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Authors: Marata Eros

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BOOK: A Brutal Tenderness
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I nod at Clearwater, and his night-vision state-of-the-art
glasses glint under the streetlight as I pass, his fake cigarette
glowing as he regards me.

I bound up the concrete steps, the borders of which have a
curved swale at the ends that hold terra-cotta pots overflowing
with flowers that Jewell’s planted.

I smile as I unlock the door and quietly shut it behind me.
I allow my eyes to grow accustomed to my surroundings and
scan the perimeter, by sheer habit alone. I’ve been gone on a
case for two weeks.

Skype is underrated.
I slip quietly into the bedroom we share and see Jewell lying
there. Moonlight pours through the sheer curtains as warm
fragrant air wafts in with the breeze, bathing . . . silvering her
with the night.
My eyes caress her like the light does. I start at her hair
that’s spilled ink on the white pillow, running down over the
pale cami she wears, my eyes skidding to a stop at her round
ass, the panties hiked up and revealing the shadow of where she
splits, lace bordering the smoothness of her skin. I continue my
scrutiny, skimming over the barest scar from her injury.
Her feet are back to beat up.
I love every inch of her.
My jeans no longer fit.
I rip them off and she rolls over.
We don’t say anything but meet in the middle of our huge
bed.
“Jewell,” I say, my breath already coming hard and fast from
the smell of her, the feel.
She puts her small hand over my mouth. “Shhh . . . don’t
talk.”
I smile underneath her fingertips.
Okay.
We don’t talk for half the night.
Perfect.

epilogue
Seven Months Later
Mirrors are called looking glasses for a reason. They have eyes
but no mouths.

It is a relief because if they could talk they would tell an
intimate tale of our time together, Jewell’s and mine.
I step away, sans tool belt as today’s job is merely a check of
tightness on the installed barres. I can’t have them coming loose
when my girl is dancing so close to glass. Kissing close.
And the barres  .  .  . they’re sort of versatile. Not just for
dancing, I think with a secretive smirk.
Those fuckers are anchored.
The smell of paint is a positive one, it’s the last thing
I’ve done. In stages. Because every time I need to get a task
complete and Jewell is in the same space, dancing  .  .  . it’s a
wrecking ball of distraction.
I can watch her dance forever.
I want to make love to her every time she does.
I’ll never forget when the contact go-ahead was given over
a year ago and I’d seen her audition. Jewell sucker punched me
with her essence; not her body, not her looks . . . but who she is
captures me as completely as a butterfly in a net.
Jewell’s eyes snare mine and I stand. She rises into what she
calls first position, the soles of her feet curve like beautiful pale
pink arcs and she glides, literally glides to where I stand like
a dazed dumb ass in the middle of the studio I built for her
practice. Though we’ve done some serious practicing of our own
in this room. Every barre bore her.
The floor has held us as we’ve moved against each other, the
hard wood digging into me as I beheld ten different Jewells, her
image reflected back in the mirrors on all four walls. I’ll never
forget the sight of her swaying above me as she rides me.
A forever memory.
I swallow and snake my arms around her waist, drawing
her tightly against me, giving soft kisses everywhere her black
leotard doesn’t cover her.
She tastes like, vanilla, sweat . . . Jewell. I kiss her like food.
I eat at her skin with my lips, nipping at her until she digs her
hands into my hair, swaying on her toes.
“You like it?” I whisper from her neck.
“I do, Agent Steel,” she says in a throaty whisper, and I don’t
know if it’s what I do to her or the room I made for her.
“Only one week until I begin at SPB.”
Seattle Pacific Ballet.
I pull back, looking down into her flushed face, a grin
spreading from ear to ear. I tuck back the stubborn deep red
twists of hair that spiral free of her bun. “I’m so proud of you,
Jewell.” I squeeze her tighter and she gives the small squeal of
delight that I love.
I hear a squeak on the floorboard behind me. I’m instantly
pissed that a squeak is present in my floor and simultaneously I
put Jewell behind me.
Someone’s here.
“Stop doing it standing up, you sluts,” Carlie says with
sarcastic enthusiasm. I relax. Jewell’s bossy friend I can manage.
Carlie slowly spins around, taking in the newly finished
studio, her lips softly parted. “Wow,” she says, her face reflecting
her pleasure, “this is so completely the bomb, just sayin’.”
Jewell grins at me, pride pouring out of her, and I can feel
my face heat. I didn’t use to have this problem. “Yes, it is,” she
agrees.
I break my awkwardness with, “Timing sucks as usual,
Carlie.”
She flips me the bird and sticks out her tongue at the same
time. “So deal. Don’t you have a murderer or someone to catch?”
I scrub my head, making my short hair stand up, and sigh.
“Always.” I watch Jewell look at my hair and think about how
she likes to pull it while we’re . . .
My dick starts getting hard.
Jewell’s eyes slide to my package and I stifle a groan. She’s
very naughty.
Very.
I think she’ll need discipline later. We lock eyes and hers
glitter with anticipation. She’s not so vanilla anymore. I move
closer to her again and grab that wound red hair at the nape of
her neck, pulling just shy of pain, and her lips part in a gasp and
I swallow the sound in a rough kiss. I lift my head and her lids
are half closed. I chuckle. “You okay, babe?”
Jewell gives me a single languid nod.
I sigh.
I turn to Carlie with a scowl.
She smirks.
“I’ll be back.”
“Yeah, pal, like the Terminator,” Carlie responds with a
witchlike cackle.
Jewell grins. “Just go, Cas . . .”
I swat her ass on the way out, and she give me that look.
It makes me stop walking. She giggles behind her hand and I
keep going.

