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Ha—ifI succeed? I always succeed.
She looked back at Giant Johnny, watching her with his hands on his hips, legs braced apart. She eyed him. He stood like a sportsman, sure of his ground and his strength. A sliver of awareness slipped through her at the confidence he exuded. This man was capable of many things; she was certain of it.
And if she were to agree to his offer, she would be with him every day. This mountain, this behemoth, would have authority over her as her employer. It was not the proximity to the giant that worried her; it was that last fact.
It rankled. For so long she had wished for independence, had almost achieved it with her friends and the formation of the Governess Club, only to have it collapse underneath her. And now she found herself once again having to submit to a man’s authority.
It was a bitter pill to swallow. She would have to trust that she would eventually be able to turn the situation to her advantage. Nodding, she said, “I accept the position, Mr. Taylor.”
An Excerpt from
GOOD GUYS WEAR BLACK
by Lizbeth Selvig
When single mom Rose Hanrahan arrives in Kennison Falls, Minnesota, as the new head librarian, she instantly clashes with hometown hero Dewey Mitchell over just about everything. But in a small town like Kennison Falls, it’s tough to ignore anybody, and the more they’re thrown together, the more it seems like fate has something in store for them.
Waves of anger, like blasts of heat, rolled off the woman as she turned to the pumps. Rooted to the spot, Dewey watched the scene, studying the mystifying child. He was standing a little too close to the gas fumes, but irritation took a reluctant backseat to curiosity and captivation. What kind of kid couldn’t follow a simple directive from people in uniform? What nine- or ten-year-old kid knew the year, make, and model of a fourteen-year-old fire truck, not to mention its specs—right down to the capacities of its foam firefighting equipment?
Asperger’s syndrome. He knew the phrase but little about it. He certainly believed there were real syndromes out there, since he’d seen plenty of strange behavior in his life. But this reeked of a pissed-off mother simply warning him away from her weird kid. He knew in this day and age you weren’t supposed to touch a child, but, damn it, the kid could have gotten seriously hurt. And she sure as hell hadn’t been around.
Then there was the car. Over ten years old and spotless as new. The red GT didnotfit the woman. Or the situation. You just didn’t expect to see a mom and her son driving cross-country in a fireball-red sports car. She had some sort of mild, uppity accent and used words like “ire.” In a way, she wasn’t any more normal than her kid.
He tried to turn away. She wasn’t from town, so he wouldn’t have to think about her once the gas was pumped. But something compelled him to watch her finish—something that told him the world would go back to being a lot less interesting once she’d left it.
She let the boy hang the nozzle up, and then did something amazing. She opened her door, took out what appeared to be a chamois, and bent over the gas tank door to wipe and buff an area where gas must have dripped.
She doesn’t deserve it if she doesn’t know how to take care of it.That’s what he’d said about her.
Dang. She sure knew how to keep it ... red.
His observations were cut off by a sudden wail. The boy lunged like a spaniel after a squirrel. The woman grabbed him, squatted, and took his hands in hers, pressing his palms together like he was praying. Her mouth moved quickly, and she leaned in close, her forehead nearly but not quite touching her son’s.
It should not have been a remotely sexy picture, but it was nearly as attractive as the sight of her polishing the Mustang. The over-reactive Mama Wolverine morphed into someone intense and sincere with desperation around the edges, and something he didn’t understand at all tugged at him, deep in his gut.
The boy finally nodded and quit fussing. The woman dropped her hands and leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. After straightening, she glanced over her shoulder, and the boy’s wistful gaze followed. Dewey remembered that he’d begged only to look at the gauges on the truck. Should he just give in and let the kid have his look?
Then everything soft about the mother hardened as she met Dewey’s eyes. Her delicately angled features tightened like sharp weapons, and the wisps of hair escaping from a long, thick brown ponytail seemed to freeze in place as if they didn’t dare move for fear of pissing her off further. She stood, her shapely legs—their calves bare and browned beneath the hems of knee-length cargo shorts—spread like a superhero’s in front of her son. She didn’t say a word, so neither did Dewey. He didn’t need to take her on again. Let the kid look up the gauges online.
With a parting shot from her angry eyes, she ushered the boy into the passenger seat, darted to her side, and climbed in. The engine came to life and purred like a jungle cat. She clearly cared for the car the way she did for her son. Or somebody did.
However angry she was, she didn’t take it out on the car but pulled smoothly away from the pump. Dewey smiled. It was her car all right. Had it not been, she’d have peeled out just to punctuate her feelings for him.
Impressive woman. A little crazy. But impressive.
An Excerpt from
SINFUL REWARDS 1
A Billionaires and Bikers Novella
by Cynthia Sax
Belinda “Bee” Carter is a good girl; at least, that’s what she tells herself. And a good girl deserves a nice guy—just like the gorgeous and moody billionaire Nicolas Rainer. Or so she thinks, until she takes a look through her telescope and sees a naked, tattooed man on the balcony across the courtyard. He has been watching her, and that makes him all the more enticing. But when a mysterious and anonymous text message dares her to do something bad, she must decide if she is really the good girl she has always claimed to be, or if she’s willing to risk everything for her secret fantasy of being watched.
An Avon Red Novella
I’d told Cyndi I’d never use it, that it was an instrument purchased by perverts to spy on their neighbors. She’d laughed and called me a prude, not knowing that I was one of those perverts, that I secretly yearned to watch and be watched, to care and be cared for.
