Non-Stop Till Tokyo (46 page)

“But we’re not in Shanghai,” Crane repeated. “This is London. Yu Len is half the world away, and at this rate I’m not going to make it to next quarter day.”

“So we find a shaman here,” said Merrick simply.

“But—”

“No buts!” The words rang off the stone floor and tiled walls. “You can go to some mad-doctor and get thrown in the bedlam, or you can sit there and go mad for thinking you’re going mad, or we find a fucking shaman and get this looked at like we would back home, because hereditary my
arse
.” Merrick leaned forward, hands on the table, glaring in his master’s face. “I know you, Lucien Vaudrey. I seen you look death in the face plenty of times, and every time you either ran like hell or you kicked him in the balls, so don’t you tell me you want to die. I never met anyone who didn’t want to die as much as you don’t. So we are going to find a shaman and get this sorted, unless you got any better ideas, which you don’t!
Right?
”

Merrick held his gaze for a few seconds, then straightened and began to tidy up. Crane cleared his throat. “Are there English shamans?”

“Got to be, right? Witches. Whatever.”

“I suppose so,” said Crane, trying hard, knowing it was pointless, knowing he owed it to Merrick. “I suppose so. Who’d know…” His fingers twitched, calling up memories. “Rackham. He’s back, isn’t he? I could ask him.”

“Mr. Rackham,” agreed Merrick. “We’ll go see him. Ask for a shaman. You got any idea where he is?”

“No.” Crane flexed his bandaged wrist and rose. “But if I can’t find him through any of the clubs, we can just hang around all the filthiest opium dens in Limehouse till we meet him.”

“See?” said Merrick. “Things are looking up already.”

The truth is buried in her memories. Unearthing it could kill them both.

Son of the Enemy

© 2013 Ana Barrons

FBI Agent John Daly has spent twenty-three years studying psychology, trying to understand how his father wound up in prison, convicted of a brutal murder.

And then he gets the letter. Telling him of evidence tampering. Telling of the sole witness, a six-year-old girl who’s now a twenty-nine-year-old school director. Somewhere, buried in her memories, is the identity of the real killer.

John knows he has no business going undercover to get close to Hannah Duncan, but blood is thicker than the ink on his paycheck.

Hannah is trying hard not to fall for the writer researching an article about her school, but John is breaking down every defense she’s built since her mother’s murder and her father’s rejection. Igniting a flame that burns brighter and hotter than any she’s felt before.

Someone is watching, leaving her roses and cryptic notes. And as the similarities between Hannah’s stalker and her mother’s killer become increasingly alarming, John must decide which means more to him: his father’s freedom…or Hannah’s love.

Warning: Contains a deeply wounded hero and heroine who, together, are greater than the sum of their scars. Breath-stealing emotions and heart-pounding suspense could cause an attack of whitened knuckles. Best read under the covers with a flashlight.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Son of the Enemy:

John Emerson Daly knocked on the door to the office marked
Head of School.
No answer. He wiped sweaty palms on his corduroy jacket, took a deep breath and let it out. The door was cracked a few inches, so he pushed it open and peered inside.

In a small sitting area beyond the office proper, a woman in a calf-length denim skirt and white sweater sat hunched over an ottoman, massaging her temples, long brown hair bound in a loose ponytail. His heart took off at a gallop.

Hannah Duncan. In the flesh.

He allowed himself a brief fantasy of walking over to that chair and telling her the truth.

Hi, my father’s in prison for killing your mother. And I need you to help me get him out.

Yeah. Imagine that.

An older, gray-haired woman came around the corner of the L-shaped room dragging a small cleaning cart, and bent to the wastebasket. From his position in the hall, John could just make out the conversation between the women.

“Did you throw away
more
of these flowers, Ms. Duncan?” the older woman asked, at the same time lifting the bouquet of yellow roses out of the trash and sticking them in a glass vase on the oak desk. John shifted back so she wouldn’t spot him.

“Just leave them, Edna,” Hannah said, not raising her head.

“But they’re too pretty to waste.”

“Then take them home with you. Please.”

Edna shook her head in disgust, but stuck the bouquet in her cart and turned toward the door. John quickly lifted his hand to knock again, and Edna speared him with light blue eyes made huge by the horn-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. Behind her, Hannah said, “Who is it?”

Edna pulled the door all the way open and pushed by him with a mumbled “’Scuse me.” John eased around her and entered the office—and went still at the sight of the slim woman standing before him. Hannah Duncan at twenty-nine was the spitting image of her mother, Sharon, at the same age. The age she was when John’s father murdered her.

He gazed, fascinated, at the high cheekbones, the lush mouth, the golden-brown eyes she’d inherited from her mother—the woman his father had loved more than his own family. The woman he’d loved so much that he killed her when she tried to break it off.

Or so the jury said.

Hannah moved toward him and extended her hand, setting the silver bangles at her wrist jingling. Her grip was firm, but her fingers were like ice. He had held a recent newspaper photo of Hannah side by side with yellowed newspaper photos of her mother, and the resemblance between the women had disturbed him. But now, in the presence of this living, breathing woman, her likeness to his father’s lover took his breath away.

“Are you Mr. Winter?” she asked. “I thought my assistant had changed our appointment.”

He hoped his smile covered his agitation. “No, I’m John Emerson. You weren’t expecting me until next week, but I got into the area early and thought I’d stop in.”

For a moment she stood there, frowning in puzzlement, then raised her eyebrows. “Emerson. Oh yes, the author. You’re writing the book about Arthur and the school.”

“That’s me.”

She glanced at her watch. “I’d love to chat with you, but unfortunately I can’t. I have a previous engagement and I need to get home. I’m sorry.”

