Storm Bound, page 11
“Is she?”
“No,” she answered.
“What does she do for a living?” he asked.
“She had six kids. That’s enough, don’t you think?”
“And your father?”
She rested back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “He’s a doctor.”
“What about your brothers and sisters?”
“Is there a point to this?” she asked.
“Just answer.”
“Two still in college, two engineers, and a biochemist.”
“And you,” he said. “I rest my case.”
She grabbed the wine bottle and refilled her glass. “And just what do you think you’ve proved?”
She knew damned well. They’d been having this battle in the journals and at symposia. He’d thought that they could get through a good meal before they’d have to engage it all over again. Maybe that was for the best. Dave and Susan didn’t have to witness the fight. He poured himself some more zin and took a swallow. “The traditional family structure is the product of evolution because it works. Your own family proves that.”
“Are you saying a single parent household can’t produce successful children?”
“Of course not, but the odds aren’t as good,” he answered. “You see the proof everywhere in the animal kingdom. The larger, stronger male protects and provides. The female nurtures the young.”
“Well thank you, Father Knows Best. Are there any other words of wisdom from the 1950s you’d like to channel?”
He drank the rest of his wine and poured some more. What was left went into her glass. It turned out to be more than he’d given himself. Good. He’d need a clear head for this argument. Or at least, as clear as it could be after all he’d had to drink.
“You know I’m telling the truth,” he said. “That’s why you’re getting so defensive.”
“Defensive?” She let out a loud Ha! “Me, defensive? That’s rich.”
“All you’ve done is call me old-fashioned. You haven’t cited a single piece of data to prove me wrong.”
“Okay.” She took a swig of her wine and thought a minute. Her eyes had the lazy look of someone who’d had a wee bit too much of the grape to be indulging in intellectual disputes. In fact, her features had softened, and a drop of wine clung to the corner of her mouth where it would be oh-so-easy to lick it off.
“Lobsters,” she said finally.
“Lobsters?” he repeated.
“Lobsters.”
“What do lobsters have to do with anything?”
“The way they mate. The male loses interest after fertilization. The mother lobster cares for the eggs until they hatch and then spews them out by the thousands and leaves them to sink or swim.” She finished her wine and sat back in her chair with a triumphant smile on her face.
“That doesn’t prove anything.” Damn it, his voice was rising. “They’re not even mammals.”
“You didn’t say anything about mammals. You put forth a general theory, and I’ve proved it wrong.”
“No, you haven’t.”
She leaned forward and tapped her index finger against the tabletop. “Lobsters don’t fit your model, and they’re perfectly well-adapted. We’d be up to our ankles in them if they didn’t taste so good with melted butter.”
“Lobsters, huh?”
“Lobsters,” she said.
If he had all his mental faculties, he could no doubt find a counterargument. In the meantime, he’d made a blanket statement about evolution, and she’d found a contradicting example. All that, and she’d had more wine than he had. Relaxed as she was now, with her hair loose around her face and her features softened, she was really quite beautiful. He’d have to end the argument here and live to fight another day.
“You’re cute when you’ve been thwarted,” she said.
“Don’t push your luck.”
She replied with a throaty laugh, a sound that came from deep, down inside her. He’d never heard that before, but now that he had, he’d never get it out of his head. The timbre of her voice was as sexy as anything he’d ever heard, the tone of a woman taking her pleasure without regard to the consequences. This situation was innocent enough, more or less. But if he followed that siren call to its logical extreme, they’d end up in bed.
His cock thought that was a fabulous idea. He’d obviously had enough wine to loosen his inhibitions, but not enough to dampen his ability to perform. In fact, he might have gotten them both to the perfect state of inebriation—where she’d throw caution to the winds and he could put off orgasm until he’d fucked her for a good long time, drawing climax after climax from her. And he would or die trying. She thought he was cute, huh? He’d show her cute.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nuh-huh. Not true.” She leaned over and tapped his temple. “There’s always something going on in that high-powered brain.”
He grabbed her hand. “You don’t want to know.”
“But I do.” She bit her lip in the most provocative way imaginable, and his cock twitched in his pants. He’d wanted women before, but none of them had made him this randy. Following through was not a good idea. First, she was a colleague. Second, she would never have acted so seductively if she hadn’t had so much zinfandel.
Or would she? The truth hit him right between the eyes. She might be a little loose with wine right now, or she wouldn’t be taunting him so openly. But this fight didn’t differ all that much from the ones they’d had in person and in print so many times before. Her eyes sparkled the same way now as they had when she’d challenged him before. She had the same passion, and that passion extended past intellect into something much more basic.
The two of them hadn’t had an attraction, a mere awareness of each other. They had full-blown lust for each other. All the heat behind their earlier arguments hadn’t been intellectual, but sexual. Of course, she hadn’t planned this trip to seduce him, given that the others would have shared the cabin with them, but circumstances had lit the fuse, and now the dynamite was about to explode.
