Romantic fiction books : Linda Howard,Lisa Kleypas,Julia Quinn,Kinley MacGregor...

PARANORMAL ROMANCE THE BEST SELLER BOOKS

noreply@blogger.com (alisapp) — Mon, 23 Feb 2009 11:48:00 +0000

PARANORMAL ROMANCE THE BEST SELLER BOOKS


Dream Warrior (Dream-Hunter Novels) by Sherrilyn Kenyon	Dream Warrior (Dream Hunter) by Sherrilyn Kenyon £4.99	Tempted All Night by Liz Carlyle £5.24

Temptation Ridge (Virgin River Trilogy) by Robyn, Rgon Carr	Coyote's Mate (Berkley Sensation) by Lora Leigh £4.79	Honor Thyself by Danielle Steel £4.93

Honor Thyself (Random House Large Print (Cl... by Danielle Steel £16.67	Scandalous: Scandalized!\Sex Appeal by Lori Foster	Scandalous by Lori Foster


What I Did for Love by Susan Elizabeth Phillips £16.05	What I Did for Love by Susan Elizabeth Phillips £16.05	Wicked Game by Lisa Jackson £4.89

Fireside (The Lakeshore Chronicles) by Susan Wiggs £5.10	Fireside: The Lakeshore Chronicles by Susan Wiggs £18.24	Fireside (Center Point Platinum Romance (La... by Susan Wiggs

Secrets by Jude Deveraux	Secrets by Jude Deveraux	Secrets by Jude Deveraux £4.89


Charmed & Enchanted by Nora Roberts £4.93	Charmed & Enchanted (Donovan Legacy) by Nora Roberts £7.19	My Man Michael by Lori Foster £4.79

Dark of Night: A Novel by Suzanne Brockmann	Dark of Night (Troubleshooters) by Suzanne Brockmann £21.89	Desire Unchained (Demonica Novel) by Larissa Ione £5.24

Montana Creeds: Logan by Linda Lael Miller £5.10	Montana Creeds: Dylan by Linda Lael Miller £4.93	Montana Creeds: Tyler by Linda Lael Miller £4.93


The Pagan Stone (Sign of Seven Trilogy 3) by Nora Roberts £4.89	The Pagan Stone (Sign of Seven Trilogy (Jov... by Nora Roberts	The Pagan Stone (Sign of Seven Trilogy) by Nora Roberts £17.74

Sizzle and Burn (Arcane Society Series) by Jayne Ann Krentz £5.24	Sizzle and Burn (Arcane Society 3) by Jayne Ann Krentz £9.99	Sizzle and Burn (Arcane Society Novels) by Jayne Ann Krentz

Star Bright by Catherine Anderson £4.88	The Grand Finale by Janet Evanovich £9.45	Devil of the Highlands by Lynsay Sands £4.79


Where the Heart Leads (Bar Cynster Series) by Stephanie Laurens £5.79	Where the Heart Leads (Cynster) by Stephanie Laurens	Where the Heart Leads: From the Casebook of... by Stephanie Laurens

Kill for Me by Karen Rose £8.99	Kill for Me by Karen Rose £11.73	Kill for Me by Karen Rose £5.24

Shattered: A High Risk Novel by JoAnn Ross £5.10	Glitter Baby by Susan Elizabeth Phillips £5.24	Glitter Baby by Susan Elizabeth Phillips £9.57


Second Chance Pass by Robyn, Rgon Carr £4.80	The Runaway McBride (Berkley Sensation) by Elizabeth Thornton £4.93	The First Sin (Lexi Steele Novels) by Cheyenne McCray £5.49

Dogs and Goddesses by Jennifer Crusie £4.03	Dogs and Goddesses by Jennifer Crusie	Dogs and Goddesses by Jennifer Crusie

Only Pleasure by Lora Leigh £6.59	A Perfect Darkness by Tina Wainscott £4.96	Shadow Music by Julie Garwood £4.93


Shadow Music by Julie Garwood £17.50	La musica de las sombras/ Shadow Music by Julie Garwood £11.70	Kiss of a Demon King by Kresley Cole £4.99

The Courtship Dance (The Matchmakers) by Candace Camp	Veil of Midnight by Lara Adrian	So Enchanting by Connie Brockway £4.93

The Sins of Lord Easterbrook by Madeline Hunter £4.80	At Grave's End: A Night Huntress Novel by Jeaniene Frost £4.79	Murder Game (GhostWalker) by Christine Feehan £5.89


Murder Game by Christine Feehan	Into the Fire (Troubleshooters) by Suzanne Brockmann £4.93	Into the Fire by Richard Laymon £7.19

Into the Fire (Troubleshooters) by Suzanne Brockmann £16.49	Into the Fire (Troubleshooters) by Suzanne Brockmann	Pleasure, Pregnancy and a Proposition (Mode... by Heidi Rice

Pleasure, Pregnancy and a Proposition (Harl... by Heidi Rice £3.60	Pleasure, Pregnancy and a Proposition (Harl... by Heidi Rice	The Italian's Ruthless Baby Bargain (Modern... by Margaret Mayo £2.84


The Ruthless Italian's Inexperienced Wife (... by Christina Hollis £2.84	The Italian's Ruthless Marriage Command (Mi... by Helen Bianchin £3.19	The Italian's Ruthless Marriage Command (Ha... by Helen Bianchin

The Italian's Ruthless Marriage Command (Ro... by Helen Bianchin £12.49	Sunset Bay by Susan Mallery £4.80	Sunset Bay (Center Point Platinum Romance (... by Susan Mallery

Captivated (Donovan Legacy) by Nora Roberts	Captivated (Mills and Boon Single Titles) by Nora Roberts £5.24	Captivated & Entranced (Donovan Legacy) by Nora Roberts


Compromised (Berkley Sensation) by Kate Noble £5.10	Compromised (Berkley Sensation) by Kate Noble £8.99	Jewel of Atlantis by Gena Showalter £4.80

Jewel of Atlantis (Hqn Romance) by Gena Showalter	Crash Into Me by Jill Sorenson £4.83	The Fiorenza Forced Marriage (Modern Romance) by Melanie Milburne £2.99

The Fiorenza Forced Marriage (Harlequin Lar... by Melanie Milburne £3.60	The Fiorenza Forced Marriage (Harlequin Pre... by Melanie Milburne	Highland Warrior by Monica McCarty £4.83


Ravenous: The Dark Forgotten (Signet Eclipse) by Sharon Ashwood £4.19	Destiny of the Wolf by Terry Spear	Never Been Witched (Berkley Sensation) by Annette Blair £5.10

Rogue (Cat Star Chronicles) by Cheryl Brooks £4.80	The Hollow (Sign of Seven Trilogy 2) (Sign ... by Nora Roberts	The Hollow (Sign of Seven Trilogy (Jove Boo... by Nora Roberts

The Hollow (Sign of Seven Trilogy 2) by Nora Roberts	Mortal Sins (Berkley Sensation) by Eileen Wilks £4.19	Darkness Unknown (Pocket Star Books Romance) by Alexis Morgan £4.49


When a Stranger Loves ME by Julianne MacLean £4.79	The Spaniard's Virgin Housekeeper (Modern R... by Diana Hamilton £2.84	The Spaniard's Virgin Housekeeper (Harlequi... by Diana Hamilton

The Spaniard's Virgin Housekeeper (Harlequi... by Diana Hamilton	Summer at Willow Lake (Lakeside Chronicles) by Susan Wiggs £5.04	Summer at Willow Lake (Center Point Platinu... by Susan Wiggs

Kiss of Fate: A Dragonfire Novel (Signet Ec... by Deborah Cooke £4.19	Dream Chaser by Sherrilyn Kenyon £5.59	Dream Chaser (Dream-Hunter Novels) by Sherrilyn Kenyon


Dream Chaser (Thorndike Romance) by Sherrilyn Kenyon	Chances by Nora Roberts £9.12	Eden by Carolyn Davidson

Midnight Sons Volume 1: Brides for Brothers... by Debbie Macomber £9.54	Midnight Sons Volume II: Daddy's Little Hel... by Debbie Macomber £9.23	One Silent Night (Dark-Hunter Novels) by Sherrilyn Kenyon

One Silent Night (Dark Hunter) by Sherrilyn Kenyon £5.49	The Greek's Million-Dollar Baby Bargain (Mi... by Julia James £3.03	Triple Trouble (Silhouette Special Edition) by Lois Faye Dyer £3.42


Night Huntress (Otherworld) by Yasmine Galenorn £4.19	Heart of the Dragon (Atlantis) by Gena Showalter £4.83	The Winter Lodge (Lakeside Chronicles) by Susan Wiggs £4.93

The Winter Lodge (Center Point Platinum Rom... by Susan Wiggs	Ecstasy: The Shadowdwellers by Jacquelyn Frank £5.49	Trouble in High Heels by Leanne Banks

Final Justice (The Sisterhood: Rules of the... by Fern Michaels £6.19	Final Justice (The Sisterhood: Rules of the... by Fern Michaels £17.26	Final Justice (The Sisterhood: Rules of the... by Fern Michaels £29.35


Pride by Rachel Vincent £4.96	Stay the Night: A Novel of the Darkyn by Lynn Viehl £4.49	Simply Perfect by Mary Balogh

Wicked by Any Other Name by Linda Wisdom	Love by Design: "Loving Jack", "Best Laid P... by Nora Roberts	Love by Design (Silhouette Special Products) by Nora Roberts

Love By Design (Silhouette Single Title) by Nora Roberts £5.59	Love by Design by Nora Roberts	Dead After Dark: WITH "Shadow of the Moon" ... by Sherrilyn Kenyon £5.59


Falling for Gracie by Susan Mallery £4.74	Falling for Gracie (Mills and Boon Shipping... by Susan Mallery	Suite 606 (Thorndike Basic) by J. D. Robb

Suite 606 by J Robb £7.19	Blood Brothers (Sign of Seven Trilogy 1) by Nora Roberts £19.99	Blood Brothers (Sign of Seven Trilogy (Jove... by Nora Roberts

Blood Brothers (Sign of Seven Trilogy 1) by Nora Roberts £4.89	The Girl Most Likely to by Susan Donovan	The Girl Most Likely to... by Susan Donovan


A View to a Kiss by Caroline Linden £4.79	Lover Enshrined (Black Dagger Brotherhood) ... by J.R. Ward £5.59	Lover Enshrined (Black Dagger Brotherhood) by J. R. Ward

Two Little Miracles (Romance) by Caroline Anderson £2.84	Two Little Miracles (Harlequin Larger Print... by Caroline Anderson £3.26	Two Little Miracles (Romance HB) by Caroline Anderson £8.25

Fire and Ice by Julie Garwood £16.06	Fire and Ice (Random House Large Print (Clo... by Julie Garwood £16.47	Her Kind of Hero: The Last Mercenary\Matt C... by Diana Palmer £9.30


At the Argentinean Billionaire's Bidding (M... by India Grey £3.03	Fantasy Lover (Dark Hunter) by Sherrilyn Kenyon £6.19	Fantasy Lover (Dark Hunter 01) by Sherrilyn Kenyon £13.29

Fantasy Lover (Dark-Hunter) by Sherrilyn Kenyon	Scream for Me by Karen Rose £4.99	Scream for Me by Karen Rose

Scream for Me by Karen Rose	The Dream Hunter by Sherrilyn Kenyon £5.59	Too Good to Be True by Kristan Higgins £4.96


Married in Seattle: First Comes Marriage\Wa... by Debbie Macomber £4.83	Dark Lover: A Novel of the Black Dagger Bro... by J. R. Ward	Dark Lover (Black Dagger Brotherhood) by J.R. Ward

Marrying the Virgin Nanny (Silhouette Speci... by Teresa Southwick £3.42	Night After Night (Brotherhood of the Blood) by Kathryn Smith £4.79	Lover Unbound (Black Dagger Brotherhood) by J.R. Ward £5.94

Lover Unbound (Black Dagger Brotherhood) by J Ward	Running Hot (Arcane Society Series) by Jayne Ann Krentz £9.09	Running Hot (Arcane Society Series) by Jayne Ann Krentz £13.99


Running Hot (Arcane Society Novels) by Jayne Ann Krentz £18.22	The Billionaire Boss's Innocent Wife (Moder... by Lindsay Armstrong £2.99	The Billionaire Boss's Innocent Bride (Roma... by Lindsay Armstrong £8.25

The Billionaire Boss's Secretary Bride (Mod... by Helen Brooks £2.99	One Day at a Time by Danielle Steel £10.00	One Day at a Time (Random House Large Print... by Danielle Steel £16.80

One Day at a Time by Danielle Steel £17.74	A Secret Infatuation (Best of Betty Neels) by Betty Neels	A Secret Infatuation by Betty Neels


A Secret Infatuation by Betty Neels	Lover Awakened (Black Dagger Brotherhood) by J.R. Ward £5.59	Lover Awakened (Signet Eclipse) by J. R. Ward

Snowfall at Willow Lake: Lakeshore Chronicl... by Susan Wiggs £5.50	Snowfall at Willow Lake (The Lakeshore Chro... by Susan Wiggs	Snowfall at Willow Lake (Lakeshore Chronicl... by Susan Wiggs

Naughty Bits: The Invitation\Invite Me In\S... by Jenesi Ash £8.61	Night Pleasures (Dark Hunter) by Sherrilyn Kenyon £6.99	Night's Pleasure by Amanda Ashley £5.49


Tangled Up in Love by Heidi Betts £5.59	A Highlander of Her Own by Melissa Mayhue £4.74	Talk Me Down by Victoria Dahl £4.83

Mercury's War (Berkley Sensation) by Lora Leigh £4.79	Seeing Red by Susan Crandall £4.89	A Texan on Her Doorstep (Silhouette Special... by Stella Bagwell £3.42

Tempted Into the Tycoon's Trap (Silhouette ... by Emily McKay £3.28	About That Man (Trinity Harbor) by Sherryl Woods £4.80	About That Man (Trinity Harbour Trilogy 1) by Sherryl Woods


About That Man by Sherryl Woods	Zen and the Art of Vampires (Dark Ones) by Katie MacAlister £4.49	Zen and the Art of Vampires (Romance) by Katie MacAlister

Travis's Appeal (Silhouette Special Edition) by Marie Ferrarella £3.42	Darkness Revealed (Guardians of Eternity) by Alexandra Ivy £4.89	An Independent Woman (Best of Betty Neels) by Betty Neels

An Independent Woman (Tender Romance) by Betty Neels	Along Came Trouble by Sherryl Woods £4.96	Along Came Trouble (Silhouette Special Prod... by Sherryl Woods


Along Came Trouble by Sherryl Woods	One Foot in the Grave: A Night Huntress Novel by Jeaniene Frost £4.79	Ask Anyone by Sherryl Woods £4.96

Ask Anyone (STP - Silhouette lead) by Sherryl Woods	Ask Anyone by Sherryl Woods	Always and Forever (Best of Betty Neels) by Betty Neels

Always and Forever (Romance, 3675) by Betty Neels	Dockside (The Lakeshore Chronicles) by Susan Wiggs £4.93	Dockside (Center Point Platinum Romance (La... by Susan Wiggs


Dockside (Lakeshore Chronicles, Book 3) by Susan Wiggs	Valenti's One-Month Mistress (Modern Romance) by Sabrina Philips £2.84	Valenti's One-Month Mistress (Harlequin Pre... by Sabrina Philips

Valenti's One-Month Mistress (Romance HB) by Sabrina Philips £8.25	The Prime Objective by Ginna Gray £4.96	Seducing a Scottish Bride by Sue-Ellen Welfonder £5.24

FOREVER YOURS by Janmarie Anello 2007 Golden Leaf award winner for Best First Book

noreply@blogger.com (alisapp) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 23:27:00 +0000

FOREVER YOURS by Janmarie Anello 2007 Golden Leaf award winner for Best First Book

A LADY WITH A SECRET

Living a quiet country life alone raising her young daughter, Sophie Treneham closely guards a scandalous past. When a dark and dangerously handsome stranger appears, claiming her as his bride, she is outraged—and desperate. But convincing Jagger Remington that they've both been duped proves easier than resisting a temptation that could shatter her safe world…

A MAN OF HONOR

A man living solely to avenge his past, Jagger is also a gentleman of his word. There is a debt he must repay and will do so with honor, but his intention to simply wed, bed, and forget Sophie crumble under his growing desire to uncover all her secrets—and share his own. Soon treacherous circumstances forge an alliance that becomes irresistibly seductive. But will it strengthen fragile bonds of trust…or become the undoing of them both?

Chapter One
Copyright © JanmarieAnello.com

Calcutta, 1816

The bamboo shutters, pulled tight against the monsoon winds, trapped the stench of cigars and unwashed bodies in the crowded tavern. Orange lamplight flickered through the silvery haze, casting shadows over the room.

Jagger Remington eyed the man seated across from him at the table. He wished the man would go away. Conversation was not on his list of things to do tonight. He wanted nothing more than to get drunk and bed a willing wench or two, preferably in that order. Still, he owed this man more than he could ever repay. He had to listen to what the man had to say, even if it did concern the odious subject of matrimony.

He downed his brandy, then called for another.

The tavern maid sauntered over and refilled his glass. She slowly circled her tongue around her full, sensuous lips. “Need anything else?”

Her blatant invitation teased a reluctant smile out of Jagger, despite his foul mood. For reasons he did not understand, women seemed to find his black hair and blue eyes wildly attractive, so much so that they rarely seemed to notice the hideous scar that marred the left half of his face. He fingered the jagged flesh beneath his eye, a grim reminder of the past he had left behind, the promises he had yet to keep.

The tavern maid crossed her arms on the knife-scarred tabletop. Flashing him a saucy smile, she leaned toward Jagger until the scooped neckline of her smock gaped open, giving him a tantalizing view of her big breasts bulging out of her stays. Honey blonde hair curled around her face. Sea-green eyes opened and closed seductively.

He was about to suggest they head to his room when the tavern keep, who was as big as a bear and looked just as mean, growled her name in a tone that clearly bespoke ownership.

Jagger grinned. “Just leave the bottle."

She shrugged her shoulders and strolled away, her hips swaying flirtatiously as she walked toward her man.

The slurred voices of drunken soldiers and sailors mingled with sultry laughter as a kaleidoscope of painted whores circled the room, plying their trade. All the while the man sitting with Jagger droned on and on about the benefits Jagger would gain in a match with the man's sister.

“How on earth did you ever find me?” Jagger asked when the man finally paused for breath.

Stephen Treneham, the fourth Earl of Hallowell, crushed his handkerchief in his fist, then mopped the sweat from his brow. He glared at Jagger. “What difference does it make? I have followed you through the backwaters and malarial swamps of this godforsaken region for nigh unto a year now."

The earl's voice trembled with anger, but Jagger refused to rise to the bait. He would explain himself to no one, not even to Stephen whom he had once loved like a father.

The space between them filled with a charged silence, broken only by the incessant chatter of voices in the taproom and the drumming of Stephen's fingertips on the table.

Murky lamplight played over the earl's bony hand.

