Really Unusual Bad Boys (17 page)

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try some of her other titles
available from Brava…

Fast. Powerful. Deadly. With bitchin' highlights.

Ah, weddings—every single woman's reminder that she'll probably die alone, covered in cat hair and dressed in unflattering sweatpants. And as far as bad wedding experiences go, my friend Stacy's could take the cake: (1) I'm dateless, (2) I'm a bridesmaid, and (3) Someone just attempted to whack the groom (known, no kidding, as The Boss) in the middle of the ceremony. Whoa…hang on. I might not relish reception food or doing the Electric Slide, but anyone who tries to ruin a girlfriend's big day by bumping off her true love will have to go through me first.

 

So now I, assistant hairdresser Jenny Branch, am helping to hunt down a real-life bad guy, and the prime suspect is Kevin Stone, who claims to be working undercover for a group called Covert Ops Protection. Riiiight. All of this is hard to believe—my new role as spy-in-training, the fact that I'm surrounded by people with freaky superhuman powers, and most of all, the way that this unbelievably sexy villain/double agent/whatever Kevin is makes every (and I mean every) nerve ending tingle the second he comes into view…and it appears to be mutual. Living with flying bullets and constant danger is a long way from sweeping up hair at the end of the day. But if it means being around Kevin, a girl could get used to it…

 

MaryJanice Davidson's sequel to
Hello, Gorgeous
is a nonstop thrill ride of secret agents, wickedly seductive superspies, and deadly weapons, where a fearless, funny heroine and an irresistible hero could find themselves saving the universe…and setting each other's worlds on fire…

S
he found the minister in the men's room. He was trying to talk the bad guy into giving up his gun. Their voices were bouncing off the tile, and Jenny had just enough time to wish she'd knocked, but then it was too late, and she was standing under bright fluorescents and thinking,
This is the cleanest men's room I've ever seen. Also, the third men's room I've ever seen.

“Don't you think you should have planned this better?” she asked because, honestly, it was the first thought that popped into her head.

Not:
Help!

Not:
Oh my God, he's got a gun!

The bad guy grinned at her. He was dressed, to her disappointment, like most bad guys: neck to ankles in black fatigues, and fairly bristling with guns and knives and armor. His hair was cut brutally short—no more than a dark brown fuzz covered his skull. His dark eyes almost disappeared into laugh lines while he smiled at her, but she could see they were tipped at the ends, not quite almond-shaped, giving him an exotic look. It was a little like being in the men's room with a panther. Though without a firmer frame of reference, she probably couldn't be sure.

“I planned things just fine, sweetie,” he informed her in a North Carolina accent.
Ah planned things jest fahn, sweetie
. “Is he dead?”

To add the final touch of weirdness to the day, the bad guy pulled out a spork from nowhere and nibbled on the end.

A spork? But the nearest KFC was—

She wrenched her thoughts back to a logical track. Sporks be damned. Time to focus. Caitlyn and Dmitri were somewhere else in the building. The Boss was probably in an ambulance by now. Stacy was a civilian. The minister probably wasn't armed. All the urinals were empty. It was up to her.

“Hmm mmm hmm hmm,” she replied.

“What?” he said, taking a step toward her, putting the spork back into his bad-guy Bat belt.

She wrung her hands and moved closer. “Don't hurt us, please! I'll tell you where he is, only mmm hmm mmm.”

“Don't be scared, honey.”
Don't be scayed, honeh.
She fought the mad impulse to giggle. It was a little like talking to Foghorn Leghorn, in Kevlar. “Now what's that?”

She threw her bouquet in his face, poor thing that it was after she'd denuded it to make the cake. He flinched back and she clawed for the pistol in the shoulder holster, ducking as he swung at her with almost no force. What was that—was he really not trying to hurt her? Moron.

(You'd better be sure, if you try for a man's gun,)

She was sure. The Velcro tore…

(if he's any good he'll have one in the chamber, one in the chamber, one in the chamber)

…and she had the gun. She stuck it in his face the moment he cut his losses and backed up.

“You'd better come with me,” she said.

“Oh, dear God,” the minister said. He was in the far corner. Praying, not swearing. Funny. Half an hour ago, the guy had looked like he was in his early thirties. Now he looked ready for a retirement home. The black, of course, didn't help.