I wear a suit I’ve always had on hand. I wear it for fallen feds,
other dark angels that secure the nation’s security.
I never think I’ll need it for this.
Jewell barely stands in front of me. Her face is pale and my
hand rests on the small of her back. I flick my eyes down and
look at how I can almost palm her entire back, she’s that small.
She fills my hand perfectly.
Jewell fills my life.
I listen to her speak, and it’s the hardest thing ever. I
can’t save her from the pain of the events of a year ago. I can
only offer my quiet presence, solace in the form of my tactile
buffeting. That is all.
It is all that I have.
My words aren’t eloquent like hers.
“A year ago today, I was in hiding  .  .  . and in so doing, I
helped no one. The following people impacted my life”—Jewell
pauses and I squeeze her, the barest amount of pressure—“and
died because of their association with me.” I slide my palm over
to her hip and give another squeeze.
I’m here
, that grips says.
She continues, “Though I no longer blame myself for the
choices of two very disturbed people . . .”
That’s a no-shittery, I think, the comment bursting in my
brain, interrupting my more or less constant scan of the crowd.
I see my fellow feds, the stamp of what they are shouting to
me.
As I shout to them.
I catch the last of her comment. “. . . They believed in me
without knowing who I truly was. And for that, I will always
be grateful.”
The crowd stands and I tense. My gaze moves restlessly over
the many dots of black. Jewell’s mother stands in the front,
wearing a simple crimson dress, and I give her a small nod. She
returns my acknowledgment.
My eyes shift to the grave markers.

Patrick Boel
Shelby Richards
Dancing in death, as in life.

Sometimes what we do in life transcends our passing. At
least, that’s what Jewell believes. I watch impassively as people
drop their flowers onto the one-year memorial marking lives
that were robbed.

The flowers pile up in bright dots of color until it looks like
a hill of promise.
Each flower a symbol of remembrance.
Not to forget their sacrifice.
I look at Jewell and think for the millionth time she was
almost among them. I touch her hair and she turns to me and
smiles.
She wears it down and it tickles my hand as I lay my palm
on her back.
I tow her down to the car, passing many people who wish
to talk, touch, and corral Jewell. But no one’s getting a piece of
her today.
Today is closure once more.
And a new beginning.
The sky opens up and the pewter clouds boil over with
chilled rain, late January known for hovering just above
freezing and dumping bucketsful.
Still the reporters lie in wait.
Luke steps forward from one of five unmarked black SUVs
and opens the door for Jewell, as a mike from a reporter clatters
to the ground.
“Hey!” he says, eyes narrowed on Adams.
Adams grins. “Oops, sorry about that  .  .  . didn’t see that
mike.”
I grin back at him and he winks.
Nice.
I get in beside Jewell as the rain hammers the windows,
sliding down in rivulets.
Jewell leans her head back against my shoulder. Slow color
returning to her pale face, the pinched expression evening out.
I sigh, wiping away the wet tendrils that curl around her
jaw. “I’m so proud of you,” I whisper against her temple as Luke
slides in the car and pulls away.
I watch the sheen of tears take hold in those vibrant green
eyes. Yet they don’t fall.
Her eyes search my face. “You think?” she asks tentatively.
Jewell doesn’t need to cry anymore.
“I do.” Turning her face into mine, I kiss her, the witnesses
melting away. My partner, the reporters, the sad milestone melt
into the periphery where they belong.
I cradle Jewell’s face in my hands, her heat beneath me, all
around me, and the world melts away.
All I have is her now . . . in this moment.
It’s the only world I need.
[insert BUY BUTTON for A TERRIBLE LOVE]

a love letter to my readers

It’s been four years now since my first book,
Death Whispers
,
was published. I’d like to take this opportunity to thank each
and every one of you who have supported my writing. Without
my readers, I would not have an audience for my work. Many
of your e-mails, support via recommendation, encouragement,
and critical feedback/reviews have helped me to improve as a
writer and as a human being. Words are an inadequate thanks
for the depth of my gratitude to you. Please know how much
your support has meant and will continue to mean in the
future.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.
acknowledgments

I would like to thank:
You, my reader.
My husband, who is my biggest supporter.
Erica Spellman-Silverman: smart, savvy, and devoted don’t

cover it. Thank you for all you do as my advocate. And the team
at Trident Media Group for giving me a chance!
Lauren, for believing in me.
Alex, you’ve improved my work; it’s better because of you.
Thank you.
My copyeditor for
ABT
.
Beth, my friend.
Dianne, you keep me sane.
My Aussie Girl, I love ya.
Lori.

Do not quote for publication until verified with finished book. This
advance uncorrected reader’s proof is the property of Simon &
Schuster. It is being loaned for promotional purposes and review by
the recipient and may not be used for any other purpose or
transferred to any third party. Simon & Schuster reserves the right to
cancel the loan and recall possession of the proof at any time. Any
duplication, sale or distribution to the public is a violation of law.

Pocket Star Books
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or
real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are
products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or
places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Marata Eros

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof
in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary
Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

First Pocket Star Books ebook edition August 2013
POCKET STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon
& Schuster, Inc.

The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For
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Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

Interior design by Akasha Archer
Jacket design by
Jacket art by

ISBN 978-1-4767-5223-5

 

BOOK: A Brutal Tenderness
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