One Fine Fireman (17 page)
Authors: Jennifer Bernard
“Well, this is a lucky coincidence,” the man said in a voice like tarred gravel. “The way I figure it, you owe me three hundred and sixty-eight dollars. Cash will be fine.”
“Excuse me?” She peered up at him, his black hair and eyes coming quickly into focus. Her stomach fluttered at the sheer impact of his physical presence. He was absolutely huge, well over six feet tall, a column of hard muscle contained within jeans and a black T-shirt. “If you’re referring to your well-deserved spanking from the Reno PD, don’t even start. No one made you run that red light.”
“Sorry, did you say something? I can barely hear you over the ringing in my ears.”
Sabina lifted her chin. If he thought he could intimidate her, he didn’t realize who he was dealing with. She worked with firefighters all day long, not one of them a pushover. “Maybe you should try not yelling at your family for a change.”
“Excuse me?” He glowered down at her, looking mortally offended. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Realizing she’d probably crossed a line, Sabina scrambled to recover. “Anyway, you already got your revenge. They gave me a ticket too. We’re square.”
“I wouldn’t have had to yell if you’d had the common decency to respond to a perfectly reasonable request.”
Sabina felt her temperature rise. He wasn’t making it easy to make peace with him. “Request? Something tells me you never make requests. Orders, sure. Requests, dream on.”
“You think you know me?”
“Why should I want to know you when all you do is scowl and shout at me?”
“Shout?” He shook his head slowly, with a stupefied look. “They told me the people were different out here. I had no idea that meant insane.”
Sabina tried to sidestep around him and end this crazy downward spiral of a conversation. “I wish the police gave tickets for rudeness, you’d have about three more by now.”
He blocked her path again, so she found herself nose-to-chest with him. Sabina imagined him as a Scottish laird or a medieval warrior hacking at enemies on the battlefield. The man was fierce, but annoyingly attractive. He even smelled nice, like sunshine on leather seats.
“How about drowning out a man’s first phone call with his son in two thousand miles? How’s that for rudeness?”
He had a point. But a surge of resentment swamped her momentary pang of conscience. So some people
did
talk to their children on Thanksgiving. Normal people, irritatingly, aggravatingly, unreachably normal people. People who were not her or her mother.
“Fine,” she snapped. “Here.” She dug in her pocket and took out a handful of change. “We’re at a casino, right? Play your cards right and you’ll get your precious three hundred and sixty-eight dollars. Good luck.”
She lifted one of his hands—so big and warm—and plopped her small pile of change into his palm. With the air of an offended duchess, she swept past him, deeply appreciating the way his black-stubbled jaw dropped open.
So maybe she’d been wrong before. Maybe revenge was a dish best served in a hotel lobby with a side of loose change.
J
ENNIFER
B
ERNARD IS
a graduate of Harvard and a former news promo producer. The child of academics, she confounded her family by preferring romance novels to . . . well, any other books. She left big-city life for true love in Alaska, where she now lives with her husband and stepdaughters. She’s no stranger to book success, as she also writes erotic novellas under a naughty secret name not to be mentioned at family gatherings. Visit her on the Web at www.JenniferBernard.net.
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The Fireman Who Loved Me
Hot for Fireman
Sex and the Single Fireman
(available February 2013)
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Available now wherever e-books are sold.
By Maya Rodale
T
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By Zoë Archer
FURTHER CONFESSIONS OF A SLIGHTLY NEUROTIC HITWOMAN
By JB Lynn
THE SECOND SEDUCTION OF A LADY
By Miranda Neville
A
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G
UARDIANS
N
OVELLA
By Juliana Stone
By Morgan Kelly
By Eloisa James
An Excerpt from
by Maya Rodale
Enter the Regency world of the Writing Girls series in Maya Rodale’s charming tale of a scheming lady, a handsome second son, and the trouble they get into when the perfect scandal becomes an even more perfect match.
M
ost young ladies spent their pin money on hats and hair ribbons; Charlotte spent hers on bribery.
At precisely three o’clock, Charlotte sipped her lemonade and watched as a footman dressed in royal blue livery approached James with the unfortunate news that something at the folly needed his immediate attention.
James raked his fingers through his hair—she thought it best described as the color of wheat at sunset on harvest day. He scowled. It did nothing to diminish his good looks. Combined with that scar, it made him appear only more brooding, more dangerous, more rakish.
She hadn’t seen him in an age . . . Not since George Coney’s funeral.
Even though the memory brought on a wave of sadness and rage, Charlotte couldn’t help it: she smiled broadly when James set off for the folly at a brisk walk. Her heart began to pound. The plan was in effect.
Just a few minutes later, the rest of the garden party gathered ’round Lord Hastings as he began an ambling tour of his gardens, including the vegetables, his collection of flowering shrubs, and a series of pea gravel paths that meandered through groves of trees and other landscaped “moments.”
Charlotte and Harriet were to be found skulking toward the back of the group, studiously avoiding relatives—such as Charlotte’s brother, Brandon, and his wife, Sophie, who had been watching Charlotte a little too closely for comfort ever since The Scheme That Had Gone Horribly Awry. Harriet’s mother was deep in conversation with her bosom friend, Lady Newport.
A few steps ahead was Miss Swan Lucy Feathers herself. Today she was decked in a pale muslin gown and an enormous bonnet that had been decorated with what seemed to be a shrubbery. Upon closer inspection, it was a variety of fresh flowers and garden clippings. Even a little bird (fake, one hoped) had been nestled into the arrangement. Two wide, fawn-colored ribbons tied the millinery event to her head.
Charlotte felt another pang, and then—Lord above—she suffered
second thoughts
. First the swan bonnet, and now this! James had once broken her heart horribly, but could he really marry someone with such atrocious taste in bonnets? And, if not, should the scheme progress?