The bad guy hadn't lost his smile through the whole thing (weird!), and now he held his rifle out in front of him like a peace offering to a god, carefully put it down, backed up more, and raised his hands. “You got me, honey. I'll come quietly.”

“Oh.”

He laughed. A great laugh, booming and rich. It echoed off the tiles. “You sound disappointed, honey! Were you hoping for a smackdown in the boys' room?”

“Never you mind.” She moved to the side, the gun never wavering; she had sighted on the middle of his forehead. “Let's go, Carolina.”

“Aww. Who told you mah nickname?”

In a world nearly identical to ours, the North won the Civil War, flannel is the new bling, and Russia never sold Alaska to the U.S. Instead, Alaska is a beautiful, rough-and-tumble country ruled by a famously eccentric royal family who put the fun back in dysfunctional. And the tabloid darlings are about to get more ink once the King's “royal oats” come back in the form of a surprise princess, landing them all in, well…

The Royal Mess

Jeffrey Rodinov is descended from one of the oldest families in Alaska, and a Rodinov has been protecting a Baranov for generations. It's a job Jeffrey takes VERY seriously. Six feet four inches, 220 fatless pounds, black hair, and blue eyes, his weapon of choice is the 9 mm Beretta. In a pinch, it's his fists. His IQ: 157. (Yes, crossword puzzle, in ink, just after taking out the guy behind you. No thanks necessary.) No one ever sees Jeffrey Rodinov coming, and no one—not even a mouthy, illegitimate princess—is going to keep him from playing bodyguard when his king decrees it.

 

Right. But no Rodinov ever had to protect Princess Nicole Krenski. Her credentials? Hunting guide in the Alaskan wilderness. Smart. Stubborn bordering on exasperating. Five-seven. Blue eyes. Very kissable mouth. Very kissable neck, back, legs, wrists, earlobes. The lady says she doesn't need a bodyguard, but that's where she's wrong. Someone needs to watch her and show her the royal ropes (and cuffs…and scarves…). Someone who can make her feel like a queen—in and out of bed. And that's a job Jeffrey Rodinov takes very seriously as well…

N
icole didn't speak a word for forty miles, but weirdly, it wasn't awkward. Jeffrey hummed along with the fifties oldies station he played softly and seemed content to let her think. Or (what she was really doing) stew.

“Come in for a moment?” she asked when he pulled up to her trailer.

“That depends. How's your artillery?”

“Oh, that's hilarious.”

“I prefer the word
cautious.
”

When they were inside, she offered him a drink, which he declined. Oh…duh. He probably considered himself on duty.

“Uh, can you give me a ride to the palace tomorrow?”

He had been glancing around her living room, and spun around so fast she nearly took a step backward. For a big guy, he was quick on his feet. “The palace? You want to go to the palace?
Our
palace?”

“No, Buckingham Palace,” she snapped. “Of course our palace. Can you give me a ride? And get me in to talk to the king?”

“Of course. But as the head of his detail, I'd like to know your intentions. You realize that killing him will only—”

“I'm not going to kill him! My intentions are to submit to a DNA test.”

“You're taking a DNA test?”

“Are you partially deaf with that earpiece clogging up your left ear?
Yes
.”

She observed his eyebrows knit together. “Tomorrow?”

“Yup.” Gorgeous, but slow on the uptake, this guy.

“And then it will be official. You will be, to the world, Her Royal Highness, Crown Princess Nicole.”

“I guess.”

“Oh. Then I better do this now.”

“Do what?”

But he was moving with that lithe speed again and before she knew it, he was holding her in his arms and kissing her on the mouth. She was so surprised she forgot to bite.

And then she pretty much forgot everything else, too, for the first time since this crazy shit started up.

He was holding her firmly, but she had no sense of being restrained. He was taking her mouth without permission, but she had no sense of being violated.

Best of all, he wasn't stopping, and she had no sense of being not in control of the situation.

Because the truth was, she was kissing him back just as hard as he was kissing her.

Finally, after a time that might have been ten seconds or ten minutes, he let go of her and spun away, leaning on the counter between the kitchen and the living room. Clutching the counter, really. She saw with some astonishment that his knuckles were white.

“Why—why did you do that?”

“Because tomorrow you'll be Princess Nicole, and I won't be able to do it. I'll never be able to do it again.”

“But—”

“Good night, Nicole.”

She was so amazed she forgot to stop him.

