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Authors: Josh Lanyon

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Micah frowned. His irritation with Tucker was coming back. “Just what’re you insinuating?” He

hopped on the bed a couple times in a row. He was not some wuss because he liked to get fucked, damn it.

And he was getting really tired of the whole “you’re just out of the hospital” crap.

“I’m not insinuating anything. I’m stating a fact. I top. Always.” Tucker’s brow furrowed. It became

apparent why opposing football players in college had feared him and why businessmen probably still did, but that glare didn’t work on Micah. “No one, especially my family, would ever believe otherwise.”

“Well, I get to top in imaginary sex.” Micah pushed the wire frames back up his nose and resisted the

childish urge to stick his tongue out.

“No, you don’t.” Pushing away from the door, Tucker strode forward, scowling now. He looked

mean.

This was the most ridiculous conversation ever. Micah should just drop it, it was beyond silly, but he didn’t. “Oh yes I do.” He jumped a few more times. “Oh yeah, baby. Take. It. You like my big fat cock up yo—”

Tucker tackled him.

The road back to bestsellerdom can be deadly.

Somebody Killed His Editor

Holmes & Moriarity, Book 1

Thanks to an elderly spinster sleuth and her ingenious cat, Christopher Holmes has enjoyed a

celebrated career as a bestselling mystery writer. Until now. Sales are down and his new editor is allergic to geriatric gumshoes.

On the advice of his agent, he reinvents his fortyish, frumpy, recently dumped self into the sleek, sexy image of a literary lion, and heads for a Northern California writers conference to try and resurrect his career. A career nearly as dead as the body he stumbles over in the woods.

In a weirdly déjà vu replay of one of his own novels, he finds himself stranded in an isolated lodge

full of frightened women—and not a lawman in sight. Except for J.X. Moriarity, former cop and bestselling novelist. The man with whom he shared a one-night stand—okay, maybe three—long ago. The man who

wants to arrest him for murder.

A ruthless, stalking killer, or a hot, handsome ex-lover. Which poses the greater danger? It’s

elementary, my dear Holmes!

Warning:
This book contains a washed-out bridge, an isolated hunting lodge, desperate writers,
guilty secrets, a killer on the loose, and one very hot ex-cop who wants his former lover in handcuffs—for
all the wrong reasons!

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Somebody Killed His Editor:

Someone was howling—a thin, breathless cry that was, in fact, more breath than cry.

Me.

Far from splitting the night, my bleat barely carried three feet, so I had no trouble hearing my

attacker’s exasperated,
“What. The. Fuck?”

I knew that voice.

I bit off the rest of my screech and sat up, wincing as pain shot up my spine. I was sitting in a puddle, ice-cold water soaking through my trousers. The last time I remembered being decked had been a

playground rumble at Our Holy Mother. I’d been thirteen. My bounce had been better back then. Now I felt like I’d wrenched every muscle in my already worn-out body. And my back…I’d be lucky if I wasn’t

crippled for a month. I wiped the mud off my face.

“I am
so
going to sue your ass,” I spluttered.

“Well, what the
hell
are you doing out here?” J.X. demanded.

No apology seemed forthcoming. Also, I couldn’t help noticing, neither was help from the lodge.

Were we too far away to be heard? Not a happy thought.

“What do you think I’m doing? I’m going to my cabin.”

“Crawling on your hands and knees?”

“I wasn’t
on
my hands and knees till you knocked me down.”

“You sure as hell were skulking in the bushes.”

“I heard something—you—and I was making sure it was safe.”

He continued to stare down at me. I wished I could see his face. His motionless outline caused my

scalp to prickle. Then he reached down a hand.

His hand was warm on my chilled one. Again I was aware of his wiry strength. He wasn’t much taller

than me, but he was in a hell of a lot better shape. He pulled me to my feet and dropped my hand.

“What are
you
doing out here?” I asked, uneasily rubbing the twinging small of my back.

“Grabbing a log for my fireplace.” He reached past me and picked up a nice stout sawed-off limb.

“It’s going to be a cold night.” He picked up another log. “Here’s one for you.”

“Thanks.” I stepped out of range, trying not to be too obvious about it. Not that I didn’t appreciate the gesture, but there was something unconvincing in his manner. What had he been looking for out here?

J.X. still held out the log. I took it gingerly.

“I’ll see you to your cabin.”

