Spread Your Wings: Men in Blue, Book 4 (38 page)

Something in her chest fluttered at his adaptability. Could she have judged him wrong too? Was he somewhat more flexible than she’d given him credit for? Steel instead of stone.

If he was bluffing, he was about to be sorry.

“Glad you’re comfortable with fucking up because I think you’re an expert by now.” She loved how she could blurt exactly what she thought without polite phrasing and he could take it. Heck, he seemed to revel in their passionate exchange, which grew more vibrant by the instant.

Arguing with him, debating their future, did something wicked to her.

Hope took a step closer, tilting her head up to maintain eye contact. The intensity of his stare sliced through her, deep into her core.

“You’re pushing him, sweetheart.” Clay’s nostrils flared like one of the horses when it scented a potential mate. “Me along with him.”

Wyatt met her halfway. He caged her between himself and his bunkmate. Their powerful bodies formed canyon walls. She loved being trapped by them. Every instinct she possessed sang with the rightness of it. Surrounded by the two men—their heat and their scent—she feared she might beg them to teach her about all the things she could sense lying barely outside her reach.

“Serves you right.” She pouted just a little.

“Why?” Clay tipped his head. “What’d I do?”

“You’ve been doing the same to me. Teasing me. Putting all these damn ideas in my head. Turning me on with no way to relieve the ache. Don’t leave me like this.” She tossed his words from last night in his face and sealed the deal.

“I won’t. I—I can’t.” Clayton swallowed hard. He looked to Wyatt quickly before he tipped her head up and covered her mouth with his.

Exactly as it had the day before, the connection of their bodies sparked a reaction more potent than the electrostatic attraction that bonded the compatible compounds she’d studied so hard. With Clay, everything was covalent. They agreed on so much. Their personalities had made last night’s companionship easy and light. Wyatt—opposite, and ionic. An explosion of magnetic energy. Or maybe the three of them could fuse into an archetypical bent bond.

Any case provided a similar outcome. A single, perfect connection.

The truth is buried in her memories. Unearthing it could kill them both.

Son of the Enemy

© 2013 Ana Barrons

FBI Agent John Daly has spent twenty-three years studying psychology, trying to understand how his father wound up in prison, convicted of a brutal murder.

And then he gets the letter. Telling him of evidence tampering. Telling of the sole witness, a six-year-old girl who’s now a twenty-nine-year-old school director. Somewhere, buried in her memories, is the identity of the real killer.

John knows he has no business going undercover to get close to Hannah Duncan, but blood is thicker than the ink on his paycheck.

Hannah is trying hard not to fall for the writer researching an article about her school, but John is breaking down every defense she’s built since her mother’s murder and her father’s rejection. Igniting a flame that burns brighter and hotter than any she’s felt before.

Someone is watching, leaving her roses and cryptic notes. And as the similarities between Hannah’s stalker and her mother’s killer become increasingly alarming, John must decide which means more to him: his father’s freedom…or Hannah’s love.

Warning: Contains a deeply wounded hero and heroine who, together, are greater than the sum of their scars. Breath-stealing emotions and heart-pounding suspense could cause an attack of whitened knuckles. Best read under the covers with a flashlight.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Son of the Enemy:

John Emerson Daly knocked on the door to the office marked
Head of School.
No answer. He wiped sweaty palms on his corduroy jacket, took a deep breath and let it out. The door was cracked a few inches, so he pushed it open and peered inside.

In a small sitting area beyond the office proper, a woman in a calf-length denim skirt and white sweater sat hunched over an ottoman, massaging her temples, long brown hair bound in a loose ponytail. His heart took off at a gallop.

Hannah Duncan. In the flesh.

He allowed himself a brief fantasy of walking over to that chair and telling her the truth.

Hi, my father’s in prison for killing your mother. And I need you to help me get him out.

Yeah. Imagine that.

An older, gray-haired woman came around the corner of the L-shaped room dragging a small cleaning cart, and bent to the wastebasket. From his position in the hall, John could just make out the conversation between the women.

“Did you throw away
more
of these flowers, Ms. Duncan?” the older woman asked, at the same time lifting the bouquet of yellow roses out of the trash and sticking them in a glass vase on the oak desk. John shifted back so she wouldn’t spot him.

“Just leave them, Edna,” Hannah said, not raising her head.

“But they’re too pretty to waste.”

“Then take them home with you. Please.”

Edna shook her head in disgust, but stuck the bouquet in her cart and turned toward the door. John quickly lifted his hand to knock again, and Edna speared him with light blue eyes made huge by the horn-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. Behind her, Hannah said, “Who is it?”

Edna pulled the door all the way open and pushed by him with a mumbled “’Scuse me.” John eased around her and entered the office—and went still at the sight of the slim woman standing before him. Hannah Duncan at twenty-nine was the spitting image of her mother, Sharon, at the same age. The age she was when John’s father murdered her.

He gazed, fascinated, at the high cheekbones, the lush mouth, the golden-brown eyes she’d inherited from her mother—the woman his father had loved more than his own family. The woman he’d loved so much that he killed her when she tried to break it off.

Or so the jury said.

