the front
pocket of his jeans, he looked around wondering what other mischief she'd done.
The unease increased until he started shoving his clothes into his bag, shaking
out each item looking for any other gifts. She could have bugged the place or
put up some type of camera.
He was the hunter.
He didn't like being the hunted.
The sudden pummeling on his door
froze him in place. He backed up until his hip hit the table. His gut clenched
when they shouted the word, "Police!"
"Fuck," he muttered,
thinking of the diamond in his pocket.
"Police! Open up, Mr. Stiles.
We know you're in there."
"I'm coming—just give me a
minute."
He grabbed the diamond and tossed
it as far as he could throw it, hoping it would land in the pool and be sucked
down the drain.
Even though he knew he was
innocent, he felt damn guilty when he opened the door to two detectives with
their weapons drawn.
"Whoa! I'm one of the good
guys." He stood aside to let the detectives in and hoped like hell she hadn't
stashed something else.
"Are you alone?" The
pushed open the bathroom door and then the closet.
"Yes."
"Going somewhere?" One of
the detectives motioned toward the semi-packed bag. "The front desk claims
you're paid up through the week."
He swallowed hard, his distress
quickly turning to anger. Cold trail, huh? Something he'd found either today or
yesterday must have set her off—he'd gotten too close.
"Listen, man, do you want to
tell me what this is about?"
"A woman called—claimed you were
holding her against her will. She was in fear of her life. Says you kidnapped
her. Do you know anyone named Mary Simone?"
He blinked, unprepared for that
accusation.
Playing
with me...
"I'm alone. This is some kind
of mistake."
"Are you Jake Stiles?"
"I am."
"The call was made from this
room."
He glanced toward the balcony. It
was broad daylight and the room was four stories up. Even he didn't believe
she'd climbed up here to plant a diamond so how could he convince the
detectives of this particular story?
His mouth went dry from nerves. He
felt certain there was more here, things he hadn't had the time or the
inclination to look for.
One of the detectives dumped out
his duffel bag. A drivers license rolled out of a pair of women's lace
underwear—planted evidence.
"Mary Simone from Santa
Monica," the detective read the name aloud before meeting Jake's gaze.
"Care to change your story?"
"I'm a bounty hunter and I'm
close to catching one of America's most wanted fugitives, Michelle Whitaker,"
he spoke slowly and as calmly as possible. "I must have gotten too close
to her and she's setting me up."
The detective closed the space
between them in two strides and shoved the driver's license into his face.
"I suppose if we look up this Michelle Whitaker she'll look exactly like
this?"
He blinked at the blonde in the
photo and shook his head. "That's not her."
"Cut the crap, Stiles. Where's
Mary?"
"I-I don't know that woman and
she was never in my room." Fighting down desperation, he gestured toward
the balcony door. "It was open when I got home, there was a diamond on top
of my laptop—"
"Where is it now?"
"I tossed it over the railing,
I thought she was setting me up for a theft or—"
"I think we need to continue
this conversation downtown, Mr. Stiles." The other detective looked at him
as if he were insane.
Jake stepped onto the balcony and
gestured. "She's a thief. She must have climbed up here! Or maybe she got
a hold of a master key."
"Where is Mary Stiles?"
The more aggressive of the two detectives stepped onto the balcony and grabbed
his arm. "Don't get any funny ideas."
"Funny ideas?" He was
yelling now and knew it but didn't really care. It dawned at him that this
idiot thought he was going to jump—four stories into a pool? He shoved his
hands through his hair, but the sudden motion scared the cop who grabbed him
and pushed him against the railing. He felt the cold muzzle of a gun against
his lower back. "You've got this all wrong. I don't know anyone named Mary
Simone."
The other detective joined them on the
small balcony, twisted his arms behind his back, and slapped handcuffs on his
wrists. "Do we need to add resisting arrest to your charges?"
"What charges?" A
movement from the corner of his eye distracted him from the strange scene
unfolding in his room. He glanced down toward the pool.