I followed him down the dirt path that cut across the open field toward the cabins. The sodden clouds

had parted and a lackluster moon gilded everything in unnatural light. In the absence of the rain and wind, the stillness seemed uncanny.

Mostly to fill the uncomfortable silence between myself and J.X., I said, “There’s something eerie

about the stillness.”

“It’s the eye of the storm.”

“You mean there’s more rain on the way?”

“Oh yeah. We’re a couple of hours away from another downpour.”

“Great.”

“Which is your cabin?”

“That one—with the lights on.”

He said sharply, “Did you leave the light on?”

“Yes.” I cast a quick glance at his silvered profile. “Why? You don’t really think I’m in any danger,

do you?”

“No.”

“You could try to sound a little more convincing.”

What he sounded was irritable. “You had to go around telling everyone Peaches had been murdered,

didn’t you?”

“That’s it.” I stopped walking. The glassware rattled to a halt with me. “We need to have this out here and now.” I was talking to his back. “
Hey
.”

He kept walking. I had to trot to catch up—which irritated me further.

“Listen,” I said, “I did not tell anyone
anything.
Peaches was everybody’s candidate for unnatural selection. From the minute I said I found her in the woods, people were speculating about how she died.”

“And you encouraged their speculation.”

“I didn’t. I didn’t say anything one way or the other. I didn’t
know
anything one way or the other. I still don’t.”

J.X. stopped walking. His voice was low. “We both know she was killed.”

I swallowed hard. “Are you sure?”

He nodded.

“Did you tell the sheriffs?”

“Yep.”

He started walking again. After a few seconds of thought, I tagged after.

As we reached my cabin, he asked, “You want me to take a look inside?”

I hesitated. If he was a homicidal maniac, this was his big chance. No one had seen us walk out here

together. Certainly no one had responded to my shouts.

On the other hand, what if the homicidal maniac was hiding under my bed? I didn’t feel up to dealing

with it on my own.

I unlocked the door and pushed it open. The first sight to meet our gaze was my brand-new silk

jockstrap lying on the floor next to the bed. Scarlet silk. I mean…

“I had no idea,” J.X. murmured.

“You still don’t.”

He laughed and I was abruptly reminded that this was not the first time he had been in my bedroom. I

remembered some other things too—things I’d thought I’d forgotten: the smoky, sweet taste of his mouth, his husky laugh, his strength—and his gentleness. You don’t expect gentleness from a twenty-five-year-old macho cop, but he had been…tender. Energetic, but tender.

I had handed him the drinks tray while I unlocked the door, now I watched him set the tray of gin and

tonic water on the table by the wall. I opened my mouth to ask if he was married—but there is no way to ask that it doesn’t sound like you have a personal stake in the answer. It’s like asking a man if he’s gay—

which would have been my second question.

And while I had no personal interest in J.X. Moriarity, hearing him confirm tonight that he was

straight would have felt like the very last straw.

So I watched him open the closet and push my few clothes aside. He stepped into the bathroom and

shoved the shower curtain back.

I squatted down and looked under the bed. “All clear.”

His expression told me that I was not taking this seriously enough.

He examined the window casings while I went to rinse my muddy glass out in the bathroom.

I sat on the bed and unscrewed the bottlecap. “Would you like a nightcap? I think there’s a plastic cup in the bathroom. Or you can use the coffee pot to drink from.”

He studied me.

“Look, Kit, I realize it’s none of my business, but go easy on that stuff. You need to keep your wits

about you.”

“I’m never wittier than when I’ve had a few drinks,” I informed him in my best Elsa Lancaster

imitation. Not that he would have a clue who Elsa Lancaster was, she was well before his time. Well before mine, too, now that I thought about it, but the evening had aged me.

J.X. sighed. “I know you’ve had a rough day. But this is for real. If someone really wanted into this

cabin, it wouldn’t be hard to get inside.”

“I’ll sleep with one eye open.”

“Better yet, sleep with that chair propped beneath the door handle.”

Great minds.

“Okay.” I held up the bottle. “Sure you won’t have one for the road?”

He shook his head. “I need to sleep. I’m dead.”

“Unfortunate choice of words.” I poured gin in the glass. Studied the still bubbly tonic water. That

bottle needed to be opened in the bathroom over the sink to minimize loss of vital fluids. “Sleep tight.

Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

J.X. opened the cabin door. He hesitated. “Steven can be a real asshole.”

“There it is again, the keen eye of the master detective.”