In these two wickedly funny, sexy novellas, MaryJanice Davidson introduces the sort of lovers who'll steal everything…your wallet, your keys, your
inhibitions
, and sometimes even your heart.

Thief of Hearts

There's never a dull night in the ER for Dr. Jared Dean, especially when he sees the woman of his fantasies beating the crud out of the city's biggest, toughest mobster. It's enough to get a guy all hot and bothered. Not that it matters when Super-HotButtKickingChick gets away without giving her name. The name's Kara, aka The Avenging Angel, sort of a Robin Hood with better shoes. But now her latest revenge stunt has just landed the gorgeous doc on a mobster's hit list. There's only one thing to do: guard Dr. Jared's extremely fine bod until she can figure a way out of this mess for both of them. Jared's only too happy to accommodate. Anything to have her close at hand…and in his bed. As for her closed heart? He's got a plan for that, too…

Wild Hearts

Gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous. Too bad he was trying to steal her car. Kat Wechter has no intention of letting that happen. Not one to ever play it safe, it's amazing what an irresistible bad boy can drive a woman to do (pun intended). But Chester “Chess” McNamara is not your typical car thief. Seems he's fueled (ouch) by more complicated motives. and to find out what they are, Kat is more than willing to go along for the ride…(couldn't resist).

J
ared was walking through the living room, intent on the kitchen and a sandwich, when he saw Kara was deeply asleep on his couch, curled under a yellow fleece throw. He nearly walked into the end table.

He turned around, tiptoed back to his front door, and examined the lock. Absolutely no signs of tampering. Then he walked to the windows, which were all locked on the inside. The woman was a marvel, a ghost—a rich woman if she ever decided to use her powers to aid the forces of evil.

He went to stand over her again, wanting to talk to her, but also wanting to let her sleep. If she had stayed close, as she said she would—and he didn't think she would lie to him—she'd had a long day, most of it probably spent huddled on ledges. She hadn't heard him come in through the door and he hadn't been taking particular care to be quiet. Clearly she was exhausted. He would let her sleep.

Except…

Except her hair, in the faint gleam from the streetlight, was muted gold, the color of nuggets brought up from the river, gleaming dully among the pebbles and worth thousands. It was the first time he'd seen it down and he itched to touch, caress…

He reached out a trembling hand and stroked her hair where it curved along her skull, realizing with happy dismay that he was falling in love with a woman he knew nothing about, not even her last name.

It was his last happy thought for a while. She came awake like a cat in the dark—one minute dead to the world, the next utterly alert. Her hand came up, seized his wrist in a grip slightly less breakable than handcuffs, and pulled. Hard. He rocketed toward her and somehow—he didn't think this was possible to do from a prone position—she flipped him over the end of the couch. She didn't let go of his wrist and a split second later he was on his butt in the dust and she was looking down at him from the back of the couch, still holding his wrist, which started to throb from the pressure.

“For heaven's sake,” she complained, letting go. “Don't scare me like that.”

He could feel his eyes bulge. “Don't
scare
you?” he croaked, climbing slowly to his feet. “You're the one who broke in, dammit! Jesus Christ, I come into my apartment—
my
apartment—and here you are, dead to the world, a—a breaker and enterer—”

“I didn't break,” she said reasonably. “Just entered.”

“—and then you wake up and kick my ass all over my own living room. Who scared who?” He finished standing and was pleasantly surprised to find his legs were supporting him. His heart rate felt quite high—like about six hundred. “Some bodyguard!”

She snorted, then the snort turned into a laugh. She choked off the sound almost at once and looked at him, stone-faced. “I apologize for startling you. Something woke me up—”

He coughed, knowing his pawing her hair had been what awakened her and unwilling to impart that information at the moment.

“—and then I saw a large man—”

“A large, incredibly handsome, virile man,” he interrupted.

“—leaning over me and I acted instinctively. How's the wrist? Good thing I didn't break it on the way down,” she added thoughtfully.

“Yes, that
is
a good thing. I retract my whining. Instead I'll count my blessings. You could have broken my arm, caved in my skull, reached into my chest, and pulled out my still beating heart and showed it to me.”

She looked away. “I'm not quite that bad. You have—” she eyed him as he hustled toward the kitchen, remembering he hadn't eaten in seven hours—“admirable equilibrium.”

“That's what all my bodyguards say,” he replied affably over his shoulder. “How about some breakfast?”