Jagger was amazed at how much the man had aged since the last time he had seen him. Gone was the full head of blond hair, replaced by thin, silver strands combed from ear to ear. Harsh lines cut into the flesh around his mouth, as if he never smiled, and his sagging cheeks were flushed from the heat.

His eyes were the same as Jagger remembered, though, vibrant blue and burning with determination as he pointed at the legal documents spread out on the table. “With no entail attached to that estate, once you sign the papers, it's as good as yours. Granted, I have made no recent improvements, but you know as well as I what that property is worth. Why, there is a fortune just in timber on that estate!”

Jagger couldn't mask the momentary interest that no doubt flashed across his face. The fact that Stephen noticed, as evidenced by his satisfied smile, goaded him into irrational anger. “I am not for sale.”

Stephen shrugged. “Nor am I buying. I am merely making a settlement upon my sister.”

“She is agreeable to this?”

“She signed the papers, did she not?”

Jagger picked up the documents. Her signature was at the bottom of each page, a graceful, flowing sweep across the paper. It was the most bewildering aspect of this ludicrous scheme. Why would she agree to wed a man she had never met?

“I didn't even know you had a sister.”

Stephen snorted. “Why would you? You have been gone from England for what, fifteen years now without a word?” His voice had grown louder with each word he had spoken until he finally bellowed, “Did you never think to let me know you were alive?”

The accusation rang through the room. Conversations stopped as the drunkards around them turned to stare.

Jagger clenched his fist, but said nothing. He could never explain the anguish he had suffered over his exile from England. Nor did he want to. He would return when he was ready. When the time was right. Then he would have his revenge.

"Did not my mother mention my letters?" Jagger asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. He had written to her as often as he could and had provided for her maintenance, but he'd never invited her to join him. Given her delicate health and the drastically reduced life span of a European in India, he had not thought she would survive.

“I've not spoken with her,” Stephen said in a voice so low, Jagger had to strain to hear him. “Not since the arrangements were finalized and she retired to the country."

He cleared his throat, waved his hand. "Never mind. It does not matter. Sophie is my stepsister. From my father's third marriage. There is no blood between us, but I would see her safely settled before I die. In truth, I should have seen to it long ago. So, what do you say?”

Jagger laughed. “You honestly expect me to do this thing?”

“Why not? I admit it's a bit out of the ordinary way.”

“That's a mile short of nowhere,” Jagger drawled.

“But I see nothing wrong with it,” Stephen continued as if Jagger hadn't spoken. “That is, of course, unless you are already engaged?”

Jagger shook his head. He tossed back his brandy, relishing the warmth as the smooth liqueur slid down his throat.

Stephen smiled. “Then I see no reason not to proceed. What say you?”

“I say you have gone daft, man. I have no need of a wife.”

“Why not? Every man needs a wife. If for no other reason than to care for him in his old age.”

“Then why don't you wed?”

“Because I am already old.”

“Nonsense.” Jagger poured himself another bumper of brandy. “You cannot be more than fifty. I am certain there are any number of nubile, young maidens eager to wed a man of your station, regardless of your years.”

“No.” Stephen stared into his drink. A hint of despair crept into his voice. “I loved a woman once...”

Wretchedly uncomfortable at the mournful expression on the man's face, Jagger shifted on his seat. Romantic drivel, he thought harshly. He had never met a woman who inspired anything more in him than momentary lust, and that was easily assuaged by a night spent in carnal bliss.

Stephen drew a shuddering breath. “But she was lost to me, so I did my duty and married another."

He leveled his piercing gaze on Jagger. "When everything is said and done, duty is all we have. Unfortunately, my wife died in childbirth along with the babe. Now the title will go to my brother, but I need to see to Sophie's future. I need to know she is safe.”

“Why me?” Jagger asked bluntly. “There must be a dozen or more eager young bucks vying for your sister's hand. Choose one of them.”

Stephen shook his head.

Jagger narrowed his eyes. He stroked his thumb and forefinger over his stubbled chin as he studied the earl. The man was definitely hiding something.

“What's wrong with her?” he said.

“There is nothing wrong with her!”

“Oh, cut line, Hallowell. Why else would you be fishing for a man to marry the chit in India?”

The earl slammed his fist on the table. “There is nothing wrong with her. Watch what you say!”

Jagger merely lifted a brow.

Stephen sighed. “I admit, she is a bit headstrong and set in her ways. But given the right man to guide her, she will make an exemplary wife. And, I assure you, she is fair of face and form. You will not find her displeasing.”

“I tire of this game,” Jagger said. “I ask you again--why me? And this time, give me the truth.”

REVIEW

"FOREVER YOURS by Janmarie Anello is a heart-touching romance that will have you sighing over the love and caring that is present between Jagger and Sophie. I loved Sophie's determination and strength. She had experienced the worst life had to offer but had emerged stronger and ready to fight for what she wanted. Jagger had faced demons of his own, but remained a man of honor and dignity. I was deeply impressed with the love Jagger showed toward Sophie and her daughter. He was truly a hero to melt my heart. I loved this book and I highly recommend you pick it up." -Char, Romance Junkies, 5 Blue Ribbon Review

“Suspicions run high in this love story. Filled with adventure, intrigue and romance, this is one book that you will be hard pressed to put down. Sophie and Jagger have come from backgrounds that are similar. They both feel the pain of betrayal from family and friends alike. This is a tale that will warm your heart and prove that no matter the obstacles, true love can be found in the arms of the person you least expect. Ms. Anello has written a wonderful first book and I can only hope to read more of her stories in the near future.” -Liadan, Coffee Time Romance

“Ms. Annello creates a hero and a heroine destined to be together. . . Achingly poignant and at times sad and tragic, in the end love conquers all. I enjoyed this story very much and look forward to more stories from the talented Janmarie Anello..” -Virginia, Historical Romance Writers

"This interesting debut is a tension-filled historical romance sure to hold readers' attention. Ms. Anello's debut is an interesting tale that holds readers' attention with sexual tension and conflict between the characters. The proud hero and feisty heroine meet the challenges life throws at them with dignity and courage. And as they solve the murder, Jagger and Sophie find that family has many definitions."
-Suan Wilson, FreshFiction.com

"The story of two complete strangers who are blackmailed into a marriage that neither one wants, the secrets they hide and the obstacles they face as they try to make their unwelcome marriage work, should have been just your normal, run-of-the-mill historical romance fare. But Anello throws enough obstacles, twists and outside characters into the mix that you simply can't help but keep reading this fast-paced, event filled story... ...Janmarie Anello definitely has what it takes to write a good, historical romance. When you read FOREVER YOURS, its evident that her knowledge of the times and her ability to write good dialogue are on prominent display throughout, as is her ability to toss a wrench or two into the plot as the storyline progresses. This is one author that's definitely worth watching, and one I look forward to reading again in the future."
-Nancy Davis, Romance Reader at Heart

A DANGEROUS MAN by Janmarie Anello Newest 2009

noreply@blogger.com (alisapp) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 23:19:00 +0000

A DANGEROUS MAN by Janmarie Anello Newest 2009

A SCANDAL?

Spirited and sensual, heiress Leah Jamison knew she would marry one day, but she had thought it would be for love, not because of her father's trickery. Yet her anger soon melts into arousal when she experiences the expert caresses and bold kiss of the man who will become her husband. Richard Wexton is a duke, accustomed to command. Instead of resisting him, all she can do is ask for more…

…OR A WEDDING?

Richard Wexton, the Duke of St. Austin, is a man of honor—and he is furious at the idea of being blackmailed into marriage! Alas, he has no choice but to consent to the outrageous scheme. Then he sees Leah for the first time: his bride-to-be is a beauty beyond compare. He cannot ignore his feelings of ardent desire—and passionate love…

Product Description
Spirited and sensual, heiress Leah Jamison knew she would marry one day, but she had thought it would be for love, not because of her father's trickery. Yet her anger soon melts into arousal when she experiences the expert caresses and bold kiss of the man who will become her husband. Richard Wexton is a duke, accustomed to command. Instead of resisting him, all she can do is ask for more...Richard Wexton, the Duke of St. Austin, is a man of honour and he is furious at the idea of being blackmailed into marriage! Alas, he has no choice but to consent to the outrageous scheme. Then he sees Leah for the first time: his bride-to-be is a beauty beyond compare. He cannot ignore his feelings of ardent desire - and passionate love...

A Dangerous Man
Chapter One
Copyright © JanmarieAnello.com

London, 1821

“The Duke of St. Austin to see you, sir,” the butler intoned from the library door.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Show the man in.”

Thaddeus Jamison stood in the center of his book room, its shelves stuffed to overflowing with leather-bound volumes he collected as a testament to his wealth. His heartbeat quickened. His chest felt tight as a surge of anticipation rushed through him. He was playing a dangerous game with a powerful man, and all of his dreams hinged on the outcome of this meeting. He had to remain calm, in control, or lose before it even began.

When the door swung open, Jamison drew a steadying breath, then turned to meet the man approaching him with a swift and forceful stride.

Richard Wexton, the sixth Duke of St. Austin, was the pinnacle of aristocratic elegance and everything

Jamison longed to be. Power and authority were etched in every line of his face, from his firm, high cheekbones to his strong, square-cut chin. The raven hair that fell in reckless disarray about his face conveyed an air of negligent grace, while the haughty tilt of his head and proud, squared shoulders spoke of an arrogance ingrained through the ages.

There was no doubt about it. The man would breed fine sons, and Jamison wanted him for his daughter.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice,” the duke said. His baritone voice rang with the easy self-assurance one would expect from a man of his station, and Jamison couldn't help but smile.

“Not at all, Your Grace. Would you care for a refreshment? Perhaps a glass of claret?”

“No, thank you. I would like to come straight to the point, if I may.”

“Certainly.” Jamison gestured to the leather-padded armchair facing his mahogany pedestal desk before returning to his seat. Sunlight from the bay windows behind him glinted off the polished desktop. He moved a ledger to block the glare. “How may I help you, Your Grace?”

“I am here on behalf of my brother," he said. "I understand he lost a substantial amount of money to you at cards last night. I would like to settle his debt.”

Jamison grabbed a quill from the standish. He ran his fingers up and down the feathered tip as he carefully worded his response. He eyed the duke. “He was your brother, you say?”

A flicker of amused disbelief flashed in the duke's black eyes. “Are you implying you didn't know who he was?”

“No, I did not. Truth to tell, until a few moments ago, I thought he was you. He said he was St. Austin.”

Not a hint of emotion crossed the duke's face. “That is a very serious and upsetting claim. And, I might add, somewhat difficult to believe.”

Jamison flung the quill to the floor and shot to his feet. “Do you dare to imply that I lie?"

“Not at all,” the duke replied without hesitation. “It merely seems my brother neglected to provide me with all the details of his encounter with you. Perhaps you would care to enlighten me?”

Jamison gave a stiff nod, then settled back on his seat. “The lad claimed he was St. Austin. I thought it strange, a duke in a place like that--The Pigeon Hole ain't real popular with the titled folk, don't you know--but I saw no reason to doubt him.”

“I see.” The words were clipped, controlled, the slightest tightening of his jaw the duke's only visible reaction before he continued in a cool voice. “Please, allow me to apologize for any inconvenience this misunderstanding might have caused you. You may rest assured, I will deal with my brother when I get home. If you would present me with his vowels, I will settle them for you.”

Jamison crushed his shaking palms against his knees, all the while praying he could keep the quiver from creeping into his voice. “I'm afraid it might be a trifle more complicated than that.”

“What do you mean?”

The words, spoken with icy disdain, sliced through the air like daggers hurled at Jamison's chest. Sweat drenched his neck even though the temperature in the room seemed to have dropped twenty degrees. He yanked his handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and swiftly mopped his brow. “Well, he was pretending to be you. So he signed his note with your name. And lest you don't believe me, I have the note to prove it! It seems what we have here, Your Grace, is a case of forgery and fraud, not to mention the insult given me by this deception.”

“I see. Exactly how much did Geoffrey lose?”

“Thirty thousand pounds.”

“A significant amount of money indeed.” The duke flicked his hand through the air. “Although no excuse, Geoffrey is young and given to rashness as all young men are. How much would it take to rectify this situation and alleviate the pain you suffered from this deception? Would, say, sixty thousand pounds suffice?”

“You insult me again!”

“Forgive me,” the duke drawled in a voice that implied he was anything but sorry. “I fail to see how an offer of sixty thousand pounds could be construed as an insult.”

“I do not want your money.”

“It is merely a settlement to ease the anguish you suffered from this deception.”

The condescension dripping from the duke's voice made Jamison seethe. “I do not want your money,” he bit out. “I do not need it. I own most of the cotton mills in Lancashire. I've no doubt I have more money than you!”

The duke relaxed in his chair and crossed a booted foot over his knee. His sun-darkened features were perfectly composed, but the eyes that studied Jamison over steepled fingers were as hard and unforgiving as the jagged cliffs that carve the northern coast of Devon where Jamison had lived as a boy. Bitter memories of gnawing hunger and ragged clothing flashed through his mind.

At that moment, he hated the duke for his privileged birth almost as much as he coveted his noble title and envied his cool composure. Good God, how could the man look and act as if they were discussing the weather rather than a criminal act that would cast shame and dishonor upon his family name?

Suddenly, the duke smiled. It was more a savage baring of teeth than an expression of amusement. “Exactly what is it you want?”

A shiver coursed over Jamison's skin. This was it, the moment for which he had waited a lifetime. He perched on the edge of his chair. “I have a daughter. A lovely girl, just eighteen. As sweet and biddable as you please.”

He stabbed his finger through the air. “I want you to wed her. In return, after the birth of an heir, I will give your brother's note to you. If you refuse, I will have no choice but to go to the authorities.” The duke grinned. “What an amazing man you are. You think lying beneath you, and yet, you've managed to refine blackmail into a true work of art.”

Jamison bit back his angry retort. “What will it be, Your Grace? A scandal? Or a wedding?”

The duke said nothing. He merely arched one thick, black brow. He kept his keen eyes trained on Jamison as he waited, seemingly undisturbed by the silence between them.

Jamison fought the urge to wiggle beneath the duke's unrelenting stare. He had come too far to turn back now. He clenched his fist. “I repeat: What will it be?”

The duke laughed. “Although I admire your ingenuity, I fear I must decline. A cotton miller's daughter is hardly suitable material for a duke's wife.”

“There is nothing unsuitable about Leah,” Jamison retorted. “She is pretty enough to look at, but her dowry is the real prize. Two hundred fifty thousand pounds, plus more at the birth of an heir. Such wealth makes her acceptable to any level of the nobility, eh, Your Grace? It's done all the time, ain't it? If you don't agree, your brother will find himself in the Fleet.”

The duke shrugged. “A few months in the Fleet will not kill him. Then again...” A wry smile graced his lips. “Let Geoffrey wed the chit as payment for his debt. It is a supremely fitting punishment, and given the option of a wedding or gaol, even he would choose the wedding--”

“Oh, no, Your Grace, that won't do. The boy's a tosspot as well as a gamester. I have no desire to see my money lost at the tables. Besides, I'm of a mind to be grandfather to a title. It will have to be you, or no one.”

“Then it will be no one.”

Jamison slammed his fist on the desk. “If your brother's treachery becomes public knowledge, the Wexton name will be synonymous with scandal and dishonor.”

“Scandal is nothing new to the Wexton name, so that threat holds no weight." The duke rose from his chair. He pulled tan kid gloves from his frock coat pocket and slowly drew them on. "Better men than you have tried and failed to bring me to the altar with their 'ever so sweet and biddable daughters'. Go to the authorities, with my blessing. But remember, extortion is also a crime. You will find yourself in the Fleet right beside Geoffrey.”

He pivoted on his heel and headed for the door.

“I do not think you want to do that,” Jamison called after him, his voice laden with quiet confidence.

The duke swung around and fixed him with his cold, dark stare.

“Your brother was deep in his cups.” Jamison shook his head in mock dismay, then heaved a heavy sigh. “Drink. Loosens the tongue, don't you know. Things get said that are better left unsaid. Things of a delicate nature. Very delicate, I'd say. And once a rumor starts, well...there is no calling it back, is there?”

The duke took two steps forward and flattened his palms on the desk. His eyes flashed with lethal promise as he towered over Jamison. “I am not sure what you think you know,” he said in a voice gone soft and deadly. “But take caution if you dare to threaten me.”

“Threaten you?" Jamison held up his hands. "No, you mistake the matter. 'Tis the truth I'm talking about. How can the truth hurt? Unless, of course, one is afraid of the truth. Tell me, St. Austin, are you afraid of the truth?"

The duke narrowed his eyes.

Confident now that he had the man right where he wanted him, Jamison smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Before you refuse my offer, you should contemplate that scandal...then think of Lady Alison.”

Chapter Two

"Should we send for the doctor?" Leah Jamison pushed the auburn hair off the young boy's brow. His skin, slick with sweat and sticky beneath her palm, was growing hotter by the moment, and still he shivered.

Mrs. Bristoll, her cheeks ruddy from boiling a posset of milk and ale, placed the steaming cup on the sideboard by the make-shift bed. They had moved Thomas into the pantry in hopes of keeping the illness from spreading to the other children. "Do not worry yourself, miss. 'Tis only a childhood grippe. It will pass."

Leah's doubt must have shown on her face, for the stout matron patted Leah's shoulder, as if she were one of her charges. The scent of sorrel and red sage rose from her apron. "The posset will sweat the fever from him. He will be up and about by tomorrow. I promise you that."

The illness had come on so swiftly, Leah greatly feared it was much more serious than a mere childhood complaint, but Mrs. Bristoll had years of experience caring for children. Surely she must know of what she spoke.

With a sigh, Leah gathered her cloak. She did not want to leave, even though she knew she must. Her father would suffer fits if she did not appear properly dressed at their evening meal. Provided she remained the dutiful daughter, he did not seem to care how or where she spent her days, though she shuddered to think what would happen if he learned of her visits to the foundling home.

No, she could not risk it. She had to go.

She cast a last, lingering look at Thomas. Huddled beneath the blankets, he looked too small, too helpless. If only her father were a different man, she would scoop the boy into her arms and carry him home. She pulled her hood up over her hair. "You will send word if he worsens?"

"Of course," Mrs. Bristoll said. She escorted Leah to the door, waiting until she climbed into her carriage before disappearing back into the house.

As the carriage rattled its way over the cobbled streets, the crumbling, overcrowded tenements of St. Giles soon gave way to the beautiful homes of Bloomsbury Square.

The stark contrast never failed to startle Leah.

Her first warning that she had stayed away from home too long came when she climbed from the carriage and noticed that the afternoon sun had given way to dusk. The second came from her aunt's frantic greeting at the door.

"Where have you been? You are late," Emma said, her hands fluttering through the air. Tufts of gray hair had escaped from the knot at the base of her neck and now curled wildly about her cheeks. "Your father wishes to see you in his library. He is in such a state. Hurry, my dear. Hurry."

Her aunt's obvious distress was so at odds with her usual placid demeanor, Leah cringed. Papa must be furious indeed. She handed her cloak to the waiting footman before heading through the hall. "Any hint to the crisis?"

