Power to the Max (44 page)

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Authors: Jasmine Haynes

BOOK: Power to the Max
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“I’ll never lie to you, Max. I have no reason to lie. I might not tell you everything, but what I do tell you is the truth.”
He would lie, when it suited him. But now that he’d made his little vow, she knew he’d stick to his promise. Because that suited him, too. She believed him. He’d recorded only their voices.
She could be thankful they’d never said names, and no one could prove where the tape had been made. Maybe things weren’t so bad.
“Sweet dreams, my lovely Max.” A click, then the dial tone in her ear.
Fool. Where Bud was concerned, things were worse than bad.
What the hell had he planned for her now?

 

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Don’t miss the next exciting installment in the Max Starr series!

 

 

Her husband has been dead for two years, but Max Starr has never let him go. Now comes her greatest challenge. Was Cameron murdered when he stumbled onto a robbery at the wrong time? Or was something far more sinister going on?

 

With Detective Witt Long’s helping hand, Max must make the terrifying trip into her worst nightmare. Can Max bury her past and learn to love again, opening her heart fully to Witt? Or will the quest for vengeance take over her soul?

 

Copyright 2011 Jasmine Haynes

 

Prologue

 

There were many things she didn’t remember, things she didn’t want to, things she’d forced herself to forget for survival’s sake, and things that had simply faded away. This, though, was the one moment in her life she could never forget, that even her will had failed to erase.
It was the moment she would live and relive in her nightmares for all eternity.
She’d parked her car next to her husband’s, and now stood with her palm on the handle of the 7-11’s open door, gray metal turned icy by the late October night. The chill rose to numb her arms, traveled to the muscles of her face, and froze the thump of her heart mid-beat.
Inside, five men, including her husband, turned to her, then stilled like the arrested frame of an old movie. Bright florescent overhead lights leached the color from the scene and left their faces ashen. The acrid scent of burnt coffee wafted from the pot on its hot plate. Overdone hot dogs, cardboard hamburgers, and burritos ripened in their warming bins.
A grimace distorted the young clerk’s face as he stood paralyzed behind the counter.
Her husband, legs spread, knees bent slightly, arms away from his sides like a gunslinger ready for a shoot-out, hovered by a wire stand of snack chips.
Three men, faces hardened by evil to a similarity, grouped in huddle formation. The tallest held a gun in twitching fingers.
She would take the image of those faces to her grave.
A scar marred the cheek of the shortest. Slashing down from the ridge of bone to the corner of his mouth, it stretched his lips in a caricature of
Batman’s
Joker. A tattooed snake coiled on the arm of the second, the one closest to her. Following the fist already bunched, the snake’s bite would kill as easily as the real thing.
And the third. His blond hair brushed his shoulders and long lashes rimmed eyes the blue of a crisp cloudless fall sky. The smile of an angel creased full lips on a face that could have graced a movie screen and fluttered the hearts of teenage girls and old ladies. Except for the gun in his hand leveled steadily at the clerk. And his boots. Scarred black leather and steel toes that could crush ribs with a single kick.
She would remember the scar, the tattoo, and those boots.
The frozen moment, in which she saw everything and felt nothing, ended. The clerk reached beneath the counter. An alarm screeched in the night. The gun exploded, ghostly fire flashing from its muzzle. Her husband yelled.
And the gun went off again.
Someone screamed, the pain of it raging in her own throat.
Her husband slid to the dirty linoleum. Bags of Cheetos and Doritos fell to the floor with him and covered him like a blanket.
The sudden profusion of color almost blinded her. The leaf-green of his sweater, bright orange and yellow potato chip bags, the red dot of blood blossoming from the tiny hole in his forehead. Her knees cracked against the floor as if it were concrete. She crawled to him on elbows and knees, then gathered him to her.
His eyes turned from light brown to the deep color of freshly turned earth, and his breath bathed her wet cheek. When his lips moved, she could only read his final words over the clamor in her ears.
“Find my sister.”

 

 

If you enjoyed the excerpt, here’s where you can buy
Vengeance to the Max
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Enjoy an excerpt of Jasmine’s latest release from Berkley Heat

A DeKnight Novel

By Jasmine Haynes

Copyright 2011

 

A husband and wife satisfy every craving—and push past every inhibition…

 

Erin and Dominic had the perfect life—until a devastating blow rocked their marriage to the core. Now they only reconnect after dark, when sleepless nights become hours of ecstasy as they soothe emotional pain with physical pleasure—but still wake up feeling distant and alone.