Hannah moved toward him and extended her hand, setting the silver bangles at her wrist jingling. Her grip was firm, but her fingers were like ice. He had held a recent newspaper photo of Hannah side by side with yellowed newspaper photos of her mother, and the resemblance between the women had disturbed him. But now, in the presence of this living, breathing woman, her likeness to his father’s lover took his breath away.

“Are you Mr. Winter?” she asked. “I thought my assistant had changed our appointment.”

He hoped his smile covered his agitation. “No, I’m John Emerson. You weren’t expecting me until next week, but I got into the area early and thought I’d stop in.”

For a moment she stood there, frowning in puzzlement, then raised her eyebrows. “Emerson. Oh yes, the author. You’re writing the book about Arthur and the school.”

“That’s me.”

She glanced at her watch. “I’d love to chat with you, but unfortunately I can’t. I have a previous engagement and I need to get home. I’m sorry.”

The previous engagement was probably a date with Thornton Bradshaw III. The multimillionaire businessman had a kid at the Grange School, and was bankrolling the new gym and science center. He also had more mob associates than zeros in his bank account.

“No problem,” John said. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary. I live on campus.”

“Then I’ll walk you home.”

For several beats she said nothing, just studied him, and John had the strangest feeling she was peering straight into his black, lying soul. “Well,” she said at last, “if Arthur thinks you’re okay, I guess I can assume you’re not the Big Bad Wolf.”

He chuckled. “I promise not to eat you up.”
Just deceive you and use you and mess with your head.

“Okay, then.” She went back to the ottoman and picked up a small white card with the tips of her fingers, carefully, as though it might burn her, and slipped it into her skirt pocket.

She crossed the room, moving gracefully, her back straight as a dancer’s. His gaze wandered over her slim, curvaceous body—another gift from her mother. She grabbed a forest-green down vest off the back of her chair, slid her arms into it, then lifted a large leather purse and two canvas bags stuffed with books and files onto her desk.

He reached over and plucked the canvas totes off the desk. “I’ll carry these.” He hefted them like barbells. “Impressive. Will you get to all this over the weekend?”

She gave him a half smile, her expression distant. “Call me an optimist.”

He followed her down the steps of the colonial mansion that housed the administrative offices of the Grange School. It was very dark in rural Loudoun County, Virginia, and the night was damp and cold. He could smell the snow that was due to fall overnight, just as he had the night the police came for his father. Even after twenty-three years, he still struggled with the sense of impending doom evoked by a scent on the wind. He took a deep, slow breath. Then another. But, like a song that’s stuck in your head, the memory insisted on playing.

He’s running down the street next to the police car, clinging to the door handle with one hand and banging on the window with the other, the tears making everything blurry. They’re taking his father away and he can’t stand it. This can’t be happening to him. The car stops at the corner, and the cop rolls down the window. John sticks his arm inside and tries to touch his father’s hand, but there’s something in the way. A cage. He bangs on it. The cop talks to him softly, and John shoves at him with the back of his arm.

“Let him go!” he shrieks. “Let him go!”

The police car turns the corner quickly and picks up speed until John can’t keep up any longer. He falls onto his knees in the street, howling his rage and grief. His father is gone, and the world is all wrong. All wrong.

Hannah reached the bottom of the steps, and he swiped at his cheeks quickly, unsure whether his tears were real or imagined.

She turned to him. “I can take those totes. I carry them every night, all by myself.”

“Call me old-fashioned. I promise to give them back at your door.”

“Suit yourself,” she said, but he caught a glimmer of irritation in those light-brown eyes.

She headed across the lawn to the gravel parking lot, her pace brisk. Long strands of wavy hair had escaped from her ponytail and blew across her face, hiding her expression. He was picking up some kind of strange vibe from her, but he couldn’t really identify it. Maybe she was still distracted by whatever she’d been thinking about when he walked into her office. Or maybe he was being too damn pushy.

Yeah, he was pushing. This woman didn’t know him from Adam. But his leave from the bureau was due to run out in less than a month, and he didn’t have time to pussyfoot around.

Spread Your Wings

Jayne Rylon

She’s through playing it safe…

Men in Blue, Book 4

Waiting. Watching.
 

Jambrea was patient long enough. After nearly ten years pining over a man with whom she’d spent a single night, her job set her on a collision course with two sexy cops who turned her head…and ignited her passion.

More agonizing. Debating.
 

When it became clear that Matt and Clint would never admit to the bisexual attraction making an equilateral relationship possible, she couldn’t choose a favorite. So she had to turn away and move her life forward—without them. Jambrea approaches Mistress Lily and Master Jeremy to arrange a wild night at their sex club—never expecting her friends would pull a bait and switch.

Time’s up.
 

Just when happily ever after dangles within reach, it becomes clear someone has Jambrea in their crosshairs. Is it one of her lovers’ old cases coming back to haunt them, or a ghost from her military past? One thing’s for certain. Now that they’ve made the leap, they’d better learn to soar…or they’ll all crash together.

Warning: The Men in Blue have handcuffs and they’re not afraid to use them. On their woman, or each other. Be naughty, if you must. Maybe they’ll come for you next!

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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B

Cincinnati OH 45249

Spread Your Wings

Copyright © 2013 by Jayne Rylon

ISBN: 978-1-61921-342-5