Red Handed (32 page)

Standing close to him in the claustrophobic space, she inhaled the musky scent of his aftershave, felt his radiating heat. Her trembling body instinctively angled toward him.

Mr. Trenton spoke, fracturing the quiet of the small space with his deep and powerful voice. “This morning, our firm's biggest client, Jaxon Deveroux, arrived home from his business trip and found his wife dead from multiple stab wounds.”

About the Author

SHELLY BELL
writes sensual romance and erotic thrillers with high emotional stakes for her alpha heroes and kick-ass heroines. She began writing upon the insistence of her husband, who dragged her to the store and bought her a laptop. When she's not practicing corporate law, taking care of her family, or writing, you'll find her reading the latest smutty romance.

Shelly is a member of Romance Writers of America and International Thriller Writers.

Visit her website at ShellyBellBooks.com.

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By Shelly Bell

BENEDICTION NOVELS

Red Handed

White Collared

Part One: Mercy

Part Two: Greed

Part Three: Revenge

Part Four: Passion

An Excerpt from

A Victorian Valentine's Day Novella

by Megan Frampton

Megan Frampton's
Dukes Behaving Badly
series continues, but this time it's an earl who's meeting his match in a delightfully fun and sexy novella!

 

“W
hile it's not precisely true that nobody is here, because I am, in fact, here, the truth is that there is no one here who can accommodate the request.”

The man standing in the main area of the Quality Employment Agency didn't leave. She'd have to keep on, then.

“If I weren't here, then it would be even more in question, since you wouldn't know the answer to the question one way or the other, would you? So I am here, but I am not the proper person for what you need.”

The man fidgeted with the hat he held in his hand. But still did not take her hint. She would have to persevere.

“I suggest you leave the information, and we will endeavor to fill the position when there is someone here who is not me.” Annabelle gave a short nod of her head as she finished speaking, knowing she had been absolutely clear in what she'd said. If repetitive. So it was a surprise that the man to whom she was speaking was staring back at her, his mouth slightly opened, his eyes blinking behind his owlish spectacles. His hat now held very tightly in his hand.

Perhaps she should speak more slowly.

“We do not have a housekeeper for hire,” she said, pausing between each word. “I am the owner, not one of the employees for hire.”

Now the man's mouth had closed, but it still seemed as though he did not understand.

“I do not understand,” he said, confirming her very suspicion. “This is an employment agency, and I have an employer who wishes to find an employee. And if I do not find a suitable person within . . .” and at this he withdrew a pocket watch from his waistcoat and frowned at it, as though it was its fault it was already past tea time, and
goodness, wasn't she hungry and had Caroline left any milk in the jug? Because if not, well,
“twenty-­four hours, my employer, the Earl of Selkirk, will be most displeased, and we will ensure your agency will no longer receive our patronage.”

That last part drew her attention away from the issue of the milk and whether or not there was any.

“The Earl of . . . ?” she said, feeling that flutter in her stomach that signaled there was nobility present or being mentioned—­or she wished there were, at least. Rather like the milk, actually.

“Selkirk,” the man replied in a firm tone. He had no comment on the milk. And why would he? He didn't even know it was a possibility that they didn't have any, and if she did have to serve him tea, what would she say? Besides which, she had no clue to the man's name; he had just come in and been all brusque and demanded a housekeeper when there was none.

“Selkirk,” Annabelle repeated, her mind rifling through all the nobles she'd ever heard mentioned.

“A Scottish earl,” the man said.

Annabelle beamed and clapped her hands. “Oh, Scottish! Small wonder I did not recognize the title, I've only ever been in London and once to the seaside when I was five years old, but I wouldn't have known if that was Scotland, but I am fairly certain it was not because it would have been cold and it was quite warm in the water. Unless the weather was unseasonable, I can safely say I have never been to Scotland, nor do I know of any Scottish earls.”

An Excerpt from

A Save the Date Novel

by Cara Connelly

In the latest
Save the Date
novel from Cara Connelly, journalist Christina Case crashes a celebrity wedding, and sparks fly when she comes face-­to-­face with A-­list movie star Dakota Rain . . .

 

D
akota Rain took a good hard look in the bathroom mirror and inventoried the assets.

Piercing blue eyes? Check.

Sexy stubble? Check.

Sun-­streaked blond hair? Check.

Movie-­star smile?

Uh-­oh.

In the doorway, his assistant rolled her eyes and hit speed dial. “Emily Fazzone here,” she said. “Mr. Rain needs to see Dr. Spade this morning. Another cap.” She listened a moment, then snorted a laugh. “You're telling me. Might as well cap them all and be done with it.”

In the mirror Dakota gave her his hit man squint. “No extra caps.”

“Weenie,” she said, pocketing her phone. “You don't have time today, anyway. Spade's squeezing you in, as usual. Then you're due at the studio at eleven for the voice-­over. It'll be tight, so step on it.”

Deliberately, Dakota turned to his reflection again. Tilted his head. Pulled at his cheeks like he was contemplating a shave.

Emily did another eye roll. Muttering something that might have been either “Get to work” or “What a jerk,” she disappeared into his closet, emerging a minute later with jeans, T-­shirt, and boxer briefs. She stacked them on the granite vanity, then pulled out her phone again and scrolled through the calendar.

“You've got a twelve o'clock with Peter at his office about the Levi's endorsement, then a one-­thirty fitting for your tux. Mercer's coming here at two-­thirty to talk about security for the wedding . . .”