“C’mon, Hersch, give.” She leaned closer, propping her chin on her fist. Beneath the soft material of her t-shirt, her breasts rose and fell, as if she was having trouble breathing. “I really, really want to know.”
Enough. No man had to take provocation like that and not respond. He did what any male would do in that situation. He got to his feet and pulled her up after him. Something clattered against the table, but he ignored it and smothered her mouth with his own.
In seconds, he lost himself in the kiss. Her lips were soft under his. Pliant. Giving and taking. Driving him on. She moaned softly as he continued tasting her, nipping and stroking with his tongue. They were both breathing raggedly now as arousal claimed them.
Oh yes, she wanted this. Every bit as much as he did. She melted against him, soft where he was hard. Her breasts pressed into his chest, the nipples stiffening into tight points. While she clung to his shoulders, he palmed her buttocks, massaging and pulling her against his erection.
She’d have to feel it. She’d have to know how completely she’d excited him. That didn’t stop her from rubbing against him while her lips continued her assault on his reason. She’d consented. No doubt about that. She’d given him permission to carry her to her bed, strip every item of her clothing from her body, and plunge his cock so deep in her she’d never get the memory out of her head.
Hell’s bells, what was he thinking? He straightened and stepped away from her. This was Gayle Richards—his colleague and his chief theoretical opponent. Did he really want to make himself vulnerable by sleeping with her? Sex always involved feelings as far as women were concerned. Always. Did he want to include that in the mix of their professional relationship?
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was uncalled for.”
Her gaze didn’t focus completely for a moment, but then, his was probably pretty hazy, too. His heart was still hammering, and nothing had happened to relieve the swelling in his pants. At least she had the decency to appear to be in the same state.
She held up a hand. “My fault. I shouldn’t have goaded you.”
“The wine was my doing.”
“Yeah.” She managed a phony smile. “I wonder what they put in that stuff.”
“We won’t have any more before the others show up.”
“Sounds like a plan.” She turned away from him, and his mind finally got a semblance of control over his body. He really wasn’t going to screw this woman. Not tonight, not ever. He hadn’t quite convinced his cock, but he’d take command of that, too, one way or another. He hadn’t masturbated much since he was a teenager, but his hand would have to make him happy until the others got here and the tension eased.
She bent to pick up a fork from the floor, probably what he’d heard clatter when he’d pulled her into his arms. Briefly, she gave him another view of her ass, so when she straightened, he took the fork from her.
“You go on to bed,” he said. “I’ll clean up.”
“You sure? I made a pretty big mess.”
So had he, or he’d been right on the verge of doing it. He’d cleaned that up. He could wash some dishes. He most assuredly didn’t need any more of her company.
“I’m sure. Let me play the enlightened man, okay?”
“Okay.” She gave him a thumbs-up gesture. “Sweet of you.”
“That’s me . . . sweet.”
“Night.” With that, she went into her bedroom, taking her breasts and her ass and her moans of pleasure with her. Days until the others arrived. He was in for a hell of a ride.
About the Author
ALICE GAINES loves her romance as hot as she can get it. Besides spinning tales in her head, Alice’s passions include vegetable gardening, the San Francisco 49ers, and America’s Test Kitchen. She’s a maniacal fan of East Bay soul band Tower of Power.
Alice has a PhD in psychology from the University of California at Berkeley and lives in Oakland, California, with her pet corn snake, Casper, and a strange cat that moved into her yard.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Also by Alice Gaines
Heat Rises
Brief Encounter
Give in to your impulses . . .
Read on for a sneak peek at four brand-new
e-book original tales of romance from Avon Books.
Available now wherever e-books are sold.
CIRCLE OF DANGER
By Carla Swafford
HEAT RISES
By Alice Gaines
SOMEBODY LIKE YOU
By Candis Terry
A MOST NAKED SOLUTION
By Anna Randol
An Excerpt from
CIRCLE OF DANGER
by Carla Swafford
The top-secret assassins of The Circle are back and on the hunt for a dangerous drug lord capable of bringing women to the brink of pleasure . . . and devastation.
Marie Beltane, a lowly data-entry specialist intent on proving she’s worthy of being a full operative, has just been injected with the drug responsible for the death of four local women . . . a drug that puts her sex drive into overdrive.
Arthur Ryker wants nothing more than to protect Marie, even if it means fulfilling her drug-induced . . . needs. But now a new evil has reared its ugly head—how far is Arthur willing to go to find an antidote and save the woman he always loved?
AN AVON RED NOVEL
CHAPTER ONE
Arthur Ryker sprang out of bed and immediately stood at attention, feet apart, his scarred hands in the “ready” position at waist level. One hand cupped by the other, restrained but prepared to kill. He shook his head and sighed. Just once he wanted to leave his bed like a regular person and not like a trained monkey.
“A bad dream?” a deep voice asked from the bedroom entrance. With one pierced black eyebrow lifted, Jack Drago leaned against the doorjamb.