Emma shook her head as she scurried to match Leah's rapid pace. "But he set the servants to searching for you over half an hour ago. As Alexander chose that moment to call, you can well imagine your father was not pleased."

No, he would not have been, as Papa had no liking for Alexander, though Leah could not imagine why. A kinder, more respectable young man had never existed. "I was not expecting Alex until this evening. Did he leave a message?"

"The dear boy was most apologetic," Emma said, a tender smile softening her harried expression. "He cannot escort us to the theater tomorrow, as he had hoped. An urgent summons from his grandmother has called him to Suffolk."

Oh, bad news indeed, but Leah had no time to dwell on this pronouncement, as the library door had snapped open and her father was glaring at her, his lips curling as he took in the soggy state of her frock.

When he lifted his hand, Leah stepped back, but not quickly enough to keep him from grabbing her forearm and dragging her into the room. He propelled her toward a gentleman who stood facing the bookshelf on the far wall.

The stranger did not turn or give any indication that he heard the commotion behind him. The exquisite cut of his clothing revealed a powerful frame blessed with long legs and glossy black hair curling roguishly over a pair of stunningly broad shoulders. Hands crossed behind his back, he held his head high and his spine straight in the easy, graceful stance of a man supremely confident of his worth.

A magnetic attraction about his person drew all of Leah's inner awareness and pulled her closer, her feet moving her toward him as if of their own volition, or perhaps it was her father's hand pushing on the small of her back. When the man finally turned, Leah found herself staring into the eyes of the devil himself.

Who else but Satan could possess such unrelenting black eyes, as dark as the midnight sky with no hint of light? Who else could seduce her senses so swiftly, so thoroughly, that she was unable to speak or decipher her father's words through the buzzing in her ears?

Surely there could be no other explanation for her gaping stare, as if he were the first handsome man she had ever seen, which was decidedly untrue--Alexander was quite the handsomest man she knew--but Alexander's beauty was like basking in sunlight, not drowning in the bewitching, dark, brooding visage of an underworld lord.

"Leah," her father said, his anger at her tardiness evident in his sharp tone, but it was the underlying glee lurking in his voice that swung her gaze to his face.

His wide smile and gleaming eyes did not bode well for whatever words he was about to say. "Leah, my dear. May I present to you, the Duke of St. Austin." His chest expanded as he took a deep breath. "Your betrothed."

Leah blinked. Her mind went blank, as if her wits had suddenly scattered like raindrops on the wind. After the perfidy of his past actions, she had thought nothing her father could do or say would ever surprise her again.

She had been wrong.

Her breath rushed from her lungs. She turned to the duke, but her brain had yet to start working again. She watched as his dark gaze dropped to her lips, then traveled over her face in a slow, sensual caress, before wandering back to her eyes.

Good Heavens, her skin actually tingled, as if he'd swept the back of his knuckles over her cheeks. She expected him to deny her father's outrageous announcement, but he said nothing. He simply stared at her through obsidian eyes that revealed no emotion.

She held up her hand. “This is a jest, is it not?”

REVIEW

A Dangerous Man is a beautifully crafted story of unyielding passions, societal influences and family scandals. Janmarie Anello is at the top of her game with this memorable love story. Richard and Leah are characters with whom I quickly made an emotional connection. They are likable, passionate, strong and loyal to those they care about ." Lettetia Elsasser, Affaire de Coeur, 4 ½ stars

"A Dangerous Man is only Ms. Anello's second book and it contains everything I look for in a keeper read. Her first book (Forever Yours) is going right to the top of my TBR pile. Don't miss this riveting book. A word of warning though: if you start this book at work (as I did) you might find yourself stretching your lunch hour to read just one more page." Valarie Pelissero, Rakehell.com

"Riveting historical romance...Janmarie Anello infuses her historical romance with a bit of mystery. Richard and Leah are loyal and honorable characters, but some of her characters harbor secrets, and they are willing to do anything to keep them hidden. It seems that Richard and Leah are pawns in a game they do not realize they are playing. The reader is easily caught in the web of deceit, wondering what will happen next, and watching spellbound as the game unfolds. A DANGEROUS MAN titillates the senses with the promise of a scandal and the passion of blossoming love. This is a fantastic read and a book that was hard to put down." Melissa Kammer, FreshFiction.com

"A DANGEROUS MAN by Janmarie Anello is another emotionally charged romance filled with suspense and drama from this wonderful writer. Leah was a joy to watch as she grew as a person and I loved watching her find confidence in herself to fight for Richard’s love. Richard was a dark sexy hero and I enjoyed seeing him embrace his feelings and admit how much Leah meant to him. This book was filled with romance, love and the added spice of hidden enemies. I really loved this book and recommend this to everyone who enjoys their historical romances mixed with a touch of intrigue." Char, RomanceJunkies.com

"I really enjoyed Richard and Leah’s story...an engaging love story with elements of danger and suspense that I was unable to put down until I reached the very last page." Maura, Coffee Time Romance

Victoria Dahl One Week as Lovers Newest 2009

noreply@blogger.com (alisapp) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 23:06:00 +0000

Victoria Dahl One Week as Lovers Newest 2009

About the Author

Victoria Dahl started reading and writing romance at an inappropriately young age and hasn't stopped since. Her first full-length novel, TO TEMPT A SCOTSMAN, has already won many awards, including the prestigious Golden Heart Award for best long historical manuscript Years of reading romance helped her recognize her own Prince Charming when he arrived, and she now lives in the mountains with her husband and two children. During the summer, she hikes with her family. During the winter, she likes to curl up with a book and a cup of hot cocoa and think about all those poor, cold skiers out in the snow. Victoria loves to hear from readers! Please write to her at Victoria@VictoriaDahl.com.

Lancaster's Book Cover!

12:40 PM PST, January 26, 2009

Oh. My. God.

I'm so excited. I can't even tell you how excited I am.

I usually get the covers for the August books in October. Crazy early. So you can imagine that I started eagerly anticipating the cover for One Week As Lovers back in... oh, let's say September.

This book is near and dear to my heart because I love Lancaster. (You met him in A Rake's Guide to Pleasure. Do you remember?) I want to take Lancaster home with me and take care of him. So, I really wanted him to have a nice cover.

I predicted it would be blue because the story takes place in a gothic manor next to the stormy ocean. Also, I've already had red and purple. I waited and waited. Nothing. I was patient. I only asked my editor about it twice. Things are tight in the publishing world and the artists are probably busy.

Then I got a call from my agent about something else and at the end of the conversation she throws in, "Oh, I just LOVE the cover of One Week As Lovers!" WHAT? Oh, yeah. She'd already received her big stack of covers and she lives in CANADA. "It's really... romantic. Not like your other covers. It's very soft." Then she told me the color. I wasn't sure what to think of this. I stalked the mail carrier. Nothing. Nothing the next day. Now, five days later, I finally have it in my hands.

Care to guess what the color is? You won't believe it. I'm not sure I've seen another book that's this color. Ready???

Lancaster's Book Cover!

12:40 PM PST, January 26, 2009

Virginia Henley , Kristi Astor, Victoria Dahl and Sally MacKenzie: Lords of Desire Newest 2009,

noreply@blogger.com (alisapp) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 22:52:00 +0000

Virginia Henley , Kristi Astor, Victoria Dahl and Sally MacKenzie: Lords of Desire Newest 2009

Virginia Henley, "Smuggler's Lair" - Victoria Carswell will not be bound by society's dictates. She'll even risk skinny-dipping in view of an abandoned castle. At least, Victoria thinks it's abandoned, until a dashing smuggler lures her into an adventure that defies every rule...Sally MacKenzie, "The Naked Laird" - The viscount's house party promises to be one of the season's highlights, and Lord and Lady Kilgorn are delighted to attend. If only the long-estranged couple had realized that they were both invited - and assigned to the same bedchamber...Victoria Dahl, "Lessons in Pleasure" - Newly married to her beloved James, Sarah Hood should be blissfully happy...yet close proximity to a man fills her with anxiety. But James plans to awaken Sarah to the joy of giving and receiving pleasure, in order to forge a true union of body and soul...Kristi Astor, "Swept Away" - Vivacious Christobel Smyth is a gentleman's daughter, while brooding, proud John Leyden comes from a family of northern mill owners. The two could not be more different, yet as passion flares at a country party, Christobel finds he may be her match in every way...

2 of 3 people found the following review helpful:

Reviews Written by
Beverly Romance Books "Beverly" (St. Pete Beach, Florida)

Desirable and Sensual Historical Anthology!, February 5, 2009

Just in time for Valentine's Day, the search for an excellent historical romance read for the occasion has been released with novellas written by four talented authors in the Victorian, Georgian, Edwardian and Regency eras.

Virginia Henley's "Smuggler's Lair" is a Georgian/Victorian Time-Travel tale where the beautiful violet eyed Victoria Caswell meets the dark handsome new resident of Bodiam Castle, Sir Peregrine Palmer Fuller. Victoria is confused over her emotional draw to the Castle, while Sir Peregrine struggles with trying to understand his love at first site for the lovely Victoria. It is when the Caswell family is invited to dinner at the castle that Victoria suddenly disappears for a month, only to be drawn back in time, meeting one of Sir Peregrine's ancestors, the infamous smuggler Lord Falcon Hawkhurst. Victoria and Falcon fall deeply and sensuously in love. When Falcon is mortally wounded in a smuggler raid and dies, Victoria feels her life is over, only to return to the present and realize that Sir Peregrine is actually her lost Falcon. Will Sir Peregrine come to realize he is the reincarnated Falcon in time to be reunited with his true mate, Victoria?

Fans of Sally MacKenzie's "Naked Series" will love this new Regency short story "The Naked Lair." The decade long estranged Lord and Lady Kilgorn are accidentally placed in the same bedroom during a house party. Eleanor (Nell) and Ian married young and were madly in love, only to become estranged after a misunderstanding after the early loss of their first child. Even though ten years is a long time, can they reach across the decade and find their love again? Or better yet, can they come to realize, with a little help from some friends, that they have never stopped loving each other? This sad story will grip your heart, but also delight the reader, as only Sally MacKenzie with her talent can do. It is a great prequel to her next in the "Naked Series," "The Naked Baron."

In the straight-laced Victorian era is a wife supposed to enjoy and desire the full sensual pleasures of the marriage bed? Victoria Dahl entertainingly addresses the strong desire and passion of a newly wedded young couple in "Lessons in Pleasure." This delightful story shows the struggles of Sarah and James Hood as they discover their passionate natures during a time of sexual confusion and repression in the Victorian era. Sarah reads and worries too much that she may be a nymphomaniac and James wonders about his feelings and the possibility that his passionate acts are being forced too soon on his young wife. Will Sarah and James discover that intense desire and passion is not something to be denied, but rejoiced over when true love is the basis of this sensuality?

Kristi Astor contributes another highly entertaining Victorian era romance in "Swept Away." This story emphasizes the class differences during the Victorian era where the aristocracy is being invaded by the industrialist class. The handsome mill owner Mr. James Leydon has been attracted for years to the beautiful and highly born Christobel, sister of his cousin's wife. When Edith and Jasper conduct their yearly house party and Edith decides to play matchmaker, creating particular marriage matches of her own choosing, she is shocked and surprised when it is not the handsome Sir Edmond that the vivacious Christobel is drawn to, but rather the brooding and handsome Mr. Leydon. When a house party event of hide and seek turns into attraction, desire and passion for Christobel and James will they and their friends and family overlook the class difference to recognize that a true love match is worth more than status ever could be? This is another delightful addition to an anthology that will keep the reader glued to the pages and wishing for more.

"Lords of Desire" is a highly entertaining combination of romances and a keeper for those who just love to collect romance anthologies.

Virginia Henley The Decadent Duke Newest 2009

noreply@blogger.com (alisapp) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 22:42:00 +0000

Virginia Henley The Decadent Duke Newest 2009

At Lady Georgina Gordon's debutante ball a contradance was announced. When Georgina realized that her next partner would be John Russell, the Duke of Bedford's younger brother, she experienced a small ripple of panic. As they stepped toward each other and he took her hands, she blurted, "Is your wife here tonight?" Then she blushed. Damnation! The arrogant devil will think I have a tendre for him. "Why do you ask?" "Because once again my curiosity outweighs my good manners. I'd like to know what she looks like." "My wife looks like an angel." His tone had finality about it, warning her that he did not wish to discuss his wife with her. He placed his hand on her waist to swing her around and she imagined she felt the heat of it seep through the delicate material of her gown. She flushed again, and shivered. His dark eyes saw and her blush deepened. Georgina felt weak with relief when he moved down the line to the next lady. After the partners changed half a dozen more times, Georgina saw that the next man in line was Francis Russell, Duke of Bedford. She masked her amusement that he would no longer be able to ignore her. He nodded politely, but did not smile. "Your Grace, it is such an honor." "The honor is mine." His tone was cool and detached. "Yes, Indeed it is." A fierce light kindled in his eyes, proving he was neither cool nor detached. "You are playing a teasing game of cat and mouse." He placed his hand on her waist and squeezed. "I would enjoy playing other games with you Georgina." He's flirting outrageously with me, yet I feel absolutely nothing, apart from distaste. "Lanterloo, perhaps?" She tried to keep the sarcasm from her voice, knowing she would be rid of him in a moment or two. "We could play for forfeits," he said with a leer. Georgina heard the echo of her brother's words: You shouldn't banter with Bedford like that. He is a known womanizer. When the contradance ended, Georgina's mother cornered her. "When Bedford partnered you, I hope you encouraged him. "He needed no encouragement. His manner was most familiar." "Splendid! I knew if you plied him with charm, he wouldn't be able to resist you." Georgina saw John Russell walking a straight path toward her and went suddenly weak in the knees. He nodded politely to her mother. "Lady Gordon" He then spoke to their Scots friend, the Earl of Lauderdale. "James, if I can steal you from the ladies, I'd like you to join me in a drink." "There's an offer I never refuse." Lauderdale bowed gallantly to the Duchess of Gordon and Georgina. "Please excuse us, ladies?" The uncouth brute totally ignored me. She was highly offended and stared after him, feeling strangely abandoned. If the surly sod does ask me to dance, I shall refuse him outright! A short time later, Georgina felt thirsty and headed toward the refreshment room. She encountered John Russell at the doorway. A look of amusement crossed his face. "Are you by any chance looking for me, Lady Georgina?" Conceited swine! "Sorry to disappoint you, Russell. The only thing I'm looking for is a glass of champagne." The amusement left his face. "Aren't you a little young for champagne, mistress?" "God in his goodness sent the grapes to cheer both great and small; little fools will drink too much, and great fools none at all," she quoted. John felt the urge to protect her. "Wine can steal the senses and lead a young lady into trouble." "I certainly hope so. Trouble is my middle name." "Must you always be so extreme?" "Indeed I must. Extremes are sharp black and white...that's why I love them." Georgina returned to the ballroom, where Prince Edward partnered her again. He tried to lure her into a rendezvous, and she gave him a set down. Nevertheless, the prince's advances made her feel vulnerable and she sought safer dancing partners for the next hour. After so many dances, Georgina found the ballroom extremely warm and stuffy, and she fanned herself to catch her breath. She saw her mother raise her head and search the ballroom with her eyes. Lord, she's looking for me. Georgina slipped out onto a balcony and drew in a deep breath of fresh air. She lifted her face to the dark sky and gazed at the glittering stars. After a few moments of blissful solitude, she noticed the aroma of tobacco and sensed that she was not alone. She glanced across the stone balcony and saw the glow of a lit cheroot. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you." "You don't disturb me, little girl." She drew in a swift breath as she recognized the deep voice of John Russell. "You!" she accused. "Obviously you were expecting someone else." She was outraged at his accusation. "Surely you don't suspect me of arranging a tryst out here on the balcony?" "I suspect you are capable of arranging anything you damn well please, Georgina Gordon." Her anger flared. Why are we like flint and tinder whenever we meet? The answer was obvious. The shrewd devil knew her too well. She had no defenses against him. "Go to the devil, old man!"

Kresley Cole My Faverite Books The Sutherland Brothers Series: The Price of Pleasure

noreply@blogger.com (alisapp) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 22:15:00 +0000

Kresley Cole My Faverite Books The Sutherland Brothers Series: The Price of Pleasure

"A splendid read! The sexual tension grips you from beginning to end."

—Virginia Henley

A man noted for his courage and integrity, Captain Grant Sutherland journeys to Oceania to find Victoria Dearbourne, an English girl lost at sea a decade before. He’s given her ailing grandfather his word—as a gentleman—to find and protect her. One look at a grown Victoria and Grant’s never felt less like one.

Tori relishes freedom, untamed passion, chaos above stifling order. Even more so when a proud, cold British captain arrives to rescue her. When Tori and Sutherland are separated from his crew and forced to survive together, she begins to see in him a man hungering for more. A man who once laughed. A man who admits to having dark desires but won’t take what she offers. Tori resolves to see how much temptation the captain can take before his legendary restraint is shattered...

Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

Oceania, 1858

The short relay from the Keveral to the island before him reminded Captain Grant Sutherland of the whole bloody voyage: Dooley, his first mate, working tirelessly, his restless eyes darting around even in this small rowboat to find a crisis to forestall. Grant's crew—wary around their captain, obeying orders quickly out of their fear of him. His cousin, Ian Traywick, reeking of spirits and still—after all the miles and islands they'd covered—drunkenly optimistic of success.

"I have a good feeling about this island." Ian slapped Grant on the shoulder, then swiped a hand over his bristly face, attempting to smooth the bed linen indentions that still pinkened his skin. Throughout the voyage, Ian had provided what he called "shipboard levity" for a crew commanded by "one cold bastard." "Mark my slurred words, it's going to be this one. And as much as you think it won't be, surely it must."

Grant scowled at Ian. Reason dictated that Grant begin accepting his failure—this island marked the end of an exhaustive search and was the last in the Solais archipelago. After four months of sailing just to reach the Pacific, they'd spent another three futilely scouring every island in the chain for the Dearbourne family, lost at sea eight years ago.

"And if we find them today," Dooley added, clapping his weathered hands for emphasis, "we can make a run and dodge us some typhoons." The old salt was as kind as he was capable and would never rebuke Grant, but Grant knew he'd kept the ship in this region far too long—weeks into the peak storm season.

Both Dooley and Ian were still hopeful that they'd find the Dearbournes. Grant thought hope at this point was an indulgence.

And Grant Sutherland never indulged.

As the boat neared the island and the smell of damp earth and seaweed smothered the brine, Grant's thoughts turned inward. He scarcely registered the mountain, cloaked in foliage, or the emerald bay guarded by reef. They'd rowed out to search countless times before today, and variations of paradise had greeted them each time.

"Cap'n, what do you think about the north end of the shore?" Dooley asked, pointing out a beach cupped between rock outcroppings.

Grant studied the salt-white beach and, noting the channel through the reefs in front of it, waved them on.

Back into the lulling pattern of inching forward, then pausing after each stroke, Grant peered down through the crystal water. A massive bull shark prowled beneath them. Not surprising—sharks were legion in this area. He hoped that wasn't how the family had met their end.