Dakota tuned her out. His schedule didn't worry him. Emily would get him where he needed to be. If he ran a little late and a few ­people had to cool their heels, well, they were used to dealing with movie stars. Hell, they'd be disappointed if he behaved like regular folk.

Taking his sweet time, he shucked yesterday's briefs and meandered naked to the shower without thinking twice. He knew Emily wouldn't bat an eye. After ten years nursing him through injuries and illness, puking and pain, she'd seen all there was to see. Broad shoulders? Tight buns? She was immune.

And besides, she was gay.

Jacking the water temp to scalding, he stuck his head under the spray, wincing when it found the goose egg on the back of his skull. He measured it with his fingers, two inches around.

The same right hook that had chipped his tooth had bounced his head off a concrete wall.

Emily rapped on the glass. He rubbed a clear spot in the steam and gave her the hard eye for pestering him in the shower.

She was immune to that too. “I asked you if we're looking at a lawsuit.”

“Damn straight.” He was all indignation. “We're suing The Combat Zone. Tubby busted my tooth and gave me a concussion to boot.”

She sighed. “I meant, are
we
getting sued? Tubby's a good bouncer. If he popped you, you gave him a reason.”

Dakota put a world of aggrievement into his Western drawl. “Why do you always take everybody else's side? You weren't there. You don't know what happened.”

“Sure I do. It's October, isn't it? The month you start howling at the moon and throwing punches at bystanders. It's an annual event. The lawyers are on standby. I just want to know if I should call them.”

He did the snarl that sent villains and virgins running for their mamas.

An Excerpt from

by Jamie Shaw

Jamie Shaw's rock stars are back, and this time wild, unpredictable Dee and sexy, mohawked guitarist Joel have explosive chemistry—­but will jealousy and painful memories keep them apart?

 

“K
iss me,” I order the luckiest guy in Mayhem tonight. When he sat next to me at the bar earlier with his “Leave It to Beaver” haircut, I made sure to avoid eye contact and cross my legs in the opposite direction. I didn't think I'd end up making out with him, but now I have no choice.

A dumb expression washes over his face. He might be cute if he didn't look so. freaking. dumb. “Huh?”

“Oh for God's sake.”

I curl my fingers behind his neck and yank him to my mouth, tilting my head to the side and hoping he's a quick learner. My lips part, my tongue comes out to play, and after a moment, he finally catches on. His greedy fingers bury themselves in my chocolate brown curls—­which I spent
hours
on this morning.

Peeking out of the corner of my eye, I spot Joel Gibbon stroll past me, a bleach-­blonde groupie tucked under his arm. He's too busy whispering in her ear to notice me, and my fingers itch to punch him in the back of his stupid mohawked head to get his attention.

I'm preparing to push Leave It to Beaver off me when Joel's gaze finally lifts to meet mine. I bite Beaver's bottom lip between my teeth and give it a little tug, and the corner of Joel's mouth lifts up into an infuriating smirk that is
so
not the reaction I wanted. He continues walking, and when he's finally out of sight, I break my lips from Beaver's and nudge him back toward his own stool, immediately spinning in the opposite direction to scowl at my giggling best friend.

“I can't BELIEVE him!” I shout at a far-­too-­amused-­looking Rowan. How does she not recognize the gravity of this situation?!

I'm about to shake some sense into her when Beaver taps me on the shoulder. “Um—­”

“You're welcome,” I say with a flick of my wrist, not wanting to waste another minute on a guy who can't appreciate how long it took me to get my hair to curl like this—­or at least make messing it up worth my while.

Rowan gives him an apologetic half smile, and I let out a deep sigh.

I don't feel bad about Beaver. I feel bad about the dickhead bass guitarist for the Last Ones to Know.

“That boy is making me insane,” I growl.

Rowan turns a bright smile on me, her blue eyes sparkling with humor. “You were already insane.”

“He's making me homicidal,” I clarify, and she laughs.

“Why don't you just tell him you like him?” She twirls two tiny straws in her cocktail, her eyes periodically flitting up to the stage. She's waiting for Adam, and I'd probably be jealous of her if those two weren't so disgustingly perfect for each other.

Last semester, I nearly got kicked out of my dorm when I let Rowan move in with me and my roommate. But Rowan's asshole live-­in boyfriend had cheated on her, and she had nowhere to go, and she's been my
best
friend since kindergarten. I ignored the written warnings from my RA, and Rowan ultimately ended up moving in with Adam before I got kicked out. Fast forward to one too many “overnight visitors” later, I still ended up getting reported, and Rowan and I got a two-­bedroom in an apartment complex near campus. Her name is on the lease right next to mine, but really, the apartment is just a decoy she uses to avoid telling her parents that she's actually living with three ungodly hot rock stars. She sleeps in Adam's bed, his bandmate Shawn is in the second bedroom, and Joel sleeps on their couch most nights because he's a hot, stupid, infuriating freaking nomad.

“Because I
don't
like him,” I answer. When I realize my drink is gone, I steal Rowan's, down the last of it, and flag the bartender.

“Then why is he making you insane?”

“Because
he
doesn't like
me
.”

Rowan lifts a sandy blonde eyebrow at me, but I don't expect her to understand. Hell,
I
don't understand. I've never wanted a boy to like me so badly in my entire life.