All thoughts froze. It was as if he
the world suddenly moved in slow motion.
Michelle Whitaker stood there in a
form fitting white dress with her black hair falling sleekly over her shoulders
and eyes concealed by overly large sunglasses. She smiled up at him, waved as
if greeting an old friend, turned on her stilettos, and strutted off the pool
deck as if she had all the time in the world.
"That bitch!" he said for the second time in thirty minutes.
"She's downstairs, she's down there."
"Mary? What did you do with
her?"
"I don't give a fuck about
Mary—"
"Is her body down there?"
The detective grabbed the back of his hair and yanked his head back. "You
can talk now or you can talk downtown."
"You're letting one of the FBI's
most wanted strut away while you fall for her little game." He twisted
away from their grasp and surrendered to the idea that she would win this
round.
A big guy, he intimidated just
about anyone, but these two detectives in suits didn't seem to care much about
his stature as they led him from the room in cuffs.
He rode down in the elevator and
gritted his teeth while his mind reran all of the places he'd been in the past
two days. He must have scared her...but where? How close had he been?
When they finally forced him into
the back of a police car, he rolled his eyes at the absurdity of this
situation, confident that they wouldn't find a body or any evidence of foul
play. Michelle was a thief—she lived for the thrill of the game—but she
wouldn't murder anyone.
The cops had lowered the back
windows a few inches in the steamy Los Angeles heat while they discussed him on
the sidewalk. A knock on the opposite window startled him.
"Hey, Jake," Michelle
whispered. "Looks like you've gotten yourself into a bit of trouble."
Her sheer arrogance stunned him
into silence. Lust rushed through his blood—the chemistry between them
immediate and intense. Just like he'd anticipated. His mouth went dry. If he'd
been sweating before, now it felt like a faucet had been turned on and droplets
slid down his forehead.
Anger followed on the heels of
desire—his soul burned with it.
He jerked against the handcuffs and
he wiggled on the seat to get closer to her.
She lowered her sunglasses and
peered at him with her large green eyes that had haunted his nightmares for
months. A slow smile crept over her full lips as observed his predicament.
"There's a lawyer on his way
to the station—"
"I'm bringing you in," he
said through his teeth.
"He'll get you out of this
without much fuss while buying me enough time to leave you behind once
again."
"I'll find you, no matter where
you go—"
"You're far too hot to be so
uptight. You need to get laid, Jakey. How long's it been? Such a pity to let
all that girth go to waste." Her gaze dropped to his crotch.
"Tsk-tsk-tsk, such a shame, all that delicious manhood stuffed into those
tight jeans. Makes a woman want to help a guy out."
"You're fucking up." He
leaned over and yelled at one of the detectives who had his back to him.
"Hey! One of the FBI's most wanted is over here!"
She didn't even flinch.
"They caught you once, they'll
do it again." He squirmed under her scrutiny.
"I never make the same mistake
twice."
"You're pushing your
luck."
Her gaze locked on his and he
stopped breathing. The intensity in her eyes danced with mischief, gold flecks
shined in the emerald depths. No photograph had done her justice.
Okay, so maybe Bernie had been
partially right about him being obsessed. Until this moment, though, he'd never
been this up close and personal with her and had been unprepared for the
impact.
"Why are you so
relentless?" She tilted her head to the left, her calm almost remarkable
considering the amount of law enforcement in hot pursuit.
Her question caught him off
guard—hell, this entire situation had thrown him off balance. He scooted closer
to her window, hating that his wrists were bound and that he was trapped in the
back of a police car.
"I never fail. I'm going to
catch you. This game of yours—"
"I was caught because someone
betrayed me." Smile faded and her words were hard. "That's the only
reason. I now travel alone—solo. There is no one in this world who knows
anything about the real me."
"Lonely way to live, Michelle."
"You would know. You're not
exactly part of a posse and haven't been playing nicely with the big
boys." She pushed the glasses back up her nose with one finger.