Perhaps they had made it to one of these islands only to die of exposure. Little better, that. Grant knew exposure took lives as a cat kills a downed bird, playing with it, never quite extinguishing hope until the last. Yet both scenarios assumed the young family escaped their foundering ship. Most likely, they'd been pressed against their cabin wall as they watched the water eclipse them.

As the last of eight search parties, Grant's mission was either to find them or confirm their deaths. He dreaded the inevitable time when he would have to deliver the news—

"Cap'n?" Dooley cried in a strangled voice.

Grant's head jerked up. "What is it?" Before his eyes, Dooley's craggy face swelled crimson. "You ain't—you just ain't gonna believe this. Over there! South-southwest."

Grant trained his eyes in the direction of the man's periscope. And shot to his feet so hastily several hands slapped wood to clutch the pitching boat. Speech refused to come.

Finally, somehow, he managed, "I'll—be—damned."

A woman ran across the beach, seeming to light over the sand.

"Is it the daughter?" Ian demanded, as he stood as well. He clamped Grant's shoulder from behind him. "Tell me that isn't her!"

Grant shook him off. "I … can't say for certain." He turned to the oarsmen and barked, "Put your backs into it, men. Come on, then!"

He was just about to shove the smaller sailor away from the starboard oar and take it himself when he spotted something that defied belief. Hair spilled out from under her broad-brimmed hat and swayed down her back. Hair so blond it was white just like the girl's in the daguerreotype Victoria Dearbourne's grandfather had given him.

The closer they got to the beach, the more certain he became. He could more clearly make out her appearance—long legs stretching out as she picked up speed, one slender arm raised and bent to keep the hat atop her head. A tiny bared waist. Grant frowned. Plainly bared.

Victoria Dearbourne. It had to be. Grant's mind could hardly wrap around the idea of finally finding her. By God, he was going to bring her back to England alive and obviously hale.

They were closing in on the breakers when she caught sight of them. She stopped so suddenly, sand kicked up at her feet and caught on the breeze. Her arm went limp and her hat, forgotten, cartwheeled away.

The boat was close enough now for Grant to see an expression of total bewilderment on her face. He felt the like. In the wind, wild hair blew to her side, or curled around her ear and streamed across her neck like a collar. Thoughts bombarded his head. She'd been a pretty child, but now…

Exceptional. So alive.

She was drawing back.

"Stay there, girl!" Ian called. "Stay put!"

But she continued backing away—getting away—igniting in Grant a frustration like he'd never known. "She can't hear you over the breakers," he snapped.

Then Grant witnessed something he knew would be branded forever into his mind. Never slowing, she spun forward with startling agility to sprint from them. He'd never seen a woman run like that.

She ran … fast as hell.

Then she was gone as though the jungle sucked her inside.

"My God," Ian cried. "Tell me I'm not seeing this."

Grant wanted to speak, but no words came. After a muted chorus of swearing, the astonished crew looked up at him expectantly.

Never taking his eyes off the spot he'd last seen her, Grant said, "I'll just go retrieve Victoria now." And then he was swinging out of the boat and charging through the waves. When he reached the shore, he ran faster, not even pausing at the looming mesh of trees and vines. Grant matched her entrance and followed her to a well-worn path. He caught glimpses of her but couldn't gain.

Then, she was just before him—holding something to her side—eyes intent. When he got over his shock, he drew a ragged breath to speak. "I'm … Captain … Gr—" The slim muscles in her arms relaxed; Grant heard a whoosh. A branch whipped into his chest, toppling him to the ground. He bellowed in pain, his anger hot and blinding as he pushed himself up. He swung his head around, but couldn't spot her. Continuing on the trail, he loped with the pain, then picked up speed. All he could hear was his heart pounding in time with his shallow breaths.

He ignored everything as though wearing blinders, seeing only shadows of her as he gained, nearly able to reach her. Just when she came into view and he was about to lunge forward, she put her hand flat on a tree, using it to swing around. Now they were on opposite sides of the thick trunk. He ran to his right, she to hers. He reversed directions; her eyes narrowed in challenge. Then she feinted right, only to go left and hedge around him. He reached out at the last moment to grab her.

Got her. He wanted to howl his triumph.

Until he stared in disbelief as the skirt he clenched in his fist stayed there while she tripped forward. The sound of ripping cloth and her cursing him melded together over his own heavy breaths. He gaped as the worn fabric ripped a swath straight up the side of her thigh to her waist before tearing free. And then she was gone once more. Bloody hell. Bloody, bloody hell!

Anger gave way to frustrated fury. He tore off faster. Catch her. Explain who I am. Put her on the ship. Damn it, just catch her! As he plunged deeper into the jungle, the air grew cloudy with mist. The leaves that slapped at his chest were slick.

A waterfall of mythic size roared into view, the driving water deafening on the black rocks below. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied her white clothing amid the green.

Amid the green, across the rushing river.

"Victoria," he bellowed. Amazingly, she slowed. "I'm here to rescue you."

She turned and marched into a clearing. Putting her hands to her mouth, she yelled back at him. The words were incomprehensible over the water. "Bloody hell!" She'd have had no better luck hearing him.

Seeing no way around it, he ran to the bank and dove in, swimming furiously across the sweeping currents. Choking water, scarcely able to breathe, he hauled his big frame onto the opposite shore and staggered forward. He spotted her ahead, but as he returned to an agonizing run, he knew there was no way to catch her, no way to gain. Then he saw it, a chance.

She was following the path—he could cut through the brush separating them and intercept her. He veered left, hurdling a lazy palm, gaining already.

Then, strangely, he saw his feet—above his head. Right before he felt the first punch of earth as he plummeted down a ravine.

Even as he dropped, helpless to stop himself, he knew she'd led him here on purpose. When he caught her… He tumbled one last time and landed on his back so hard, the impact knocked the air from his lungs.

Before he could focus his eyes, she stood over him, prodding his hip with a stick, sunlight through the canopy haloing her hair. She tilted her head. "Why were you trying to catch me?"

He fought for breath, fought to speak, but only managed wheezing sounds. He could see her blond brows knit and her lips part to demand "Why?" once more, but she heard his men crashing toward them. She looked back at him, running her eyes over him, thoroughly, slowly, until she leaned in closer to taunt, "Next time you try to run me down, sailor, I'll drop you off a cliff."

She turned to stride away. He lunged over onto his front and sucked in a roar of air, breathing in the moisture from the plants enmeshing him. Coughing violently, he reached out a hand, wanting to stop her.

But she didn't look back. An iguana scuttled in her path, hissed at her, and deepened its stripes aggressively. She hissed back and disappeared into a black-green wall of brush.

REVIEW

"Savor this marvelous, unforgettable, highly romantic novel by a fresh voice in the genre."—Kathe Robin, Romantic Times Magazine, 4½ Stars, TOP PICK!

"THE PRICE OF PLEASURE is a masterpiece, a breathtaking romantic adventure of the heart. We’re gifted with this extraordinary sequel to THE CAPTAIN OF ALL PLEASURES—the Sutherland’s first adventure and a 2003 RT Reviewer’s Choice Award winner. Stories as wonderful as these don’t come along often enough in a reader’s life, so buy them and savor each and every word. The Sutherland brothers are rare treasures. Take these journeys of a lifetime. You’ll be glad you did."—Suzanne Tucker, Old Book Barn Gazette

"What a fabulous read! Ms. Cole has created a cast of characters that are fun and believable, and the plot to complement them. For a steamy read on the beach, I highly recommend this book."—Karen Larsen, Scribesworld, Five Stars, Reviewers' Choice Award Winner

"You will love this highly sensual romantic adventure as the sexual tension builds with every day Grant and Tori are together. The characters are marvelous and Ms. Cole’s voice is just as fresh and exciting in this book about the Sutherland family as was her debut book. I’m hoping the sexy Ian, a cousin, will have his book next. All I know is I’m falling in love with this dynamic family.

Do not miss this fascinating author who opens up a whole new world of fabulous characters to charm and entertain you to the max."—Suzanne Coleburn, Reader To Reader

“THE PRICE OF PLEASURE is fantastic! In my opinion, there is absolutely nothing better than a romantic adventure set on the high seas and author Kresley Cole delivers a keeper! A passionate couple, featuring a complex hero and determined heroine, lead a well-crafted cast of characters through the engaging narrative, leaving the reader voraciously turning pages until the very end. Though THE PRICE OF PLEASURE is the follow-up to Ms. Cole's debut THE CAPTAIN OF ALL PLEASURES, Grant and Tori's story easily stands on its own.

With a captivating brand of passion all her own, Kresley Cole is destined to be a star of this genre! To say that I can't wait for more is, of course, an understatement. Fortunately, readers won't have long to wait: look for IF YOU DARE, the first installment of the DARK HEART series to hit store shelves in May 2005.”—Reviewed by Melissa Fowler, The Romance Readers Connection

"The Sutherland adventure this time around is one of the best historical romances I have ever read. Grant is the epitome of all heroes — a rare breed of man…. Ms. Cole pens this story with precision, excitement, passion and fire. A year ago, I relished this new author’s debut, and this time I am savoring this awesome sequel and left greatly anticipating her next book. Readers will want to pay anything for The Price of Pleasure; it is very much worth it and so much more. Simply…outstanding!"—Tracey West, Road to Romance

"It is hard to believe that THE PRICE OF PLEASURE is only Ms. Cole's second romance. I think it safe to assume she has a long, successful future ahead of her. I strongly urge readers to become familiar with this talented new author; read THE PRICE OF PLEASURE today."—Sandra Brill, Romance Reviews Today

I'll say one thing for THE PRICE OF PLEASURE, it sure starts out with a bang! With a unique and original beginning, once I started reading it didn't take long for me to realize I was in for one enticing, spicy and fast-paced treat.... Following on the heels of her impressive debut book, THE CAPTAIN OF ALL PLEASURES, THE PRICE OF PLEASURE proves to be a very worthy sequel, written by an extremely talented and fast-rising star of romance. Quick to start, bold and sensual, THE PRICE OF PLEASURE captures its readers from the very beginning with its fast pace and originally refreshing storyline, making the price of this reading pleasure well worth a trip to the bookstore."—Nancy Davis, Romance Reader at Heart Reviews

"What a captivating story! I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of THE PRICE OF PLEASURE. It wasn’t easy to leave straight-laced, gorgeous Grant and resourceful, strong-willed Tori behind when I turned the last page. There are detailed settings from the South Pacific to Cape Town to England, and secondary characters that fill out the story beautifully. THE PRICE OF PLEASURE follows CAPTAIN OF ALL PLEASURES. I hope there’s another sequel in the works!"—Alane Coppinger, Romance Junkies

"One of the best historical romances I’ve ever read! Kresley Cole has written a marvelous story that will keep you quickly turning the pages well into the night!

THE PRICE OF PLEASURE is only Kresley Cole’s second novel, but she writes like a master! This is a fantastic historical romance, and the characters are one of a kind. Grant and Victoria will weave their way into your heart, and you will wish the story didn’t have to end. I was fascinated by Victoria’s survival skills, and I loved the sizzling attraction between her and Grant. I couldn’t ask for a more enjoyable and well-written novel than THE PRICE OF PLEASURE."—B.J. Deese, Romance Junkies

"Kresley Cole continues to enthrall with her second historical, THE PRICE OF PLEASURE (Pocket July 2004). In this fantastic romantic adventure, Captain Grant Sutherland sails to Oceania in 1858 to search for an elderly British earl's family, who were lost at sea a decade ago. Grant discovers the granddaughter, Victoria Dearbourne, now in her early 20s, and her governess, Camellia Scott, who have been stranded on a remote island for years and learned to successfully fend for themselves. The straight-arrow Captain is both drawn by Tori's beauty and ingenuity but appalled at her lack of decorum. Grant eventually takes Tori to bed despite the fact he doesn't think she'll make a proper English wife. After Grant's loveless marriage proposal, which Tori declines, he leaves Tori at her ailing grandfather's estate, Belmont Court, but has no idea of their impoverished circumstances. Will Grant come to his senses and recognize his feelings for Tori as true love?

Kresley Cole is fast proving herself the Mistress of Romantic Adventure with thrilling fast-paced plots, winning characters and highly sensual love stories! THE PRICE OF PLEASURE is an extremely pleasurable read! In addition, Ms. Cole has set herself up brilliantly for another sequel about Grant and Derek Sutherland's rakish cousin, Ian, who has been taken by a crimp gang. Stay tuned for Kresley Cole's next terrific tale!"—Patricia Rouse, Rouse's Romance Readers Groups

"A splendid read! The sexual tension grips you from beginning to end." -- Virginia Henley

"Sexy and original! Sensual island heat that is not to be missed." -- Heather Graham

4½ Stars TOP PICK: "Savor this marvelous, unforgettable, highly romantic novel by a fresh voice in the genre." -- Romantic Times Magazine

Review
Virginia HenleyA splendid read! The sexual tension grips you from beginning to end.

Heather GrahamSexy and original! Sensual island heat that is not to be missed.

Product Description

Kresley Cole returns with a breathtaking romantic saga of love, honor, and passion unbound -- as a man of duty faces his greatest trial, and a young castaway discovers her greatest desire....

A man noted for his courage and integrity, Captain Grant Sutherland journeys to Oceania to find Victoria Dearbourne, an English girl lost at sea a decade before. He's given her ailing grandfather his word -- as a gentleman -- to find and protect her. But one look at a grown Victoria and Grant has never felt less like one.

Tori relishes freedom, untamed passion, and spontaneity above stifling order. Even more so when a proud, cold British captain arrives to rescue her, though she has no wish to be. As Grant tries to convince her to leave her island home, she begins to see in him a man hungering for more. A man who once laughed. A man who desires her but won't take what she offers.

Grant struggles to control his own savage passions -- and fails, Tori must decide what she wants more -- her unfettered independence or the only man who could tame her wild heart....

About the Author
Previously a competitive athlete and coach, Kresley Cole is fast becoming one of the hottest names in historical and paranormal romance. She has a master's degree in English from the University of Florida, and spent much of her time in the research library there, gathering background material for her books. She is the author of the MacCarrick Brothers trilogy, which begins with If You Dare and includes the forthcoming If You Desire and If You Deceive. Her other award-winning novels include No Rest for the Wicked, A Hunger Like No Other, The Captain of All Pleasures, and The Price of Pleasure. Her short fiction is featured in the bestselling anthology Playing Easy to Get.

Kresley lives on a bayou in the Florida panhandle with her husband, Richard. She loves to hear from readers and invites you to visit her website: www.kresleycole.com.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Kresley Cole My Faverite Books The Sutherland Brothers Series: The Captain of All Pleasures

noreply@blogger.com (alisapp) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 22:07:00 +0000

Kresley Cole My Faverite Books The Sutherland Brothers Series: The Captain of All Pleasures

Raised as a free spirit aboard her sea captain father’s clipper ship, Nicole Lassiter has never encountered an obstacle she couldn’t overcome—until she meets Captain Derek Sutherland.

His sizzling kisses leave her longing, but after they share a night of passion, his subsequent disdain makes her blood boil. Nicole vows to take her revenge—by helping her father beat Sutherland in a high-stakes competition: the Great Circle Race from England to Australia.

Nicole’s plans are thrown overboard after Sutherland inadvertently prevents her father from sailing, yet she remains undaunted—taking to the high seas with her father’s ship. But after a harrowing storm, she finds herself a virtual prisoner aboard Sutherland’s vessel. And while her mind tells her she should escape, her body urges her to surrender....

Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

London, 1856

Nicole Lassiter’s first tingle of alarm came the moment she stepped inside the squalid tap house and its fetid warmth rushed over her face.

Silence blanketed the den as the patrons inside took her measure, sensing she was out of place in the prostitute-laden tavern. She hadn’t dressed to attract notice. She wore boys’ pants and a shirt under an unadorned cloak. A hat covered most of the bright hair she’d prodded under it. Still they stared.

Her breath shuddered out. She was here on a mission to find Captain Jason Lassiter, Nicole reminded herself. And now that she’d arrived alone, she would merely have to do her best not to get killed. With an upcast chin and an offhand gaze, she plowed through the throngs of roughnecks peopling the tavern. The tinny music from a badly tuned fiddle at last resumed.

Obviously, the information she’d received pertaining to Lassiter’s whereabouts was mistaken; her father would never come to a place like this, a place where sailors found “company” before they shipped out. When a deckhand had told Nicole where her father was, she’d assumed the Mermaid had gone under new, less nefarious management since she’d been away.

This was certainly not the case. One last sweep over the place and then she could go back and throttle the deckhand for his prank. One last…

Father was here.

With a heavily painted light-skirts hanging all over him.

At least, part of her hung over him. Breasts like two hemispheres of a globe perched on the tight line of her bodice, threatening to free themselves with each of her throaty laughs. And Lord help her, Nicole thought as her face screwed up in shrinking expectation, the woman laughed a lot.

Nicole marched toward him through a gauntlet of human sweat, gin-spiked breath, and loose, unlaced bodies. At the sight of her, her father’s jaw dropped and then snapped closed, bulging at the sides.

Here we go … Jason Lassiter was a fearsome looking man when angered. His eyes became wild and his face flushed to match his red beard and hair. That she hadn’t forgotten. But she had minimized how angry he would be when she’d decided to come here tonight. There was no choice. She was running out of time.

She proceeded with a pained, set smile until she stood before him.

“Nicole,” he ground out between his teeth, “what in the hell are you doing here?”

Her gaze flickered over the whore’s rouged nipples as she boldly shed her bodice. Rolling her eyes, Nicole retorted, “Just what in the hell are you doing here?”

With some muffled words and a pat on the woman’s arm, her father shooed the prostitute away, then sharply motioned for Nicole to sit. “I came here looking for information,” he answered brusquely.

“Ohhh,” she said as she gave him a frown of disbelief. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

“That’s clever,” he replied with thick sarcasm, absently raising his mug. Nicole wrinkled her nose at the dented and grimy container. He looked in it, frowned, then placed it well away from him. “I’d planned to meet a man here who knows about the sabotage. It happens that he’s connected with that woman.” With a slightly wounded look, he added, “You know me better than that.”

Nicole nodded grudgingly and gave him a small, apologetic smile. It lasted only seconds before she became serious at the mention of sabotage. Sailing in these times was perilous enough with captains setting speed records and shipbuilders fearlessly pushing new designs. Masts rigged to snap and rudders set to be lost in the first heavy storm made it deadly.

“Tell me you have some idea who’s doing this,” she said. Her father’s shipping line hadn’t been targeted—yet—but he’d decided to take the offensive.

“I’m finally getting some good leads,” he said in a manner that closed the subject. “Now, what in God’s name are you doing here?”

“Well. I’ve been thinking …” But as she started the speech she’d rehearsed during her trip from Paris, with all her reasons why she should sail with him in the upcoming Great Circle Race from London to Sydney, the doxy appeared again, sidling up to her father. Giving Nicole a nasty look, she began a provocative whispering in his ear.

Her father wasn’t sending the woman packing anytime soon, and Nicole wasn’t about to watch their murmured conversation. Turning from them, she dropped her chin onto the back of her chair and settled in to watch all the British tars and explicitly dressed women while they “mingled.”