 

Dominic refuses to give up on the relationship. To save their marriage, he sets up erotic adventures that take them far beyond the boundaries of both their comfort zones. As their love life moves from the privacy of their bedroom to public parties and sex retreats where anything is possible, will Dominic and
Erin
form a deeper bond…or will they lose it all?

 

Prologue

 

Just past midnight, she reached for him in the dark. A sliver of moonlight illuminated the bare wood bureau and blue carpet, its fingers creeping up the bedspread, ending at their feet, leaving the rest in darkness.

It was always past midnight when she turned to him, as if touching him in the daylight or at bedtime, when he wasn’t sleep-drowsed, was a sacrilege. He lived for the nights she reached out, as if his flesh were touch-starved. After a year and a month, he was starving, body, mind, and soul. He slept naked, terrified of missing a single moment. They never spoke. She wouldn’t cry out even when she came, her silence as essential to her as the dark. He used to beg for a word, a sound. Talk to me. He would have accepted anything—her anger, her pain, her guilt, her tears. But he’d always lost her as soon as his voice broke the quiet. He’d stopped asking and took what she allowed him; this, her hands on him, her mouth, her body. Without words, sex was anti-intimacy, yet this was all he had left of their marriage, these dark moments after midnight, and he would not let them go. He would not let her go.

Her hand skimmed over his nipple, pinching, turning the nub pebble hard. She’d always known the things that drove him crazy. Then she followed the arrow of hair down his abdomen to wrap her fingers around him. She stroked him softly, gently, to hardness. It didn’t take much, he was so on edge for her. He held his breath, afraid to disturb the silence, afraid he might cry out with the heat of her touch. Pushing the covers back, she laid her lips on his crown as the November night air rolled like a cold wave over his hot skin, the silk of her long red hair a curtain over his lap.

She engulfed him to the root. Her mouth on him was heaven and hell. God have mercy. He fisted his hands in the sheets, his body wanting to rock, thrust, drive deep into the recesses of her mouth. Yet he held still, so still but for the throbbing of his blood and the pounding of his heart. The sounds of her mouth, her tongue, her lips taking him was like a gentle melody on the wind, caressing him, stealing through his mind. She reached between his legs and squeezed the heart of his manhood, bringing him to an aching, crushing need, his body arching involuntarily. But still not a sound, not even a groan.

God, how he’d loved her, wanted her, still loved her even after all the pain, the guilt, the blame. Once upon a time he would have told her so, hauled her up along his chest to take her mouth, to taste his essence on her tongue. But those days were long gone; a year, four weeks, and a lifetime gone. Now all he could do was grit his teeth and try not to spend himself now, in her mouth. Because there was more. She would give him more, at least physically, but only in darkness and silence, only past midnight.

She shifted, then slid back with a suctioned pop as her mouth left him. A moment later, her firm thighs gripped his hips, the heat of her core close, so close he could feel her all the way up to his throat.

He didn’t enter her; she simply took him. As if he were nothing more than a solid piece of flesh to fill her emptiness and assuage her guilt and pain for this short space of time. She didn’t kiss him, didn’t brace herself on his chest to smile down at him. Their lovemaking used to be rich with talk and laughter, dirty talk, nasty talk, sexy talk, spinning ever kinkier fantasies for each other. It had been hot, exciting, priming him with the hope that someday they would act on those fantasies. Now she merely leaned back and rode him silently, hands splayed against her ass for support. For her, it was pure physicality, a way to stop the whirling thoughts and memories, the rawness of the act exhausting her into sleep.

For him, it was touch, connection, life. For a little while, he could pretend that she had forgiven him. His body rose to meet her, overcome by a blinding, aching need he dulled with physical pleasure and the remembered taste of her, the sweetness of her juice, the softness of her skin, the flowery scent of her body lotion, pungent now with her arousal.

She began to tremble with impending orgasm, her inner muscles working him. The barely there grunt of exertion remained her only sound, yet it was so erotic and beguiling in the deep after-midnight quiet.

She spasmed around him, her body curling over his, but not touching, never touching beyond the fusion of their hips. He shoved his head back into the pillow, thrusting hard and deep as her climax rippled over him, around him, inside him. He filled her, forcing her to feel him, bucking hard against her, limbs trembling, sweat beading his forehead with the effort it took not to scream out his orgasm. Explosive and mind-altering in the dark, the silence, her body, her heat. They ended with quivering bodies and harsh breathing, until finally she slipped away, tipping to her side of the bed.

Even as aftershocks jolted through him, she fell into the regular cadence of sleep, what she’d been striving toward when she reached for him. Sleep. Oblivion. The place where she could dream the dead alive again. She couldn’t talk about Jay, but she could dream of him.

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