"How do you know that?"
"Go back to Dallas, Jake. Make
your partner happy. I just came by to say goodbye...as for the drama, I
couldn't resist ending our relationship on a memorable note."
Before he could reply, she walked
away, past the detectives, and down the street as if she had all day to do
exactly as she pleased.
He didn't waste his breath telling
the cops that they'd let a master thief get away because he knew they thought
he was some psycho killer.
He kicked the back of the seat in
front of him and cursed her back—noticing the way the tight dress cupped her swaying
ass, the sleek ebony hair sweeping past her shoulders, and the sculpted calves leading
to high heels. Despite his oath to look at her as nothing more than a
substantial paycheck, he felt his cock twitch in response to the fantasies of
all he'd like to do to her if he ever got her alone. Groaning, he shook his
head, strands of his brown hair slipping into his eyes, and sticking to his
cheekbones in the heat of the parked car.
His heartbeat ricocheted inside his
chest. Jake Stiles didn't fail. He'd had that drummed into him since birth. A
military brat, he'd grown up with strict parents who hadn't tolerated
imperfection, which had served to instill a strong work ethic and a hatred of
authority. Rather than becoming a fed himself, he preferred the bounty hunter
route.
Until now.
He still smelled her perfume from
where she'd leaned close to the window—musty and elegant. Probably expensive. Exactly
the same as the scent that had floated in his room all those nights. Had she
been planning something like this all along?
Again, he kicked the seat in front
of him.
"Hey!" A uniformed
officer smacked the window before getting into the driver's side. "Knock
it off."
"You're a bunch of
idiots," he muttered under his breath as the police car pulled away from
the curb.
But then he smiled at the situation.
He'd found her—or she'd found him, he would give her that—but either way he'd
been right.
His instinct wasn't so far off
after all. He'd find her again, and this time, she'd be the one in handcuffs.
Story 3, In the Stars
A sound from one of the guest rooms
halted her steps. She hesitated in the hall and touched her hand to the
doorknob. She never closed the doors to the empty rooms. Ever since her husband
had died five years ago, the large house had been filled with bumps and groans
and ghosts of what-ifs. She'd purposely gone through and propped each open with
a book to keep thoughts of the boogeyman at bay.
She gulped down the fear, glanced
down the hall to where Rick lounged on the sofa, and debated about calling out
to him.
You
can handle this. Open the door, Lisa, she coached herself. No one is there. Your imagination is running
away with you again.
Slowly, she turned the handle and
inched it open. She peeked inside and froze.
A tall man, one of the tallest
she'd ever seen, at least seven feet, stood at the foot of the bed and faced
her through the shadows. He held up a hand and a glowing ball of fire appeared
in his palm.
A scream lodged in her throat—only
a silent gasping breath escaped her lips. She flattened against the wall and
gaped at him. Blood smeared his face and his silver flight suit, more like a
jump suit of some kind, had been ripped open across his torso.
This
is who they're searching for, she thought, unable to move.
Her gaze slipped from the standing
man to one who lay on the bed who appeared lifeless. She scooted along the
wall, gaze darting back and forth between the one holding a ball of fire and
the other.
"Are you hurt?" she asked
even though she already knew the answer.
Instead of answering, the tall man
lowered his hand but kept the ball of fire snapping in palm as he looked at her
as if assessing a threat.
She flicked on the overhead light.
"We mean you no harm," he
said, shaking his hand until the ball of fire disappeared. He tilted his head
and looked her steadily in the eye. "Can you say the same?"
Again, she lost her voice. Aside
from the blood covering him, he was magnificent. It was the only word she could
think of to describe the sheer magnitude of his appearance. Glittering blue
eyes glared at her from beneath black hair on a face that looked chiseled from
stone. Clearing her throat, she motioned toward the bed and, with a croaky
voice, managed to ask, "Is he alive?"
"At the moment." He
stepped to the side and allowed her a full view of his friend.