The earthy scenes had her wide-eyed. She imagined these sights would only add fodder to her late-night dreams, dreams in which a dark, faceless man … did things to her. Things that she’d seen between couples on the quay. She sighed. What would she dream tonight…?

A loud thud shook her from her musings, and her gaze turned to the front door as three men marched in out of the cold.

They wore expensive and tastefully cut clothes, marking them as gentlemen. Drunken gentlemen, she amended as she got a better look at them. These were jaded high-steppers out for a night of cheap drink and even cheaper debauchery. Well, they’d come to the right place.

Although the men didn’t attract nearly the interest that she had on her own entrance, the tavern quieted upon their arrival. Probably because the largest man was massive—over six feet and obviously well built in his tailored clothing.

But that wasn’t what drew her awareness. No, it was the air of menace, seething and palpable, that reverberated in him. Even when he sat down with his long legs stretched out in front of his chair, his guise relaxed, she sensed a latent tension in him. The others sensed it, too. The parties of seamen, the crimps, the colorful doxies acted like skittish animals when forced to walk past his table.

He was the only one of the three men not noticeably inebriated, and strangely enough, when his eyes flicked over the room, a look like disgust lit his face. Why would he come to a place that offended him?

Then, as if her curiosity had drawn his attention, the man turned his intense gaze on her. After a second, his eyes narrowed. She sucked in a breath and knew: He saw through her disguise! Looked past the boys’ clothes and somehow made her feel bare before him.

When the look in his eyes changed to show blatant appreciation, all rational thought evaporated like fog baked away under a southern sun. Her dark imaginings sputtered and lurched to life once more.

He looked at her as though she were the only woman in the room, a room thick with willing, half-naked women. What if she were one of them, and he called for her? What would it be like to straddle him, to envelop him in pied skirts as he absently drank, pinching and petting her bare skin beneath?

That feeling from her dreams returned—the unnamed response that felt like fear, surprise, and hunger battling inside her belly. He caused it now. It strengthened as his heated gaze ran over her.

“I see you’ve noticed Captain Sutherland,” her father cut in dryly.

Nicole jerked her eyes away, her face heating furiously. But then the name sank into her muddled mind: Sutherland, the dissolute captain of the Southern Cross, the owner of the now failing Peregrine Shipping line—and her father’s most bitter enemy.

“That’s Derek Sutherland?” she asked in hushed amazement, staring at her father in wonder. The idea that he continually crossed this lethal-looking man was cause to make her alternately cheer his bravery and question his sanity.

“The one and only,” he said as he stood. Bidding his doxy good night, he motioned impatiently for Nicole to follow him. “Looks as though we’ll be leaving.” Her father’s face turned fierce. “Because if he keeps staring at you like that, I’ll have to make good on my threats and kill the bastard.”

As she followed him through the crowd, some urge goaded her to glance back at Sutherland. She gave in to the temptation, only to find his eyes on her.

Watch was too tame a word for what he did—his gaze roamed over her in a proprietary manner that defied her to walk away from him

But she would.

Such an intriguing-looking man, despite his deeply lined countenance. What a waste, she mused acidly as she turned away.

Seconds later long, strong fingers encircled her wrist. She knew it was Sutherland even before she turned and their eyes locked. His flesh was hot on hers—his hand was callused.

“Stay,” he said simply.

From his manner, she got the impression he expected her to do just that. Did he think all he had to do was command her? The arrogance! So why did she find herself fighting a very real desire to remain?

“Take your hand off me, Captain.”

When he didn’t, she twisted her arm out of his grasp. In response, he gave her a mocking half-bow. How could he be so unconcerned? How could he seem bored when attraction fired hot and swift within her? Angered, she gave him a forbidding glare. “Nonchalance, Captain? How indifferent will you be when you lose the Great Circle Race by, say …” she tapped her cheek, “… a thousand miles?”

She could have sworn she saw the corners of his lips curl up before her father returned to yank her away.

“Damn it, Nicole, when will you learn?” he demanded before the toe of her boot had touched the refuse-strewn street. “Walking into the Mermaid as if you owned it! Hell, it’s because of men like Sutherland that you shouldn’t be in a place like that.”

“I’ve been in worse,” she countered as he anxiously led her away.

“But to attract Sutherland’s attention and then antagonize him?” He threw another look over his shoulder. “It’s as if you’re drawn to trouble.”

“Well, trouble and I do go way back,” she said between short breaths as she struggled to keep up with her father. He twisted around and frowned at her before slowing his progress down the quay. “If he’s such a bad man, then for God’s sake, why do you go out of your way to cross him?”

“I have my reasons for plaguing Sutherland. Good reasons. Besides, he’s British.” The look Lassiter gave her said he’d explained what should be obvious to anyone with American blood in them.

“Mama was British,” Nicole pointed out, even though they’d been through this again and again.

“She was the only one of this whole lot I ever respected.” His eyes betrayed much more than simple respect for his late wife. Laurel Banning Lassiter had been a noblewoman of English birth whose memory was never far from their minds.

His voice hardened again as he looked at her. “That man is a wastrel and a brute and you’re to have nothing to do with him. He’d use you and throw you away without so much as a good-bye. Especially since he knows I’m connected to you in some way.” He paused, then added starkly, “If he realizes you’re my daughter, I can’t imagine what the cold-blooded bastard will do.”

They walked on in silence, Nicole quiet as she thought about Sutherland. She didn’t think it likely he’d recognize her since she took after her mother and bore little resemblance to her father—except perhaps a reddish tint to her hair. And, of course, in attitude.

“I don’t think he’ll even remember me in the morning,” she finally assured him, though secretly, perversely, the idea displeased her. “After all, he’ll most likely get drunk tonight.”

Her father grunted. “Not so drunk that he’d forget you.” He placed a hand on her shoulder, steering her around the ship debris speckling the docks. “But enough of that devil. Why aren’t you in school?”

When she looked away, he asked in a voice laced with resignation, “You got thrown out again, didn’t you?”

Nicole gave a delicate cough. “My leaving was mutually agreed upon.” He scowled, striding on, and she added under her breath, “To the great glee of my headmistress.”

When they approached the dockside that berthed her father’s ship, the Bella Nicola, a rush of emotion brought the sting of tears to her eyes. A striking clipper with a sharp navy hull and jaunty white and red accents, it stood out among the hulks in the harbor as a diamond would amidst coal.

This is my home. She’d longed to be back aboard and had missed the ship as though she were a friend. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t want her father to notice her missish reaction. To mask it, she commented in an airy tone, “Really, Father, I don’t understand why you’re still fuming at me.”

“Don’t understand?” he asked. “How did you expect me to react when you’ve been dismissed from the finest finishing school on the Continent? Pleased?”

“It really wasn’t a dismissal like the other schools,” she replied, warming to the subject. “I choose to call it a ‘conclusion.’”

“Well, if this is you after your conclusion,’” he turned her to survey her hair-stuffed cap and boys’ trousers, “your grandmother should demand her money back.”

“Pssh. When I first got there, they told me I had to master seven subjects out of nine, which—I—did.” He’d never know it had taken everything in her power to do so. She found it difficult to acquire graces designed to snag a rich, titled husband. Because at twenty and with her quirky looks, she was not just firmly on the shelf. She was on the top shelf—the one it took a ladder to get to.

“And I suppose it’s only coincidence that you finished seven with enough time to travel back here just days before the Great Circle Race.”

Nicole looked away again. She’d been planning to sail the race for the past two years, ever since reading about Queen Victoria’s decree for a global contest open to sailors of any nationality. She’d decided then that nothing would stand in her way. Not slapped hands when she chose the wrong utensil nor ridiculing dance masters, and not the constant teasing about her being too old for school. Especially not a hard-as-iron headmistress bent on cramming her into a proper-lady mold and chopping off anything that remained outside.

This race would be the greatest in history—a win could catapult their line to worldwide recognition—and she wanted nothing more than to be a part of it.

When she didn’t respond, he teasingly pulled her cap down, then asked in a conciliatory tone, “So tell me, what were the two subjects you failed?”

Popping her hat back up, she feigned a grave look. “Alas, I fear that floral arrangement and playing the harpsichord are forever out of my grasp. As you can imagine, the knowledge of my deficiencies is crushing,” she added as she checked an imaginary tear.

Lassiter looked to chuckle in response, his stifled smile showing her that he was happy to see her. But he made his features stern again. “Listen to me, Nicole. I want to enjoy our time together before I sail, so let’s get one thing straight about the race.”

Her brows drew together. Dear Lord, he couldn’t be; he was opening his mouth, his face set to tell her she … wouldn’t be sailing. “Don’t say anything yet—please,” she said in a rush of words. “Just give me a few days to prove to you that you need me in the race.” And every voyage after.

“Nicole, it’s not going to—”

“Please!” She grabbed his forearm and began to speak, but he held up his rope-scarred hand to forestall her.

She decided then that she couldn’t win this skirmish. But this was hardly over. She had other arrows in her quiver for their next round, so she reeled in her thoughts and forced herself to let the fight lie for now.

And was even silent when he said, “I’ll make this as clear as possible: Nicole, there is no way in hell you are sailing this race. And you have Sutherland to thank for making my decision easy. While I have a breath in my body, you won’t be anywhere within reach when I have to contend with him.”

I’m going to kill those beasts, Nicole thought grimly as she pounded her head against her forearm on the desk. When she sat up, she blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes, and looked down at her desk, presently littered with charts. She glared at all the numbers and equations fogging together.

She couldn’t think, much less concentrate on plotting a course to impress her father. She didn’t expect to when the livestock in the hold had been shrilling for a quarter of an hour.

Of course, this would happen when no one was on board to shush the puling animals. Lassiter had gone to a meeting he’d set up through the woman from the tavern, and nearly all of the crew were out enjoying their liberal shore leave.

The sounds dimmed. Holding her breath, she inwardly commanded their silence for the rest of the night. Just when she picked up her pen again, the animals erupted once more. Disgusted, she threw it down. Why weren’t the two crewmen who’d drawn guard duty tonight seeing to this annoyance?

Probably asleep on the job. She would never fall asleep on the job.

Nicole stretched her arms high above her head before rising from the bolted-down chair in her cabin. Although she wasn’t going very far, she grabbed her woolen cloak and pulled it tight.

She trotted with her clanging lamp toward the companionway, trying not to breathe too deeply of the sluggish low-tide air, but she couldn’t suppress a yawn or two. She thought of the other reason she’d gotten so little accomplished this whole day—her exhaustion in the face of a sleepless night. She’d tossed and turned with sensual dreams, the sheets tangling between her legs, the fine cloth of her nightdress growing too bristly against sensitive skin.

In this dream, the man who set upon her wasn’t a faceless stranger. It was Sutherland.

She reminded herself that he’d largely influenced her father’s misguided decision about her sailing. And that the race would pit her father against this man again, making bad blood worse. So why could she still feel his warm, strong fingers firm on her wrist?

Shaking her head, Nicole drove him from her mind yet again. She did not have time for distractions.

At the companionway, she scanned the deck for the guards. Unable to see anyone to reprimand, she swung effortlessly down the steep, narrow steps as she had a thousand times before. When the light touched the animals, the insouciant goat gave her a seeming shrug. But the wide-eyed pigs and sheep were frightened and heartily announced that fact in the echoing confines of the hold.

She puckered her lips and cooed, but they were spooked as they were when a bad storm was brewing. Muttering a curse, Nicole set her lamp on the floor and reached for the shovel to throw them more feed.

Her arm halted in midair.

The light from the lantern faintly illuminated a shape crouched on the floor, a huddled form partially obscured by one of the mighty timber ribs of the ship.

A man?

Nicole pushed her hair out of her eyes and up more securely in her hood as she squinted to make out the sailor’s identity. Whoever he was, he needed to learn that he shouldn’t be down here at odd hours without a good reason. Even more, if he’d upset the animals, then he should have made some effort to calm them.

“Just what do you think you’re doing down here, sailor?” she demanded, each word she spoke underscored by the solid click of her boots as she marched toward him.

But as she neared him, something inside her, some oft-ignored instinct, told her to proceed warily.

He didn’t answer, just rose and turned to her. Her breath leached out in a hiss.

The man bore a purplish, bubbled scar that curved over his forehead and down through a vacant eye socket. A foul odor emanated from him. It was the smell of gin, refuse, and … blood. She gagged, her eyes watering as she swallowed to keep from retching.

After several shallow breaths, her wits returned. This couldn’t be one of her father’s men. Which meant … which meant that she was in trouble. Again.

The play of emotions over her face must have amused the scarred man, because he grinned, revealing teeth that resembled little chunks of charred wood. She couldn’t stop the widening of her eyes, or the hasty step back.

With her next step, she drew a deeper breath, regretting it immediately as his reeking form moved toward her. She managed to say, “Carry on, sailor. M-my apologies.”

For a second, then two, she awaited his reaction. How could she attract the guards’ attention when the animals obviously hadn’t? Could she outrun him? She was in trousers—she might be able to escape to the deck if he came after her. She should try … she really should move.

Just as she spun toward the companionway, the man called out, “Don’t think we’ll be wantin’ ’er to go nowhere, Clive.”

Appearing out of the shadows before her came a hulking second man, a man she sensed was even more dangerous than the first.

Two of them, in the hold. With her.

Nicole gaped at this new man’s equally alarming appearance. She found herself morbidly fascinated by his pie-plate face, round and stamped down except for the bulbous protrusion of his lips. She watched him much like a bystander witnessing a terrible carriage accident, mouth parted, too horror-struck to move.

An instant later, the will to defend herself rose up, and her eyes darted all around to spy out a weapon. But she wouldn’t be able to grab the hold’s shovel or pitchfork before either of the men could get to her.

Then she spied the haphazard arrangement of tools on the floor beside the second man. The bastards were here to sabotage them! Fury spiked through her before settling like a weight on her chest, but she bit it back and said, “I am sorry for interrupting whatever repairs you’re doing down here. I’ll be going back up to my cabin … so good night.”

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere, lady,” the man called Clive said through those beefy lips. “I think you’re goin’ to stay with us and keep me ‘n’ Pretty comp’ny for a spell.” His voice was guttural and his leering eyes scoured her body. Revulsion racked her. She flexed and closed her fingers as she fought for control. “You didn’t think I’d let a comely piece of puss like you leave without me givin’ you a good toss, did you?”

“Now, ’old on, Clive,” Pretty protested from where he’d stopped not five feet from her side. “The boss didn’ say nothin’ about tuppin’ nobody tonight.” He scratched intently in his greasy hair as he suggested, “Let’s me ‘n’ you finish up ’ere afore we get caught ‘n’ then we’ll take care of ’er.”

“Bugger you, Pretty,” Clive said as he reached for the front of her cloak. A panicked screech burst from her lips. She kicked out at him. The stiff toe of her boot planted into his knee before she dashed around him, narrowly shimmying past his enraged lunge.

“Help! Somebody help me!” she screamed just once before she reached the steps. She knew no one was coming to her rescue. Tonight her survival was in her own hands.

Fast as Nicole flew to the stairs, the big brute was faster, and she managed just three steps up the companionway before he leapt for her legs. Catching her ankles in a manacle-like grip, he snatched them back viciously. She felt weightless for a fraction of a second before she crashed against the stairs in a jarring bounce. Stunned, she scarcely registered the pain as the wood shoved into her stomach and chest, wrenching the air out of her lungs.

Over her violent gasps, she dimly heard the scarred man yelling at them over the din of screaming animals. The pain ebbed and her sight blurred … until Clive hauled her back down, dragging her limp body toward him, one hand over the other snaking higher up her leg.

Fight, damn it, fight! With a hidden reserve of strength, she forcefully kicked, her heel catching the man squarely in his foul, soft mouth.

Blood spurt. He howled in pain, yet managed to keep one hand fisted around her leg. Another furious kick connected, loosening his hold, and she pulled at the stairs above with all the fading power left in her arms.

She’d broken free. She’d—

“I’ll shoot y’ if y’ try that again.” The words accompanied the rasp of a pistol hammer being cocked.

She craned her head back over her shoulder. The scarred man had a gun trained on her. Shaking, she looked back down at Clive, who rose to his feet and staggered toward her, his bloody face split into a gruesome sneer.

One glance into his pebbly eyes, seeing the frenzied rage directed at her, decided her fate in a flash.

Ignoring the gun pointed at her back, she sprang to her feet and bolted up the stairs, pumping her arms for speed, knowing she was too weak…too slow.

Halfway up, she felt rather than heard the click of the hammer. A shot roared through the shadowy hold.

REVIEW

"Fast-paced action, heady sexual tension, steamy passion and snappy dialogue.... Exhilarating energy emanates from the pages of this very smart and sassy debut." 4 Stars!—Romantic Times Magazine

"Kresley Cole captures the danger and passion of the high seas in this electrifying debut, weaving heart-stopping adventure with scenes of scorching sensuality for a thrilling fly-through-the-pages read."—Joan Johnston, New York Times Bestseller

"In her truly winning debut novel, the very talented Kresley Cole takes readers on the adventure of a lifetime. A brave, bold woman matches wits with a sexy, dangerous man in this irresistible and passionate romance."—Susan Wiggs, New York Times Bestseller

"Kresley Cole's first novel is a non-stop cruise through the dangerous seas of lust and love. This stellar debut hums with sexual tension, humor, passion and conflict. The CAPTAIN promises all pleasures and delivers each and every one."—Roxanne St. Claire, author Tropical Getaway

"Hot, hot, hot! Ms. Cole's first novel is a wild ride. Adventure, passion, a rollicking story, this book has it all. An impressive debut."—Old Book Barn Gazette

"A terrific debut for a new and very talented author. The dialog was fresh, the action was lively … I fairly flew through the pages. I’m looking forward to the sequel."—Marilyn Rondeau, Historical Romance Writers

"Have you ever read a book by a debut author, and then kept shaking your head thinking, "This can't be her first book. This can't be her first book."? I must admit that was my first thought when I finished the last chapter of this rousing, adventurous, highly-spirited and sensual story by Kresley Cole. It's a captivating tale that kept me turning page after page.... Debut, you say? Yes, it is, and it's a very impressive one at that. With great dialogue and solid character depictions, along with edge-of-your seat sexual tension throughout, it's the perfect book that will sweep you away to adventure, excitement, and blazing romance on the high seas for an afternoon. Enjoy it! (I certainly did!)"—Nancy Davis, Romance Reader at Heart, 4 out of 4 roses (+1/2!)

"... here’s a new talent coming over the horizon that you will want to read. Kresley Cole brings back the adventure of the high seas with the passion-filled romance found between the free-spirited Nicole Lassiter and the super sexy Captain Derek Sutherland. THE CAPTAIN OF ALL PLEASURES is an exciting, sensuous story that will thrill you at every turn of the page."—Reader to Reader Reviews

"THE CAPTAIN OF ALL PLEASURES is a lascivious read from the first page to the last. I found this page turner difficult to put down. It possesses every factor a historical romance should: history, passion, humor, romance, sexual heat and a stirring dialogue. I can hardly wait for the sequel, THE PRICE OF PLEASURE, about Derek's gorgeous younger brother, Grant Sutherland, to hit the bookshelves in July"—Deena Johnson, The Word on Romance

"Debut author Kresley Cole sails into readers hearts and memories with this fantastic tale of seduction, danger, and deception....