“Lovely day for a garden party, is it not?” Harriet said brightly to Miss Swan Lucy.
“Oh, indeed it is a lovely day,” Lucy replied. “Though it would be so much better if I weren’t so vexed by these bonnet strings. This taffeta ribbon is just adorable, but immensely itchy against my skin.”
“What a ghastly problem. Try loosening the strings?” Charlotte suggested. Her other thought she kept to herself:
Or remove the monstrous thing entirely
.
“It’s a bit windy. I shan’t wish it to blow away,” Lucy said nervously. Indeed, the wind had picked up, bending the hat brim. On such a warm summer day as this, no one complained.
“A gentle summer breeze. The sun is glorious, though,” Harriet replied.
“This breeze is threatening to send off my bonnet, and I shall freckle terribly without it in this sun. Alas!” Lucy cried, her fingers tugging at her bonnet strings.
“What is wrong with freckles?” Harriet asked. The correct answer was
nothing
since Harriet possessed a smattering of freckles across her nose and rosy cheeks.
“We should find you some shade,” Charlotte declared. “Shouldn’t we, Harriet?”
“Yes. Shade. Just the thing,” Harriet echoed. She was frowning, probably in vexation over the comment about freckles. Charlotte thought there were worse things, such as being a feather-brain like Lucy.
Charlotte suffered another pang. She loathed second thoughts and generally avoided them. She reminded herself that while James had once been her favorite person in England, he had since become the sort of man who brooded endlessly and flirted heartlessly.
Never mind what he had done to George Coney . . .
An Excerpt from
T
HE
E
THER
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HRONICLES
by Zoë Archer
In the world of The Ether Chronicles, the Mechanical War rages on, and appearances are almost always deceiving . . . Read on for a glimpse of Zoë Archer’s latest addition to this riveting series.
H
e
had
to be here. His airship,
Bielyi Voron
, had been spotted nearby. Through the judicious use of bribery, she had learned that he frequented this tavern. If he wasn’t here, she would have to come up with a whole new plan, but that would take costly time. Every hour, every day that passed meant the danger only increased.
She walked past another room, then halted abruptly when she heard a deep voice inside the chamber speaking in Russian. Cautiously, she peered around the doorway. A man sat in a booth against the far wall. The man she sought. Of that she had no doubt.
Captain Mikhail Mikhailovich Denisov. Rogue Man O’ War.
Like most people, Daphne had heard of the Man O’ Wars, but she’d never seen one in person. Not until this moment. Newspaper reports and even cinemagraphs could not fully do justice to this amalgam of man and machine. The telumium implants that all Man O’ Wars possessed gave them incredible might and speed, and heightened senses. Those same implants also created a symbiotic relationship between Man O’ Wars and their airships. They both captained and powered these airborne vessels. The implants fed off of and engendered the Man O’ Wars’ natural strength of will and courage.
Even standing at the far end of the room, Daphne felt Denisov’s energy—invisible, silent waves of power that resonated in her very bones. As a scholar, she found the phenomenon fascinating. As a woman, she was . . . troubled.
Hard angles comprised his face: a boldly square jaw, high cheekbones, a decidedly Slavic nose. The slightly almond shape of his eyes revealed distant Tartar blood, while his curved, full mouth was all voluptuary, framed by a trimmed, dark goatee. An arresting face that spoke of a life fully lived. She would have looked twice at him under any circumstances, but it was his hair that truly made her gape.
He’d shaved most of his head to dark stubble, but down the center he’d let his hair grow longer, and it stood up in a dramatic crest, the tip colored crimson. Dimly, she remembered reading about the American Indians called Mohawks, who wore their hair in just such a fashion. Never before had she seen it on a non-Indian.
By rights, the style ought to look outlandish, or even ludicrous. Yet on Denisov, it was precisely right—dangerous, unexpected, and surprisingly alluring. Rings of graduated sizes ran along the edge of one ear, and a dagger-shaped pendant hung from the lobe of his other ear.
Though Denisov sat in a corner booth, his size was evident. His arms stretched out along the back of the booth, and he sprawled in a seemingly casual pose, his long legs sticking out from beneath the table. A small child could have fit inside each of his tall, buckled boots. He wore what must have been his Russian Imperial Aerial Navy long coat, but he’d torn off the sleeves, and the once-somber gray wool now sported a motley assortment of chains, medals, ribbons, and bits of clockwork. A deliberate show of defiance. His coat proclaimed:
I’m no longer under any government’s control
.
If he wore a shirt beneath his coat, she couldn’t tell. His arms were bare, save for a thick leather gauntlet adorned with more buckles on one wrist.
Despite her years of fieldwork in the world’s faraway places, Daphne could confidently say Denisov was by far the most extraordinary-looking individual she’d ever seen. She barely noticed the two men sitting with him, all three of them laughing boisterously over something Denisov said.
His laugh stopped abruptly. He trained his quartz blue gaze right on her.
As if filled with ether, her heart immediately soared into her throat. She felt as though she’d been targeted by a predator. Nowhere to turn, nowhere to run.
I’m not here to run.
When he crooked his finger, motioning for her to come toward him, she fought her impulse to flee. Instead, she put one foot in front of the other, approaching his booth until she stood before him. Even with the table separating them, she didn’t feel protected. One sweep of his thickly muscled arm could have tossed the heavy oak aside as if it were paper.
“Your search has ended,
zaika
.” His voice was heavily accented, deep as a cavern. “Here I am.”
An Excerpt from
by JB Lynn
Knocking off a drug kingpin was the last thing on Maggie Lee’s to-do list . . . Take three wacky aunts, two talking animals, one nervous bride, and an upcoming hit, and you’ve got the follow-up to JB Lynn’s wickedly funny
Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman
.