Ignoring the question, Ryker walked naked into the bathroom. When he returned to grab some clothes out of the closet, Jack hadn’t moved, but his gaze had most likely inspected every inch of the room. There wasn’t much to see. A king-sized bed sat in a corner while a mirrorless dresser was centered against one wall—no pictures or the usual bric-a-brac to give away the occupant’s personality. Then again, maybe it did. Rather stark for a man who owned enough properties and businesses to keep his organization in the best covert weapons money could buy. He didn’t care what Jack thought about his bedroom. Except for a few hours of sleep and a shower and shave, Ryker rarely spent time in the room.
“What do you want?” he asked, glaring at his second-in-command.
With cold blue eyes, Jack studied him, then his gaze shifted away.
Ryker grunted. Not many people could deal with looking at the thick scars down the side of his body, but it was his blind eye that bothered most. White from the scar tissue damaged in a fire so many years ago, it was normally hidden beneath a patch. But Ryker’d be damned before he slept with one on. So if Jack decided to make a habit of waking him in the morning, he could fucking well get use to the sight. Considering the man had four visible piercings—and who knew how many hidden—along with tattoos covering one arm, Jack shouldn’t have a problem with his scars. The man understood pain.
With sure, quick movements, he thrust his legs into jeans and yanked on a black T-shirt. After tugging on his boots, he strapped a small pistol at his ankle. With his patch in place, using his fingers he combed hair over the strap securing its position. Hell, he needed a haircut again. Maybe he’d shave his head like Jack. A simple enough solution. If only the rest of his problems could be so easily solved.
“She’s in trouble,” Jack said in an even tone as if his voice could defuse a bad situation.
Ryker’s stomach and chest tightened as if he’d been hit. He knew who Jack referred to without adding a name. She happened to be part of why his life was so complicated.
“Did you hear me?” Jack straightened his stance.
“Yeah.” Desire to break someone’s neck raced through his body. “Where is she? What happened?”
With a sharp snap, he inserted a snub-nose into the shoulder holster hanging at his side and jerked on his leather jacket. He gritted his teeth for a few seconds to regain his composure. Then he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and exhaled.
“Last time Bryan heard from her, she’d entered the target’s house in Chattanooga and was downloading information off a laptop. He lost communication with her.” Jack quickly stepped out of the way for Ryker to move into the dark hallway. “They believe she’s still in the house. If the Wizard sticks to his MO, we’ll have about three hours before he takes her away or kills her.”
Ryker wasted no time in reaching a massive room with mirrors from ceiling to floor. When the mansion was built in the eighteen hundreds, the room was used as a ballroom. It was empty now, except for a Steinway covered with a white sheet, and the high-sheen hardwood floor sounded hollow as he tramped across it. He used the room for one purpose only—to reach the stairwell hidden behind one of the mirrors.
“Took you long enough to spit it out.” Ryker glanced at his second-in-command.
Jack remained quiet, staring straight ahead. Ryker didn’t really expect an excuse. The man knew how he felt about that. No excuse for failure, especially when it came to protecting Marie.
Four months earlier, Ryker had moved The Circle compound from the suburbs of Atlanta to an area near the Smoky Mountains. The mansion was situated in the middle of almost ten thousand acres, which included a large mountain filled with a network of tunnels and bunkers perfect to house the facility he needed. Last year, the final phase of the project was completed and now they were training new recruits in the underground Sector. The nearly fifteen square miles provided the privacy he needed. In a world filled with evil people, his covert organization of assassins came in handy.
Their footsteps echoed in the long, well-lit tunnel. A semi could pass through the passageway without scraping the side mirrors or the tips of muffler stacks.
“Who was her backup?” Ryker asked.
When a few seconds passed without an answer, Ryker stopped and faced Jack.
“They’re handling it.”
Ryker continued to stare.
His second-in-command sighed. “She went in without a backup.”
Jaw clenched, Ryker strode to the iris scan next to a large metal door. A buzz sounded and he slammed the door against the inner wall.
The gripping pain in his belly grew and reminded him of the fear he had lived with for years before he took over control of The Circle. She could not keep doing this to him. He refused to allow anything more to happen to her. She knew this and still didn’t listen.
The noise level in the basketball court-sized room almost broke the sound barrier with printers running and people shouting or talking to those sitting next to them—or to others on the Internet or satellite phones—along with the clicking of keyboards. Each wall covered with large screens captured a different scene of people living their lives in various parts of the world. In the center of the room, faces bleached white by the monitors in front of them, the supervisors and handlers communicated with their operatives.
Ryker stopped in the middle of the bullpen, searching for his prey.
The balding, whipcord-thin Bryan Tilton stood over a handler shouting instructions and pointing at the screen. Maybe a sixth sense alerted Bryan. He looked up and his eyes widened.
Ryker charged toward him, ignoring the people ducking for cover behind partitions and beneath desks.