THE CAPTAIN OF ALL PLEASURES is fast-paced action from beginning to end with smart and sassy dialogue and pulsating sexual tension between Nicole and Derek. Nicole is a feisty spitfire who longs for the open seas and for the love of a lifetime. No matter what she begins to feel for Derek, it becomes a matter of pride, determination and survival to beat him in the big race. The sexual tension is steamy and even the great seas can’t put out the fire that Derek and Nicole generate together.

With each page turned, readers come to care for the characters and greatly anticipate what Ms. Cole has in store for Derek and Nicole and the outcome of the race. The anticipation couldn’t have been sweeter and the ending couldn’t have been better."—Tracey West, Road to Romance

"Die-hard historical romance fans can rejoice at an amazing new talent, Kresley Cole and her debut novel, THE CAPTAIN OF ALL PLEASURES (Pocket/July 2003)... This exceptional historical has it all - a pair of winning lovers, poignancy and passionate adventure on the high seas! The clever Ms. Cole has already figured out how to hook her readers into anticipating a sequel about Derek's younger brother, Grant, who's ready to find his own luck and love at sea in THE PRICE OF PLEASURE (July 2004)."—Patricia Rouse, Rouse's Romance Readers Groups

"Someone hand me a fan! Ms. Cole writes exceedingly well and exceedingly HOT... Hopefully, THE CAPTAIN OF ALL PLEASURES is merely the first of many wonderful offerings from Ms. Cole."—Karen Larsen, Scribesworld

"Watch this star rise!"

Make a good-sized space on your keeper shelf for this sensational new author because she’s only just begun! Kresley Cole’s first release “The Captain of all Pleasures” packs adventure, suspense, passion and sensuality into this high sea adventure.

Not only are the main characters strong, real and larger than life, but Kresley has the gift of character development that gives the reader an up close and personal view without stifling you with repetition of the mundane. Kresley keeps it fresh and suspenseful providing a great escape for the romantic adventurer inside of us all."—Ballston Book House Review

"THE CAPTAIN OF ALL PLEASURES is a remarkably entertaining tale of love and adventure on the high seas. Debut author Kresley Cole infuses her story with energy and passion, giving the book a life of its own... [It] is both deeply emotional and highly sensual, making it one fantastic debut. Remember the name of Kresley Cole when you're craving heartfelt historical romance!"—Escape to Romance

"With a unique storyline, fresh dialogue and engaging characters, THE CAPTAIN OF ALL PLEASURES more than hits the mark. I highly recommend this story and I can't wait to see what this talented new author has in store for us in the future!"—Carla Hosom, Romance and Friends

"Many discerning readers have been complaining about the scarcity of the big sagas of old. If you're yearning to read something with a panoramic feel, pick up debut author Kresley Cole's first novel... if this novel is any indication, Kresley Cole has a bright future ahead of her!"—Affaire de Coeur

"In THE CAPTAIN OF ALL PLEASURES, Kresley Cole hits the romance world a-running. Wielding a sultry story on the high seas, Cole's debut is a definite winner.

I could not put this book down... Ms. Cole does such a wonderful job of getting the reader to care about the main characters, by the time they get on the ship, you want to set upon the seas with them. Nicole is a vibrantly strong heroine, with spunk and sass ... a perfect match for the aloof and cold Captain. Derek warms up nicely over the course of the book, and you can see his transformation is due to Nicole. I really enjoyed their sparring, which made for some excellent love scenes. The first love scene was daring, but I devoured it like a hot fudge cake sundae. Cole knows how to heat up a book!

With THE CAPTAIN OF ALL PLEASURES sure to bring Kresley Cole's name to the forefront of romance lovers everywhere, I can hardly wait for the sequel, THE PRICE OF PLEASURE, coming out in July about Derek's brother, Grant. This lady cannot write fast enough to suit me."—Jennifer Russell, Romance Readers Connection, 4 1/2 plugs

About the Author
Kresley Cole has a Master's degree in English from the University of Florida, and has had a lifelong interest in nautical literature and sailing. The Captain of All Pleasures, her debut novel, will be followed by The Price of Pleasure, coming soon from Pocket Books. She lives with her husband, Richard, outside of Orlando, Florida.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Playing Easy to Get: New York Times bestselling author by Sherrilyn Kenyon and rising stars Jaid Black and Kresley Cole

noreply@blogger.com (alisapp) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 21:25:00 +0000

Playing Easy to Get: New York Times bestselling author by Sherrilyn Kenyon and rising stars Jaid Black and Kresley Cole

Kresley Cole Anthology with Sherrilyn Kenyon and Jaid Black "The Warlord Wants Forever" a short story introducing the series…

Nikolai Wroth, once a ruthless human warlord in the 1700s and now a general in the rebel vampire army, needs to find his Bride, the one woman who can render him truly alive. As a turned human, he doesn’t enjoy a heartbeat or breaths and is consequently weaker than natural born vampires. He wants his Bride for the power she will bring him and can hardly believe it when his heart beats for Myst the Coveted, a mad, fey, mythological creature.

Myst is known throughout the world as the most beautiful Valkyrie, part chillingly fierce warrior, part beguiling seductress who can “make you want her even as she’s killing you.” She has devoted her life to protecting an ancient, powerful jewel and to fighting the vampires, and she now sees a way to torment one—for with Wroth’s heartbeat comes consuming sexual desire that can only be slaked by her.

She eludes him for five years, but he has finally chased her to ground and stolen the jewel which commands her, giving him absolute power over her. While he possesses it, he can make her do anything, and he plans to in order for her to experience first hand the agonizing, unending lust she’d purposely, boastingly, subjected him to for half a decade. Yet when Wroth realizes he wants more from her and frees her, will she come back to him?

Read an Excerpt

The Warlord Wants Forever

by Kresley Cole

Chapter 1

Five years ago
Mt. Oblak Castle, Russia

If the overgrown vampire didn't stop staring at her face, even his wicked talent with his sword wouldn't keep his head upon his shoulders.

The thought made Myst, an immortal known as the Coveted One, grin as she curled up in the windowsill of her cell. Leaning against the reinforced bars, she watched the two vampire armies battle below as she might a rumble from the back of bleachers.

The poor warlord with his broad shoulders and jet black hair was about to join a legion of other males whose last sight on earth was her smiling face—

She frowned when he ducked and ran through his enemy. He was a big male, at least six and a half feet tall, but he was surprisingly fast. Tilting her head, she studied him. He was good. She knew fighting and liked his style. Dirty. He'd cut with his sword then strike out with his fist, or duck a parry then throw an elbow. It amused her to watch, but what she wouldn't give to be down there fighting. In the middle. Against both sides. Against him.

She fought dirtier.

His gaze continued to stray to her, and once he'd even killed while his eyes were still on her. She'd blown him a kiss, sincerely, choosing to see it as a tribute.

He found time to glance back even as he thundered orders and gave commands to the army of vampires around him, showing brilliance in strategy. She examined it all as though watching Decisive Battles on A&E and grudgingly noted the effectiveness of his army's acid grenades and guns.

The creatures of the Lore scorned human weapons like these. The only ones such weapons could kill were humans, which was beyond non-sporting. Yet that was the thing about bullets—aside from ruining perfectly good couture, they hurt and could immobilize an immortal for precious seconds. Long enough for a dirty fighter to take your head. Done enough times, they could help take an "untakable" castle like Ivo the Cruel's.

Myst hardly cared that Ivo, her jailer and tormentor, was about to have his ass handed to him by this warlord with his forbidden modern weapons. Her situation would not change, for these rebels, turned humans known as the Forbearers, were still vampires. A blood foe is a blood foe is a blood foe….

An explosion rocked the castle, and sparks and bits of debris wafted down from the roof of Myst's cell. The low creatures in the dank holds down the corridor howled with impotent fury, increasing in urgency with each successive blast, until it was ... over. Silence. An aftershock here and there, a muted whimper...

The defense of this castle was no more, its inhabitants having disappeared—by tracing, as the Lore called teleporting—leaving no more than an airy draft and the burned records of their Horde.

She could hear the rebels searching the bowels of this place but could've told them they wouldn't find any of their enemies. The denizens here had not been a fight-to-the-death sort, more of a he who fights and runs away, lives to run away another day type.

Shortly after, she heard heavy boots clicking on the stone floor of the dungeon and knew it was the warlord. He crossed directly to her cell and stood before it.

From her perch, curled in the window, she examined the vampire up close. He had thick, straight black hair that hung over his face in uneven sections, no doubt from where he'd sheared it off with his blade months ago, and never thought to cut it since. Some hanks were kept from his field of vision with those small ravel plaits like the berserkers used to wear. He had scars on his hands, and his big body was powerful and cut with muscle. She wanted to purr—because apparently central casting had just sent down the consummate virile warlord.

"Come down from there and show yourself." Deep voice. Russian accent, moneyed, aristocratic.

"Or what? You'll lock me away in a dungeon?"

"I might free you."

She was at the bars before he'd had time to lower his gaze from the window. Had his squared jaw slackened just the smallest bit? She listened for a quickening of his heart, but found none because there was no heartbeat whatsoever. So the vampire was single? His eyes were clear of the red haze that marked bloodlust, which meant he had never drunk a being to death. But then a Forbearer eschewed taking living blood through the flesh altogether.

When he saw her face up close, the key wasn't immediately in the lock as it usually would have been, but his lips parted, exposing his fangs for her to see. Of course his would be sexy—not too prominent or even much longer than a human's canines.

When she saw the short splendid scar that passed down both of his lips, lightning struck just outside, but he didn't flinch at the bolt or even glance up—he was too busy staring back at her.

Scars, any external evidence of pain, attracted Myst. Pain forged strength. Strength begat electricity. This one could give it to her.

It was possible he was even missing an eye under a thick hank of hair.

She stifled a throaty growl as her hand shot out to brush his hair back. But he was quick, catching her wrist. She curled one finger in a beckoning gesture, and after a moment he released her, allowing her to reach forward. She brushed his hair back, revealing a hard-planed, masculine face covered with grit and ash from the battle.

He was still in possession of both of his eyes and they were intense. Gun-metal gray.

When her hand dropped, his brows drew together, perhaps at her blatant interest, or perhaps at her fingers already stroking the bars in invitation as she stared at his mouth. She was surprised by how carnal she found it, especially since the vampire could use it to hurt her.

The smooth gold chain that she'd worn at her waist for millennia now felt heavy on her.

"What are you?" he asked in his pleasingly low voice. She realized then that his accent wasn't Russian, but from that of neighboring Eesti. The general was Estonian, which made him a kind of Nordic Russian, though she was sure he wouldn't appreciate that description.

She frowned at his question and pulled back her hair to show him her pointed ear. "Nothing?" She parted her lips and tapped her tongue against her smaller dormant fangs. No recognition.

Apparently, the rumors were true. Here was a leader in this army, a general most likely, and he hadn't a clue that she was his mortal enemy. He would think she was fey or a nymph. She'd prefer fey because she'd cringe to be confused with one of those little hookers—

She shook her head. As long as he didn't know she was Valkyrie it worked for her.

Killing the unwitting Forbearers would be easy for her and her sisters. Too easy. Almost like being your own secret Santa.

Myst had just confirmed rumors in the Lore that whispered of asses and elbows and this Horde's inability to differentiate between the two.

REVIEW

Editorial Reviews

Product Description
New York Times bestselling author Sherrilyn Kenyon and rising stars Jaid Black and Kresley Cole unlock the pleasures and perils of embracing the boldest and most powerful of lovers -- 100% alpha males -- in three sensually erotic tales. Discover the physical rapture of his muscular arms.... Become a prisoner of passion, swept away by an encounter with his primal side.... And get lost in the all-consuming thrill of white-hot pursuit by a relentless stranger who may be your most dangerous foe, the best lover you've ever had -- or both.

Let your fantasies run wild with these unforgettable novellas where bigger is most definitely better -- and playing easy-to-get is the only way to go!

About the Author
Sherrilyn Kenyon, who also writes under the name Kinley MacGregor, is the international and New York Times bestselling author of several series, including The Dark-Hunters, Brotherhood of the Sword, The MacAllisters, and Sex Camp Diaries. She is also the creator of the BAD series, featuring the sexy agents of the Bureau of American Defense, found in the story collections Born to Be BAD, Big Guns Out of Uniform, and Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down, as well as in her first full-length BAD novel, BAD Attitude. Also an award-winning web designer, she lives with her husband and sons near Nashville, Tennessee. Visit her on the web at www.sherrilynkenyon.com.

Previously a competitive athlete and coach, Kresley Cole is fast becoming one of the hottest names in historical and paranormal romance. She has a master's degree in English from the University of Florida, and spent much of her time in the research library there, gathering background material for her books. She is the author of the MacCarrick Brothers trilogy, which begins with If You Dare and includes the forthcoming If You Desire and If You Deceive. Her other award-winning novels include No Rest for the Wicked, A Hunger Like No Other, The Captain of All Pleasures, and The Price of Pleasure. Her short fiction is featured in the bestselling anthology Playing Easy to Get.

Kresley lives on a bayou in the Florida panhandle with her husband, Richard. She loves to hear from readers and invites you to visit her website: www.kresleycole.com.

Jaid Black is the founder and driving force of Ellora's Cave Publishing, the award-winning online source for erotic literature. She is also the founder and publisher of Lady Jaided, a sexy new magazine for women. Her novella "Hunter's Right" appears in the collection Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down, and her novel Deep, Dark & Dangerous is forthcoming from Pocket Books in March 2006. Vistit her on the web at www.jaidblack.com.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Kresley Cole The Immortals After Dark Series: Kiss of a Demon King (The Immortals After Dark, Book 6)

noreply@blogger.com (alisapp) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 21:12:00 +0000

Kresley Cole The Immortals After Dark Series: Kiss of a Demon King (The Immortals After Dark, Book 6)

Book 6 in the bestselling Immortals After Dark series

With one kiss, he knew she'd be his queen...

From New York Times bestselling author Kresley Cole comes this spellbinding story of a demon king fighting to reclaim his crown and the wicked sorceress who dares to use his most secret desires to thwart him.

His obsession: the enchantress who surrenders her body,
but not her heart.

After Sabine, the Queen of Illusions, lures and traps Rydstrom Woede in her lair, the ruthless warrior fights to resist her seduction.But his fierce demon nature lusts for her delicate body and won’t be denied. Even as Rydstrom plots to escape, he still intends to claim Sabine as his own—on his terms.

Her downfall: the battle-scarred demon who vows to keep her at all costs.

When Rydstrom breaks free, her abducts Sabine, turning the tables. Now she’s the one struggling to resist his delicious torment. With each relentless encounter, Sabine hungers more for her merciless adversary.

They were never supposed to want each other this much…

If they can defeat the sinister enemy that stands between them, will Sabine make the ultimate sacrifice to save her demon? Or will the proud king lay down his crown and arms to keep his sorceress?

Read an Excerpt

Kiss of a Demon King

"With me, nothing is as it seems. It's usually much, much worse. And then− What do you mean I only get one epigraph? I get as many as I please. Only pre-eviscerated people have ever said things like that to me."
−Sabine of the Sorceri, Queen of Illusions, anointed princess of Rothkalina

"That sorceress might be an evil bitch, but she's my evil bitch. And I'll have no other."
−Rydstrom Woede, fallen king of Rothkalina

PROLOGUE

Gray Waters Lunatic Asylum, London
Fall 1872

"Whenever you have a sorcerer betwixt your thighs, your powers tend to disappear," Sabine told her sister as she scanned the faces of the frenzied, caged humans. "It's merely a fact of life."

"Maybe in the past," Lanthe said as she dropped the unconscious guard she'd been toting by his belt. "Things are going to be different with this one." She busily tied the man's hands behind his back--instead of breaking his arms, which had the same result and didn't waste rope. "You still haven't seen her?"

Her--the sorceress they came to release from this place--if she agreed to convey her powers to Lanthe in exchange for her freedom.

Sabine slinked down the darkened corridor. "I can't tell when they huddle like this." She plucked a cell door off its hinges and tossed it away, her heels clicking as she entered the cage. Up close, she could tell the inhabitants all looked very … mortal.

Naturally, they cowered from her. Sabine knew the exotic picture she presented with her garments and face paint.

As though she'd donned a mask, her eyes were kohled black in a swath from the sides of her nose to her temples.

Her clothes were constructed more of strips of leather and chain metal than of cloth and thread. She wore a metal bustier and mesh gloves that ran the length of her arms, ending in forged fingertip claws. Situated among her hair's riotous braids was her elaborate headdress.

Typical garb of the Sorceri females. In fact, if one's apparel didn't weigh more than the wearer, then one was underdressed.

By the time Sabine was exiting the next cell down, Lanthe had finished with the knots "Any luck?"

Sabine tore free yet another cage door, peered at pale faces, then shook her head.

"Do I have time to check the smaller cells in the basement?" Lanthe asked.

"If we're back at the portal in twenty minutes we should be all right." Their portal back to their home of Rothkalina was a good ten minutes away through dank London streets.

Lanthe blew a jet black plait from her forehead. "Watch the guard and keep the freed inmates inside this hall and quiet."

Sabine's gaze flitted over the unconscious male sprawled on the squalid floor, and her lip curled in disgust. She could read the minds of humans, even when they were blacked out, and the contents of this one's were giving even Sabine pause.

"Very well. But hurry with the transfer," Sabine said. "Else we'll attract our foe."

Lanthe's blue eyes gazed upward out of habit. "They could be here at any second." She hastened to the stairwell once more.

Their lives had become a droning cycle: Steal a new power, flee enemies, have power stolen by a smooth-talking Sorceri male, steal a new power. … Sabine allowed it to continue.

Because she'd ruined Lanthe's innate ability.

When her sister was gone, Sabine muttered, "Look after the guard. Very well …"…

Lifting the man by his collar and belt, she tossed him in front of the exit doors. Some of the denizens grew wild at the violence, howling, pulling their hair. The ones who'd been eyeing the main exit scuttled back.

Shush the humans, easy enough. She sauntered to the guard and stepped up onto his back, opening her arms wide. "Gather round, mad human persons. Gather! And I, a sorceress of dark and terrible powers, will reward you with a story."

Some quieted out of seeming curiosity, some in shock. "Hush now, mortals, and perhaps if you are good, obedient pets, I'll even show you a tale." The cries and yells she'd ignited were ebbing. "So sit, sit. Yes, come sit before me. Closer. But not you--you smell like urine and porridge. You, there, sit."

Once they'd all gathered before her, she crouched on the guard's back. She gave them a slow smile as she readied for her story, tugging up her skirt to fiddle with her garters, then adjusting her customary choker.

"Now, for this evening, you have two choices. You can hear the story of a mighty demon king with horns and eyes as black as obsidian. In ages past he was so honest and upstanding that he lost his crown to cunning evil. Or, we have the story of Sabine, an innocent young girl who was forever getting murdered." Who would one day be that demon's bride…

"Th-the girl, please," one resident whispered. His face was indistinguishable through the curtain of his matted hair.