Also dressed in a sliver suit that
had been ripped to shreds, his friend had white hair, a shocking contrast to
the taller one's darkness. A branch appeared to be sticking out of his gut and
the blood seeped into the bedspread.
"You were flying the plane?
The one that crashed?"
He only met her gaze without
answering.
She thought of what the FBI agent
had said about it being a crime scene—and remembered his asshole manners. She
had a choice to make and no time to make it. She could either alert Rick who
could rush to the authorities or she could find a first aid kit and help them
as much as she could on her own.
Neither looked like dangerous
criminals—especially not in their silver jump suits, which she found odd but
figured they were simple flight suits for some experimental plane. Of course,
that didn't explain the fact that that he'd literally been holding a ball of
fire a moment ago. She'd worry about that later.
Sighing, she held her hands up in
what she hoped was a non-threatening gesture and backed toward the door.
"Stay here. I'm going to get a first aid kit—I'm no doctor but I've done
my fair share of patching up my older brothers after they'd get in a fist fight
so I can at least help." She looked at their ripped clothes. "I have
some of my husband's things I'll bring, too."
"I am Sam," the tall man
said as if thinking it up on the fly.
"Sam, huh?" She swallowed
the fear that had lodged there and nodded. "I'm Lisa."
"Lisa," he repeated with
another tilt of his head. "You are helping us?"
She nodded, captivated by the way
he spoke, as if each word carried more meaning than she could fathom. "I
will do my best."
Once in the hall, she ran to her
own bedroom and rummaged through her closet for some of her late husband's old
jeans and flannels. He'd been a big guy, too, almost a foot taller than her, so
she thought the clothes would at least fit.
"Are you okay back
there?" Rick yelled. "There's a lot of banging—"
"I'm good!" She sat on
the edge of her bed and ripped off her boots before darting into the bathroom
looking for any first aid she could find. Arms full, she jogged on sock-covered
feet over the hardwood floors back to the guest room.
Sam still stood stiff at the end of
the bed as if on guard and watched her carefully as she closed the door behind
her hip.
"There is a bathroom right
there," she nodded to the opposite side of the room, "you can clean
up and change out of that bloody outfit. I'll take a look at...what is his
name?"
He hesitated as if debating whether
or not to trust her alone with his partner. "He is..."
She arched an eyebrow and waited
while he struggled to come up with another fake name.
"Jim?" She asked with a
small smile, letting him know that she knew he lied. Best to cut to the chase.
"Yes. Jim." Sam nodded.
"You can help him?"
"I can try. Go." She
motioned to the clothes and then the bathroom. "You'll feel better if you
clean up."
Pulling her gaze from Sam's, she
took a good look at the injured and unconscious man on the bed. She leaned over
him and looked at the smaller gashes on his forehead before raking her gaze
over his torso. Having no idea how to remove the jumpsuit, as it didn't appear
to have a zipper that she could readily see, she reached for the neckline and
ripped it down the center. Because of all the slashes in the material, it split
easily. Bruises discolored the broad chest and the branch stuck out of the
abdomen at a scary angle.
Sam still watched from the foot of
the bed as if not trusting her to take care of his friend.
Sighing, she shoved her hands
through her shaggy blonde hair and faced him. "Listen, I don't know what
your story is, but I'm not going to turn you into those people hunting for you
and I'm not going to hurt...Jim. As long as you're not here to kill me, we're
good, okay?"
He blinked at her a moment before
turning to retrieve the clothes and walking to the bathroom.
Her attention returned to the
stick. She doubted that it went too deep, but she wanted to be ready in case a
geyser of blood flew out of the wound. Obviously, he needed more attention than
what she could give, but she could only do her best. She set the supplies next to
his hip, removed one of the pillowcases, and readied herself to pull it out.
Slowly. Her hands shook on the bark. Luckily, it hadn't been too deep. Blood
pooled immediately, but she dabbed it away. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she
carefully began stitching it up.