The previous engagement was probably a date with Thornton Bradshaw III. The multimillionaire businessman had a kid at the Grange School, and was bankrolling the new gym and science center. He also had more mob associates than zeros in his bank account.

“No problem,” John said. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary. I live on campus.”

“Then I’ll walk you home.”

For several beats she said nothing, just studied him, and John had the strangest feeling she was peering straight into his black, lying soul. “Well,” she said at last, “if Arthur thinks you’re okay, I guess I can assume you’re not the Big Bad Wolf.”

He chuckled. “I promise not to eat you up.”
Just deceive you and use you and mess with your head.

“Okay, then.” She went back to the ottoman and picked up a small white card with the tips of her fingers, carefully, as though it might burn her, and slipped it into her skirt pocket.

She crossed the room, moving gracefully, her back straight as a dancer’s. His gaze wandered over her slim, curvaceous body—another gift from her mother. She grabbed a forest-green down vest off the back of her chair, slid her arms into it, then lifted a large leather purse and two canvas bags stuffed with books and files onto her desk.

He reached over and plucked the canvas totes off the desk. “I’ll carry these.” He hefted them like barbells. “Impressive. Will you get to all this over the weekend?”

She gave him a half smile, her expression distant. “Call me an optimist.”

He followed her down the steps of the colonial mansion that housed the administrative offices of the Grange School. It was very dark in rural Loudoun County, Virginia, and the night was damp and cold. He could smell the snow that was due to fall overnight, just as he had the night the police came for his father. Even after twenty-three years, he still struggled with the sense of impending doom evoked by a scent on the wind. He took a deep, slow breath. Then another. But, like a song that’s stuck in your head, the memory insisted on playing.

He’s running down the street next to the police car, clinging to the door handle with one hand and banging on the window with the other, the tears making everything blurry. They’re taking his father away and he can’t stand it. This can’t be happening to him. The car stops at the corner, and the cop rolls down the window. John sticks his arm inside and tries to touch his father’s hand, but there’s something in the way. A cage. He bangs on it. The cop talks to him softly, and John shoves at him with the back of his arm.

“Let him go!” he shrieks. “Let him go!”

The police car turns the corner quickly and picks up speed until John can’t keep up any longer. He falls onto his knees in the street, howling his rage and grief. His father is gone, and the world is all wrong. All wrong.

Hannah reached the bottom of the steps, and he swiped at his cheeks quickly, unsure whether his tears were real or imagined.

She turned to him. “I can take those totes. I carry them every night, all by myself.”

“Call me old-fashioned. I promise to give them back at your door.”

“Suit yourself,” she said, but he caught a glimmer of irritation in those light-brown eyes.

She headed across the lawn to the gravel parking lot, her pace brisk. Long strands of wavy hair had escaped from her ponytail and blew across her face, hiding her expression. He was picking up some kind of strange vibe from her, but he couldn’t really identify it. Maybe she was still distracted by whatever she’d been thinking about when he walked into her office. Or maybe he was being too damn pushy.

Yeah, he was pushing. This woman didn’t know him from Adam. But his leave from the bureau was due to run out in less than a month, and he didn’t have time to pussyfoot around.

With passion at full throttle, there’s no turning back.

Barely Undercover

© 2013 Sarah Castille

Legal Heat, Book 2

When private investigator Lana Parker follows a dangerous biker into an underground sex club, James Hunter is the last man she expects to see. But there he is, all dark looks and chiseled charms, ready to break her heart all over again.
 

Danger is the name of the game for an undercover cop. And the last thing James wants is for the fiery beauty to come anywhere near the notorious biker gang he’s trying to take down. Yet Lana has no intention of giving up her case, which means he’ll have to keep her close to keep her safe. A risky proposition—especially when their blazing sexual chemistry reignites an unforgettable passion.
 

But when a dark terror emerges from the past, Lana goes on the run…and James gives up everything to save her. Backed into a corner, Lana must face her fears, including the one thing that frightens her most…her overwhelming feelings for the man whose searing glance sparks her most hidden desires, the man she should not trust, but cannot resist.

Warning: The book contains violence, explicit sex, light bondage, heavy swearing, motorcycle sexytimes, bad-ass biker naughtytimes, and an exceptionally hot hero who will get down and dirty anywhere but under the covers.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Barely Undercover:

A shiver coursed up Lana’s spine, and she shook her head to loosen her tongue. “I’m meeting someone.”

Rex’s rough, gravelly voice deepened. “Right now, you’re meeting me.” His gaze crawled over her, unleashing a wave of cockroaches under her skin. By the time his eyes returned to her face, a cold, sticky sweat covered her body.

With all the faux bravado she could muster, she gave him a tight smile and took a step back. “And…the meeting is over. Nice to meet you. Goodbye.”

His arm shot out, grabbing her shoulder, holding her in place. “Usually when I see a cop, I get an itch in my trigger finger. I look at you and I get an itch somewhere else. Ditch the boyfriend. One night with me and you’ll forget he exists.”

An itch? She suspected it might have to do more with his extramarital affairs and visits to the Seymour Street brothels than a desire to hump and pump with a curvy redhead in a dirty cop costume. Talk about putting a girl off.

Rex smiled, all nicotine-stained teeth and ashtray breath. “Yeah. I can see it in your eyes. You know what I’m talking about.”

What did he see exactly? Fear? Disgust? Or her desperate need to find the number for the local STD clinic?

Lana gave him a vacant smile as she considered her options.
Option #1: Find a boyfriend.
Heart thumping, she looked around the bar for a pseudoboyfriend—someone big, strong and sufficiently threatening. No one measured up except…maybe…Master Tony? She raked her eyes over the tall, broad frame of the club’s owner, but when he turned to greet someone at the door, she gave a little sigh. He had been less than pleased the last time she’d sneaked into the club. She doubted he would help her once he discovered she’d sneaked in again.