"A discerning choice, Hirsute Mortal." In a dramatic voice, she began, "Our tale features the intrepid heroine, Sabine, the Queen of Illusions--"

"Where's Illusions?" a young woman paused in gnawing her own forearm to ask.

Excellent--these were going to be narrative interrupters. "It's not a place. A 'queen' is someone who is better at a particular mystickal skill than anyone else."

Sabine could cast chimeras that were indistinguishable from reality, manipulating anything that could be seen, heard, or imagined. She could reach inside a being's mind and deliver scenes from their wildest dreams--or worst nightmares. No one was her equal.

"Now the ridiculously beautiful and clever Sabine had just turned twelve, and she adored her soon-to-grow light-skirted sister, Melanthe, aged nine. Sabine had loved little Lanthe with her whole heart since the first time the girl had cried for her 'Ai-bee' over their own mother. The two sisters were born of the Sorceri, a dwindling and forgotten race. Not very exciting story fodder, you might think. Compared to a vampire or even a Valkyrie," she sniffed. "Ah, but listen on and see …"

She raised her hand to weave an illusion, drawing from within herself and from her surroundings--the mad energy of the inmates, the lightning-strewn night beyond the asylum.

When she blew against her opened palm, a scene was projected onto the wall beside her. Gasps sounded, a few stray whimpers.

"The first time young Sabine died was on an eve much like this, in a decrepit structure that trembled from thunder. Only instead of a rat-infested asylum, it was an abbey, built into the peak of a mountain, high in the Alps. The dead of winter was upon the land."

The next scene she cast showed Sabine and Lanthe hastening down a murky stairway in their nightgowns and coats. Even as they rushed, they hunched their heads at each new batting of wings outside. Lanthe silently cried.

"Sabine was filled with anger at herself for not listening to her instinct and taking Melanthe away from their parents, from the danger they attracted with their forbidden sorcery. But Sabine had been reluctant because the two girls--though born of immortals and both gifted with powers--were still children, which meant they could be killed and wounded as easily as mortals, their injuries as lasting. Yet now Sabine had no choice but to leave. She sensed her parents were already dead, and suspected the killers were loose somewhere in the shadowy abbey. The Vrekeners had come for them--"

"What's a Vrekener?"

Sabine inhaled deeply as she gazed at the ceiling. Mustn't murder audience, mustn't murder … "Winged avengers of old, demonic angels," she finally answered. "A dwindling race as well. But since memory, in our little corner of the Lore, they had slaughtered evil Sorceri wherever they could find them, and had been hunting Sabine's family for all of her life. For no other reason than because her parents were indeed quite evil."

With a flick of her hand, Sabine changed the scene, showing the two girls stumbling into their parents' room. By bolts of lightning flashing through soaring stained glass windows, they saw the bodies of their parents, curled together in sleep.

The headless bodies, freshly decapitated.

In the image, Sabine turned away and vomited. With a strangled scream, Lanthe collapsed.

Another illusion showed Vrekeners emerging from the shadows of the chamber, led by one who wielded a scythe with a blade forged not of metal but of black fire.

Flashes of their huge ghostly wings appeared, and the double rows of horns on their heads gleamed. They were so towering that she had to crane her neck up to meet eyes across the room. All but for one. He was a mere boy, younger even than Sabine. His gaze was transfixed on little Lanthe, curled unconscious on the floor--one of the adults had to hold him back from her.

Sabine and Lanthe's situation grew clearer to her. This band of Vrekeners hadn't stalked them only for punitive reasons.

"The leader tried to convince Sabine to come peaceably with them," she told her audience. "That he would put the sisters upon the path of goodness. But Sabine knew what the Vrekeners did to Sorceri girl children, and it was a fate worse than death. So she fought them."

Sabine began the last illusion, letting it play to the end …

Her entire body shook as she began to weave her spells around her enemies. She made the Vrekener soldiers believe they were trapped in a cavern, ensnared underground where they couldn't fly--their worst fear.

For the leader, she held up her palms, a gesture of supplication directed to his mind. Once linked, she greedily tugged free his nightmares, which she then offered up in a display before him, forcing him to relive whatever would hurt him most.

These scenes made him sink to his knees, and when he dropped his scythe to claw at his eyes, she snatched his weapon from him. Sabine didn't hesitate to swing it.

Hot blood sprayed across her face as his head tumbled to her feet. Once she swiped the sleeve of her gown over her eyes, she saw that her illusions were fading, the Vrekeners able to see where they truly were once more. Lanthe had woken and screamed for Sabine to watch out.

Then time … stopped.

Or seemed to. Sounds dimmed, and everyone in the room slowed, all staring at Sabine, at the blood arcing from her jugular as she collapsed. One of these males had slashed her throat from behind, and all the world went red.

"Abie?" Lanthe shrieked, charging for her, dropping to her knees beside her. "No, no, no, Abie, don't die, don't die, don't die!" The air around them heated and blurred.

Whereas Sabine had her illusions, Lanthe's innate sorcery was called persuasion. She could order any being to do as she pleased, but she rarely gave commands--they often ended in tragedy.

Yet when the males rounded on her, Lanthe's eyes began to glitter, sparkling like metal. The terrible power she'd feared to use she now wielded over them, without mercy. "Do not move … Stab yourself … Fight each other to the death."

The room was heavy with sorcery, and the abbey began groaning all around them. One of the stained glass windows shattered. Lanthe told the boy to jump through it--and not to use his wings on the way down. Eyes wild with confusion, he obeyed, the thick glass slashing over his skin. He never yelled as he plummeted to the valley floor.

When all were killed, Lanthe knelt beside Abie again.

"Live, Abie! Heal!" Gods, Lanthe was pushing, trying to command her. But it was too late. Sabine's heart no longer beat. Her eyes were blank with death.

"Don't leave me!" Lanthe screamed, pushing harder, harder … The furniture began to shake, their parents' bed rattling … More shifting … a thud as a head rolled to the floor. Then a second one.

The power was unimaginable. And somehow, Sabine felt her body restoring itself. She blinked open her eyes, alive and even stronger than before.

"They ran from that place, out into the world, and never looked back," she told her enthralled audience. "All that Sabine would have from that night was the scar around her neck, a tale to tell, and the blood vendetta of a Vrekener boy who'd somehow survived his fall. …"

Lost in thought, Sabine absently realized that the guard had awakened and was squirming under her boot heels. She reached down and snapped his neck before she got so caught up with the story that she forgot to do it.

One woman clapped her hands in glee. Another breathed, "God bless 'n keep you, miss."

Sabine might as well be an agent of fate for these people on this eve. Not an agent for good, nor for bad. Just serving fate--which could be either.

After all, the next guard hired might be worse to them.

"What about the second time she died?" a brazen female asked. Her head was shaved bald.

"She was fighting to defend Melanthe and herself from yet another Vrekener attack. They captured Sabine, then flew her to a height, dropping her to a cobblestone street. Yet her sister was there once more to heal her broken body, to snatch her from the arms of death."

As if it had happened yesterday, Sabine could still recall the sound of her skull cracking. That one had been so close. …

"The third time, they chased her into a raging river. The poor girl couldn't swim, and she drowned--"

"Then take it, you bitch!" a woman shrieked from downstairs, interrupting the flow of the story once more. Ah, the Queen of Silent Tongues was yielding to Lanthe.

Sabine's skin prickled as the air began to sizzle with power. The sorceress jailed downstairs was surrendering her root ability. Lanthe would be able to talk telepathically to whomever she addressed, within a certain distance.

"No, don't fret," Sabine told her antsy humans. "Have you read any of the halfpenny novels, the ones with bank robberies? That's all my accomplice is doing now. Except she's stealing something equivalent"--she made her voice dramatic--"to your soul!"

At that one woman began crying, which pleased Sabine because it reminded her why she so rarely took humans as pets.

"Who killed her the next time?" Brazen Mortal asked. "Vrekeners?"

"No. It was other Sorceri bent on stealing her goddesslike power. They poisoned her." The Sorceri so adore their poisons, she thought bitterly.

But then she frowned at the memories. "It did things to the young girl's mind, this repeated dying. Like an arrowhead forged in fire, she was made sharp and deadly from constant pressure and blows. And she began to covet life as no other before her. Whenever she felt hers was in danger, a mindless fury swept through her, the need to lash out undeniable."

When some of their eyes widened, Sabine realized her pensiveness had made the cell appear to be choked with mist. She often unwittingly displayed illusions that mirrored her thoughts and emotions, even when dreaming.

As she swiftly cleared the air, another patient said, "Good miss, wh-what happened after the poisoning?"

"The sisters just wanted to survive, to be left alone, to amass a fortune in gold through just a bit of sorcery. Was that too much to ask?" She gave them an "honestly?" look.

"But the Vrekeners were unrelenting, tracking them by the girls' sorcery. Especially the boy. Because he hadn't reached his immortality by the time he made that leap, he didn't regenerate. He'd been broken, scarred and deformed from his injuries forever."

They'd since learned his name was Thronos and that he was the son of the Vrekener Sabine had beheaded all those years ago. "Without the use of sorcery, the girls were starving. Sabine was now sixteen and old enough to begin doing what any girl like her would."

Brazen Mortal crossed her arms over her chest and knowingly said, "Prostitution."

"Wrong. Commercial fishing."

"Really?"

"Noooo," Sabine said. "Fortune-telling. Which promptly earned her a death sentence for being a witch."

She fingered the white streak in her red hair, the one she hid from others with an illusion. "They didn't always burn witches at stakes. That's a fallacy. No, sometimes a village had burned its quota, so they killed secretly, burying a group alive." Her tone grew soft. "Can you imagine what it was like for the girl to breathe earth? To feel it compacting in her lungs?"

She gazed over her silent audience. Their eyes had gone wide--she could hear a pin drop.

"The humans expired quickly, but not so for Sabine," she continued. "The girl withstood the reaper's call for as long as she could, but felt herself fading. Yet then she heard a ringing voice from above, commanding her to live and to rise from her grave. So Sabine mindlessly obeyed, digging against others' dead flesh, blindly stretching, desperate for another inch closer to the surface."

From behind them, Lanthe's voice intoned, "At last, Sabine's hand shot up from the muddy ground, pale and clenched. Finally, Melanthe could find her sister. As she hauled Sabine out of her grave, lightning struck all around and hail pelted them--like the earth was angry to lose her catch. Since that fateful night, Sabine doesn't care about anything."

Sabine sighed. "It's not true that she doesn't care about anything. She cares about nothing very much."

Lanthe glared, her eyes shimmering a metallic blue from her recent infusion of power.

"How amusing, Sabine," she said, laying the words directly into Sabine's mind.

Sabine jumped. "Telepathy. Outstanding. Try to retain it." Gods, she was relieved to see Lanthe acquire another power. Her sister's persuasion had been exhausted keeping Sabine alive.

It seemed that all those deaths had made Sabine even more powerful while weakening Lanthe--in both ability and resilience.

"That sorceress also had the power to talk to animals," Lanthe continued. "Guess what you're getting for your birthday!"

"Oh, bully." One of the least sought powers of all Sorceri. The problem with communicating with animals was that there were rarely enough within earshot to be helpful. "I can only hope a plague of locusts is milling about when I need them." To her audience, Sabine said, "We're finished here."

The long-haired male asked, "Wait, what happened after that burial?"

"Things got much, much worse," Sabine said dismissively.

The crying female cried harder. "H-how could it get worse than dying so much?"

Sabine dryly answered, "They met Omort the Deathless. He was a sorcerer who could never know death's kiss, and so he was instantly smitten with the girl so well acquainted with it."

Lanthe met her eyes. "He'll be wondering where we are."

"But he knows we'll always return." Omort had controls in place for the sisters. Sabine gave a bitter laugh. Had they actually once thought they'd be safe with him?

Just then, Sabine heard the sound of wings outside.

"They've come." Lanthe's eyes darted to the chamber's high window. "We run, run for the tunnels beneath the city, and try to find our portal above."

"I'm not in the mood to run." The building began to rock--or it appeared to--with Sabine's anger.

"When are you ever? But we have to."

Though Sabine and Lanthe were nearly as fast as the fey and were notoriously dirty fighters, the Vrekeners' sheer numbers were unstoppable. And the sisters possessed no battle sorcery.

Lanthe's gaze swept over the room, searching for escape. "They'll catch us even if you make us invisible."

With a flick of her hand, Sabine wove an illusion. Suddenly she and Lanthe both looked like patients. "We'll create a stampede of humans and run out into the night with them."

Lanthe shook her head. "The Vrekeners will scent us."

Sabine blinked at her. "Lanthe, have you not smelled my humans?"

Chapter 1

Present day
The Tongue and Groove Strip Club, Southern Louisiana

"A lap dance for the sexy demon?"

With a firm shake of his head, Rydstrom Woede turned down the half-clad female.

"With a lap like yours, I'll make myself at home," another told him. "For free." She cupped one of her breasts upward and dipped her tongue to her nipple.

That got him to raise an eyebrow, but still he said, "Not interested."

This was one of the low points of his life, surrounded by strippers in a neon-lit Lore club. He was on edge in this ridiculous place, feeling like the worst hypocrite. If his ne'er-do-well brother found out where he'd been, he would never hear the end of it.

But Rydstrom's contact had insisted on meeting here.

When a pretty nymph sidled up behind him to massage his shoulders, he picked up her hands and faced her. "I said no."

The females here left him cold, which confounded him--since he needed a woman beneath him so badly. His eyes must have darkened, because the nymph quickly backed away. About to lose my temper with a nymph?

Lately, Rydstrom had been a constant hair trigger's turn from succumbing to rage. The fallen king known for his coolheaded reason, for his patience with others, felt like a bomb about to explode.

He'd been experiencing an inexplicable anticipation--a sense of building, a sense that something big was going to happen soon.

But because this urgency had no discernible source or alleviation, frustration welled in him. He didn't eat, couldn't sleep a night through.

For the last couple of weeks, he'd awakened to find himself thrusting against the pillow or the mattress or even into his own fist, desperate for a soft female below him to ease the strangling frustration he felt.

Gods, I need a woman.

He stared down into an untouched glass of demon brew. Yet he had no time to woo a decent one. Just another conflict battling within him.

The kingdom's needs always come before the king's.

So much was at stake in the fight to reclaim his crown--from Omort the Deathless, a foe who had been impossible to kill. Now Rydstrom searched for a way to truly destroy Omort forever. Backed by his brother Cadeon and Cadeon's gang of mercenaries, Rydstrom doggedly tracked down one lead after another.

The emissary he was to meet tonight--a pus demon named Pogerth--would be able to help them.

Just then, a demoness dressed in black leather with cheap makeup on her horns gave Rydstrom a measuring look as she passed, but he turned away.

He was … curious about wicked females, always had been, but they weren't his type--no matter what Cadeon occasionally threw in his face when they fought.

No, Rydstrom wanted his queen, his own fated female, a virtuous demoness to stand by his side and grace his bed.

For a demon, sex with one's female was supposed to be mind-blowing compared to the random tup. After fifteen centuries, he'd waited bloody long enough to experience the difference.

He exhaled. But now was not the time for her. So much at stake. Rydstrom knew that if he didn't defeat his enemy this time, his kingdom and his castle would be forever lost.

My home lost. His hands clenched, his short black claws digging into his palms; strippers traipsing by his table gave him a wide berth.

Omort and his followers had desecrated Castle Tornin. The sorcerer had set himself up as king and welcomed Rydstrom's enemies, granting them asylum. His guards were revenants, walking corpses, the dead raised to life, who could only be destroyed once their master died.

Tales of orgies, sacrifices, and incest in Tornin's once-hallowed halls were legion.

Rydstrom would die before he lost his ancestral castle to beings so depraved, so warped he considered them the most revolting beings ever to walk the earth.

Gods help anyone who crosses me this eve. A ticking bomb--

At last, Pogerth arrived, teleporting inside the bar. The pus demon's skin looked like melted wax and smelled of decay. The gauze he wore under his clothes peeked out at the collar and cuffs of his shirt. He wore rubber boots that he would empty outside in regular intervals, as was polite.

When he sat at Rydstrom's table, it was to a squishing sound. "My lord and master seeks a prize so rare it's almost fabled," he began without preamble. "In return for it, he'll deliver something just as fantastical." Switching to the demon tongue, he asked, "What would you be willing to do for a weapon guaranteed to kill the Deathless One?"

* * * * *

Castle Tornin

The Kingdom of Rothkalina

When a severed head bounced wetly down the steps from Omort's throne dais onto the black runner, Sabine casually sidestepped, continuing past it.

The head belonged to Oracle Three Fifty-Six--as in the number of soothsayers that had been in office since Sabine had come to Tornin.

The scent of blood cloyed as revenants mindlessly cleaned up the matching body.

And Omort, her half brother and king of the plane of Rothkalina, was wiping off his bloody hands--which meant he'd torn the oracle's head from her neck in a fit of rage, piqued no doubt by whatever she'd foretold.

Standing tall and proud in front of his ornate gold throne, he wore a raised armor guard over his left shoulder and a dashing cape on the right. Atop his pale hair sat the intricate headwear that served as both a crown and an armor helmet.

He looked suave and sophisticated, and utterly incapable of yanking a woman's head off her body.

"Something to comment about this, Sabine? Growing soft?"

She was the only one who dared defy him in any way, and the creatures at court quieted. Lining the halls were members of many of the factions who allied with the Pravus, Omort's new army.

Among them were the centaurs, the Invidia--female embodiments of discord--ogres, rogue phantoms, fallen vampires, fire demons with their palms aglow … more beings than could be named.

Almost all of them would love to see her dead.

"So hard to find good help these days," she sighed. Sabine could scarcely be expected to feel sympathy for another. For far too many times she'd dragged herself up from a pool of her own blood. "Which is a shame, brother, because without her we are as good as blind."

"Worry not, I will find another seer directly."

"I wish you all the best with that." Soothsayers didn't grow on trees, and already they were wading deep into the recruiting pool. "Is this beheading why you summoned me?" Sabine's tone was bored as she gazed around her. She studiously avoided the mysterious Well of Souls in the center of the court, taking in other details of the opulent throne room.

Her brother had drastically changed it since the rule of the mighty Rydstrom. He'd replaced the demon's austere throne with one made of blazingly bright gold. Tonight, blood lay splattered over the gleaming metal--from the oracle's squirting jugular. Been there. …

On the walls, Omort had hung his colors and his banners emblazoned with his talisman animal: an ouroboros, a snake swallowing its own tail, to represent his deathlessness. Anything simple, he'd made lavish. And yet, this place still didn't suit the outwardly sophisticated Omort.

According to legend, the premedieval Castle Tornin had been created by a divine hand to protect the well, with six bold towers encircling it, and the central court. Though the stones that made up the fortress were rugged, they'd been placed flawlessly. Tornin was perfectly imperfect.

As rough-hewn as its former king was reputed to be.

Omort drew back his cape before sitting. "I summoned you half an hour ago."