This reminded her of her
childhood—stitching up one brother after another after their many brawls or
stupid accidents. One of them had actually run through a glass door and she'd
pulled shards of glass from his shoulder. They'd been too poor to go to the
doctor unless it was an emergency and her mother had had strict criteria about
what that meant. More often than not, even a thirty-dollar co-pay was more than
her parents had in their bank account. So they'd learned from an early age how
to improvise and, as far as Lisa was concerned, those lessons had made them
strong, independent adults.
Once the final bandages were
applied, she sat up and released a long breath she hadn't been aware of
holding.
"He is going to survive?"
Sam asked from where he'd been watching behind her.
She jumped at the sound of his
voice. She'd almost forgotten about him with her intense focus on her patient. "I
hope so. I have no way of knowing if he is hurt internally." She glanced
at Jim's face. "I'm not sure why he's unconscious, that's above my pay
grade."
"Pay grade?" Sam
repeated.
"Nothing." Tired, she
stood and faced him.
Dressed in a flannel shirt, jeans,
and with his face clear of any blood, the man looked drop-dead gorgeous. He sat
at the foot of the bed and looked at his friend. "We should go."
"No. There are National Guard and
FBI everywhere. I don't know what you did—and I'm not asking because sometimes
too much knowledge is a bad thing—but
they are determined to find you."
He met her gaze and remained silent.
"Stay here," she said.
"You can't move him anyway. Are you okay? You had so much blood—"
"Thank you, Lisa."
She bit her lip at the way he said
her name.
He hadn't buttoned the shirt and it
hung open enough for her to see fresh blood trickling from a gash. Almost as if
hypnotized, she pushed his shirt over his shoulders, grabbed some antiseptic,
and bandaged him up in silence. Tingles zapped through her fingertips and
zinged up her wrists with the skin-on-skin contact. Captivated, she smoothed
her hands over his broad shoulders beneath the shirt before slowly buttoning it
closed for him. When she met his gaze, she realized how intimate her action was
and yanked her hands away. She hadn't touched a man since her husband's death
and felt incredibly self-conscious now.
Sam snagged her wrists and held her
still. "Why are you helping us?"
"I don't know," she
replied honestly.
"Can we trust you? You are not
betraying us?"
She pulled her wrists free, unable
to stand the vibration rippling through her body with his touch. "You
scared me, that's true. It's not every day I walk into my guest room and find
two wanted men, one with a ball of fire in his hands." She attempted a
smile. Failed. "You can trust me. I swear it."
"I was scared," he
admitted. "I thought you were here to kill us."
She frowned, unprepared for that
answer. This night grew more complicated by the second. She backed away from
him and hesitated by the door.
"I'm going to go. Can you stay
in this room, though? Rick is—"
"Rick?"
"My friend. He's in the living
room, didn't want to stay in one of the guest rooms, thinks he's guarding
me." She shrugged at the idea, realizing how odd that was since the very
thing Rick guarded her from sat right in front of her.
With the way Sam stared at her with
undisguised curiosity, she wondered if he was foreign. He did speak as if
testing English and that would explain some of the chaos going on outside. She
glanced at his palms and thought of the fireball he'd held.
"Don't burn the house
down," she said.
Unbelievably, he smiled and looked
down at his hands. "I won't hurt you. I will stay here like you have asked
until you return."
She had an inexplicable urge to
reach out and touch his bent head. Instead, she curled her fingers against her
hips and walked from the room. She closed the door with a distinct click and
walked to her bedroom.
I
am either overly tired or in shock. I can't believe I just did any of that.
Finally alone, she peeled off her
clothes and crawled beneath the comforter. When the swish of a helicopter
sounded close to her house and the beam of the spotlight illuminated her room
for a second, she sighed and hugged a pillow against her. She knew what it felt
like to be alone and scared—adrift in a sea of strangers who didn't understand
you. If she could help—regardless of consequences—then she'd be paying it forward
in ways no one else could understand.
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