"Ah, just so. I recall that now." She and Lanthe had been watching DVDs in Lanthe's solar-powered room. The sisters probably logged seven hours a day watching movies. Alas, cable wasn't forthcoming.

As she passed the Viceroy centaur, Sabine peeked down and asked him, "How's it hanging? Low and to the left, I see. Your left, my right." Though his fury was undisguised, he would never challenge her. She had far too much power here.

She gave him a wink to remind him of just that, then continued to Omort, "I was going to be here on time. But I had something very urgent to take care of."

"Did you really?"

"No." And that was all she'd say on the matter.

Omort stared at her in fascination, his yellow irises glowing. But when she removed her own cape, he seemed to shake himself, casting a disapproving look at her garments--a scanty bandeau top of gold weave, a leather micro-skirt, claw-tipped gauntlets on her hands, and thigh-high boots.

After raking his gaze over her body, Omort settled on her face. She'd drawn her bold scarlet eye paint in the shape of wings that spread out from her lashes up over her brows all the way to her hairline.

In ages past, Omort had wanted to make it law that females of value were to obscure their faces with a traditional silk Sorceri mask instead of mere paint mimicking one, and to cover their bodies entirely.

He'd swiftly learned how Sabine felt about that idea.

"Actually, Omort, I just came to drink my medicine."

"You'll get your dose later," Omort replied, waving a negligent hand.

How easy it was for him to dismiss. He wasn't the one who needed it to keep from dying a horrific death.

"For now, we have something more important to discuss--"

Hettiah, Omort's half sister and Sabine's arch-nemesis, arrived then, hastening up the dais steps to stand beside Omort's throne--her rightful place, since she was his concubine as well as his relation. She must have run here as soon as she'd heard Sabine was at court, frantic to make sure Sabine didn't steal Omort from her.

Hettiah was woefully confused on two points: Omort was Sabine's for the taking, and she would never be taking.

Omort ignored Hettiah utterly, keeping his eyes on Sabine.

"Important to discuss… ?" she prompted.

"My spies have long been searching for Groot the Metallurgist and monitoring the activities of his most trusted followers."

Groot lived in hiding from Omort, one of only two half siblings outside Tornin who still survived.

"I've just learned that he sent an emissary to meet with none other than Rydstrom Woede."

At last, an intrigue! "Rydstrom and Groot, our two most dangerous enemies allying. This is bad news."

"Something must be done. One of the spies heard the emissary promising a sword forged to kill me."

Everyone at court stilled--including Sabine.

Omort exhaled wearily. "It won't, though. It can't." He almost sounded regretful. "Do you know how many bombs, spells, spears, daggers, and poisons were supposed to have ended me?"

Indeed, Sabine had seen Omort stabbed through the heart, beheaded, and burned to cold ash. And always he rose from a dirty mist like a phoenix, stronger even than before. His very name meant without death.

"But Rydstrom must believe it will work," he said. "The infamously coolheaded demon was seen storming from the meeting, and heard calling his brother Cadeon as he got into his car to speed away toward New Orleans."

"Rydstrom must be on his way to meet him." Cadeon the Kingmaker, a ruthless mercenary. He was rumored to be able to put any king on a throne--except his brother. For centuries, the two had worked together to reclaim Tornin.

Which was now her home. Get over it, demons. Not moving.

Hettiah cleared her throat. "My liege, if the sword can't kill you, then why worry about it?"

"Because the belief is nearly as dangerous," Sabine answered impatiently. "The sword could be seen as a rallying point, used as a propaganda tool." Already little rebellions erupted over the countryside, the demons continuing to clamor for their deposed king.

Clamoring still--after nine centuries.

Sabine often wondered how he'd earned such fervent loyalty. "So it's clear I can't let the brothers meet," she said. "I'll intercept Rydstrom before he can reach the city."

"And then?" Omort said quietly. "What will you do with him?"

"And then I'll kill two birds with one stone," she answered. "This is the prophecy beginning." Just in time for the Accession.

Every five hundred years, that great immortal war took place, and they were on the cusp of it right now.

Her gaze flickered over the mysterious well in the center of the court, strewn with sacrifices--bloody and unidentifiable body parts. Her future depended on unlocking its power. And the demon was the key.

Or, rather, his heir was.

When she faced Omort, his brows drew together, as if he'd thought she would balk at bedding a demon. In fact, she was eager to get this over with--and then to seize the power that was there for the taking.

At last, something to want, to need.

Hettiah asked, "What if the demon resists you?"

Sabine's lips parted. "Have you looked at me lately, Hettiah?" She turned in a circle, a move that left Omort leaning forward on the edge of his throne, and Hettiah sending her murderous glances.

Hettiah wasn't without power. In fact, her ability was neutralizing others' powers. She could erase illusions as easily as Sabine could cast them. Lanthe had nicknamed her Hettiah the Buzz Kill or Aunty-Matter.

"Don't underestimate the demon," Omort finally said. "He's one of the most iron-willed beings I've ever encountered. Don't forget that I faced him--and yet he lives."

Sabine exhaled, trying to keep a rein on her notorious temper. "Yes, but I have unique attributes that make this demon's seduction in the bag."

"You also have a detriment," Hettiah sneered. "You're a freak among the Lore."

It was true she was unique--a virgin seductress. Sabine chuckled at Hettiah's statement, then her expression instantly turned cold when she faced her brother. "Omort, put a muzzle on your pet, or I'll make her one from her intestines." She rapped her silver-tipped claws together, and the sound rang out in the chamber.

Hettiah lifted her chin, but she'd paled. Sabine had in fact plucked an organ from her. On several occasions. She kept them in jars on her bedside table.

But Sabine refrained from this as much as possible, because whenever she fought Hettiah, it seemed to overly excite Omort.

"Besides, if the demon somehow resists this"--Sabine waved her hands over her figure--"I'll have a backup plan." She always had a plan B.

"You'll need it." Hettiah smirked.

Sabine blew her a kiss, the ultimate insult among the Sorceri, who stored poisons in their rings to be mixed into drinks--or blown into the eyes of an enemy.

"Capture him tonight, and then … begin." Omort sounded sickened. Not only was Rydstrom a demon, which most Sorceri viewed as little better than an animal, the fallen king was Omort's blood enemy.

And the time had finally come for Sabine to surrender her virginal--hymenally speaking--body and her womb to the creature. No wonder Omort had gone into a fury with the oracle.

Part of him lusted for the power Sabine could garner. And part of him lusted for her--or for women who resembled her, like the red-haired Hettiah.

He rose then, descending the steps to stand before her. Ignoring Hettiah's huff of dismay--and the warning in Sabine's eyes--he slowly raised his hand to her face.

His bloodstained nails were long and cloudy. When he pinched her chin, she said in a seething tone, "Now brother, you know I dislike it when men touch my face."

When angered--like now--Sabine's surroundings appeared to rock and explode as though from an earthquake, while winds seemed to gust in tempests. Omort hesitantly released her as the court attendees nervously stamped about.

"I have the coordinates for the road he'll be traveling," Omort said. "Lanthe can open a portal from the dungeon directly to that location, and you can stop him there. It will be a perfect trap. Unless she's already lost her thresholds power."

Lanthe could still create portals. But her ability was temporarily weakened each time, so she cold only manage it once every six days or so. Sabine only hoped she hadn't burned one recently.

"Why don't you call Lanthe in here and ask her yourself?" Sabine said, making him scowl. For some reason, Omort had always loathed being near Lanthe and had decreed that the two sisters would never be together in his presence.

"Exactly how long do I have to set this snare?" she asked.

"You must intercept him within the next two hours."

"I go at once." She had little time to hatch a plot, which irritated her. She adored plotting--devising plans and subplans and contingencies--and half the fun was the anticipation of a trap about to be sprung. She would dream up scenarios for months, and yet now she had only mere hours.

Before she could leave, Omort leaned down and murmured at her ear, "If there were any way around your sleeping with this beast, I would have found it for you."

"I know, brother."

She did believe him in this. Omort would never willingly give her up, because he wanted Sabine all for himself and had since the first time he'd seen her. He'd said there was something in her eyes he'd never seen before--the dark knowledge of what it was like to die. Something he could never know.

He covered her bare shoulder with a clammy hand, sounding as if he'd just stifled a groan at the contact.

"Do--not--touch, Omort." She gritted out the words, making her plaits appear to be striking vipers until he removed his hand. Sometimes she had to remind him that she was as treacherous as the serpents he worshipped.

She turned immediately, giving him her back instead of taking three steps away before turning to exit the chamber. When she passed the well, she darted her gaze to it.

Soon …

"You won't fail me?" he called after her. "Rydstrom must not reach his brother."

"Consider it done," she called back with utter surety. How hard could it be to capture a demon?

Chapter 2

A prize so rare it was fabled …

Rydstrom sped his McLaren down a deserted levee road, his headlights cleaving through the swamp fog. That crazed energy within him, the inexplicable tension, had spiked to a fever pitch.

Omort could be killed.

One hundred miles per hour. One hundred and ten …

With a sword forged by Groot the Metallurgist.

Rydstrom had waited so long for this, he had a hard time believing it was happening now. Although he didn't trust the demon Pogerth, Rydstrom trusted his ally, Nïx--the Valkyrie soothsayer who'd arranged their meeting.

Nïx had said that this campaign was a chance to kill Omort--Rydstrom's last chance. Either he would succeed in destroying the sorcerer or he would fail forever.

By all the gods, it was possible. But for payment, Groot had asked for the impossible. Or so it would seem.

One hundred and forty miles per hour. Though Rydstrom had hung up the phone with his brother minutes ago, he was still slack jawed. Cadeon--the most untrustworthy and least dependable being Rydstrom had ever known--had informed him that he was already in possession of the prize Groot demanded in exchange for the sword.

Cadeon had reluctantly agreed to meet Rydstrom at their customary place north of New Orleans with the payment in tow, but Rydstrom still had half an hour to reach him. There was plenty of time for Cadeon to back out--if he hadn't already.

At that thought, Rydstrom floored the gas, surging to one hundred and sixty miles per hour. Not fast enough. So much at stake.

Yes, Cadeon had already found the prize. But he would not be keen to give it up.

He'll run. Rydstrom had to get to him before he could.

Long moments passed with him deep in thought over his brother. Knowing Cadeon would let him down, he accelerated even more. One seventy …

Rydstrom would die for his people. Why wouldn't Cadeon--

Eyes stared back at him in the headlights. Not an animal, a woman.

He slammed on the brakes and swerved, the vehicle skidding out of control.

* * * * *

The screech of tires peeled out into the night as the demon's sports car began to spin wildly. But somehow he was righting it.

"He's pulling it back." Lanthe sounded impressed.

Sabine raised her hands and muttered, "I don't think so, demon." Just when he appeared to gain control, she shifted the vision of the road, obscuring the bridge abutment to his sight.

He sped directly into it.

An explosion of sound erupted--the groaning of metal, the shattering of glass. Smoke tendrils snaked upward, and gaskets hissed. The previously shining black car was totaled.

"Did you have to make him crash that hard?" Lanthe asked, piping her lip to blow a black braid from her face. "He won't likely be in the mood for love now."

"You were the one in my ear, yelling that he was getting away."

Earlier, when Sabine had heard the smooth purr of an engine in the distance, she'd made Lanthe invisible, then she'd cast an illusion of a vehicle on the side of the road, stalled with the hood up.

The damsel in distress. Unable to fix her own engine. A ridiculous cliché. But necessary.

When he hadn't slowed, she'd waved her arms, and still he'd continued speeding along. Refusing to let him slip past her, she'd cast forward an illusion of herself, directly in his car's path. He'd swerved to avoid her likeness.

"Besides, he's a demon," Sabine continued. "Demons are both tough--and lusty." When his door shot open, she said, "See?" But he hadn't yet exited.

"What's taking him so long?" Lanthe asked, switching to telepathy, biting her nails as she silently talked. "What if we draw the Vrekeners?" Even after all these years, those fiends continued to track the sisters' heavy sorcery.

"We've got time yet," Sabine said, though she was growing impatient to see the male she'd be giving herself to--and anxious to get a glimpse of one of the most well-respected leaders in the Lore.

Of course, Sabine had read all about Rydstrom and knew details of his history. He was fifteen hundred years old. He'd had five siblings, with two sisters and one brother still living. He'd been a warrior long before he'd unexpectedly inherited the crown of Rothkalina.

And she knew details of his appearance: a large male with a battle scar on his face and intense green eyes that would grow black with fury--or desire. As a rage demon, his horns would flow back instead of jutting forward. One of his had been damaged before he reached his immortality.

Horns. And she'd be taking this demon into her body in mere moments, if her plan worked.

If not, she had her poison ring. Under a ruby was a sleeping powder prepared by the Hag in the Basement, their resident poison and potion preparer. Demons were highly susceptible to both.

Drugging Rydstrom wasn't Sabine's preferred plan, but if it came down to it, she would use all means necessary to get him into the dungeon cell they'd prepared for him--one he couldn't break free from despite his demonic strength.

It was mere feet from them.

Directly within the cell, Lanthe had created the seamless portal that opened up to the road. To conceal it, Sabine had woven one of the largest, most intricate illusions of her life, making the dungeon look just like a part of the scenery along the road.

It seemed an eternity passed before Rydstrom finally lurched from the smoking wreck. She released a breath she hadn't known she held.

And there he was.

He certainly was big--approaching seven feet tall with broad shoulders. His hair was as black as night. His horns curved out from just past his temples to run along the sides of his head, their shell-like color stark against his thick hair. Indeed, one was damaged, the end broken off.

Though he reeled a couple of steps, he didn't look too injured. No visible blood.

Sabine arched a brow just as Lanthe silently said, "Your demon's just . . . fearsome-looking."

She was about to correct Lanthe and say, "Not my demon." But the male before them would indeed be hers. For a time. "He is a fearsome male, isn't he?"

From his appearance, Sabine would have guessed him to be an assassin or cutthroat criminal of some sort. How odd, since he was supposed to be a bastion of reason, a wise leader who liked to solve conflicts and discover solutions to complex puzzles.

Rumor in the Lore held that a lie had never left Rydstrom's tongue. Which must be a lie in itself.

"Are you going to try to seduce him first or just spring the trap?"

"Seduce him first. He might go demonic over his capture." She smoothed her hands down her pale blue dress

"You look good," Lanthe said. "Sweet. Nothing says 'do-me!' like pastel."

"That's just unnecessary, Lanthe." Since Sabine hadn't wanted him to know she was a sorceress, she'd worn an elegant but conservatively boring gown. She'd thought it wouldn't hurt to appear virtuous, which she assumed a good demon king would prefer.

He had better like her shuddersome new look. Except for her ring, not a single ounce of gold adorned her body. No makeup, either. She'd left her hair unplaited, curling almost to her waist--without a headdress. And it felt wrong.

"Are you sure you want to go through with this?" Lanthe asked. "No second thoughts about taking one on the chin for Team Evil?"

Eyes locked on her prey, Sabine murmured, "Not in the least."

A goal, a plot, a possibility . . . all lay before her.

Once he staggered back to survey the damage to his car, crunching over glass and debris, the demon whistled in a breath at the sight, but his attention quickly turned away from the wreck.

"Is someone here?" he called. With each second that he shook off the accident, his shoulders went farther back, his chin lifting, his demeanor unmistakably kingly. "Are you hurt?"

Sabine didn't answer, instead letting his voice roll over her. It was pleasingly deep-toned, with the British-tinged accent common to noble rage demons.

When he loped in her direction, he snagged a cell phone from his pocket and peered at the screen. She heard him mutter, "Bugger me." No reception out here.

He wore a dark jacket over a thin black sweater that molded over his broad chest. His clothes were simple in cut but expensive-looking. Tailored, of course. No off-the-rack garments would fit his towering build and wide shoulders.

The battle scar on his face carved across his forehead, then jagged down his cheek. He had to have received that injury before the age when he'd been "frozen" in his immortal body--she guessed when he was thirty-four or thirty-five years old--or else it would have healed seamlessly.

The scar gave him a dangerous air that clashed with his royal bearing and rich-looking clothing, as did his horns, his fangs, his black claws …

"I'd do him," Lanthe said.

"Since you'd do anyone, your comment is meaningless in the definitive sense."

"You're just jealous."

Yes, yes she was.

When he glanced back up, he met eyes with Sabine. His were the most startling green she'd ever seen.

"Go now," she told Lanthe. "Be ready to shut the portal directly behind us. Once I capture him, report my success to Omort. Loudly. In front of all the fools at court."

"Will do. Go get 'em, tigress. Rar!"

With Lanthe gone, Sabine devoted her full concentration to him. His gaze narrowed as she made the night appear dreamlike. The stars shone brighter for him, the moon seeming heavier in the sky. Brows drawn in confusion, he started toward her.

She could see him assessing her, his gaze flickering over her long hair, and over the modest gown that fortunately had grown damp in the humid night and clung to her breasts. When he peered hard at the outline of her jutting nipples, he ran a hand over his mouth.

Time to get him through the portal. When she began sauntering along the road away from him, he said, "No, wait! Are you all right?"

She turned to him but continued to step backward toward the trap.

"I won't hurt you." The demon hastened after her. "Do you have a car out here?"

"I need your help," she told him, continuing her damsel-in-distress act.

"Of course. Do you live near here?" Finally, they neared the portal's edge.

"Need your help," she said once more, ducking behind what appeared to be a willow by the water's edge, but was actually an illusion within the dungeon.

He joined her there--and Sabine sensed the portal closing. The trap had worked, and he'd never felt a thing.

"I have to get to the city," he said. "But then I can come back to help you."

Before she caught herself, her gaze flitted over the deep scar on his face--the first time she'd seen it this close.

He noticed and seemed to be waiting for her to react.

The scar didn't bother her as much as it clearly did him. She could use that against him.

All in all, he wasn't anything like she imagined. He was … better. And if she looked at those intense eyes long enough, she could almost forget what he was. When she arched closer to him, he drew back, suspicion in his expression.

She hastily said, "Help me now." Grasping one of his big hands in hers, she kissed it with smiling lips, then placed it over one of her breasts.

As if he didn't realize what he was doing, he cupped her flesh with a growl.

"This is what I need," she murmured, arching to his rough palm.

"And the gods know that I want to give it to you, right after I've settled--"

"I need it"--she took his other hand and placed it on her inner thigh--"now."

He squeezed her breast and leg too hard, as if he were holding on for dear life. Yet still he seemed on the verge of leaving her. She delved to read his mind, but demons could deflect her probes. She only heard his stray thoughts, and only because they were so strong.

--"Been so long without a woman … can't have her … responsibilities."--

Exactly how long had he been celibate? And was this brute truly thinking to deny her? For responsibilities?

The rejection was intriguing.

She knew that demon males loved to have their horns touched, relished having their females steering them sexually. His had straightened and become duskier with his arousal, so she raised her hands and wrapped her fingers around them.

He shuddered as if in ecstasy.

"Kiss me, demon." She gave a firm tug to lead him down to her, and he finally bowed his head. When their lips met, he groaned from deep in his chest.

--"… connection with her, maybe the connection."--

Yes, already he sensed what she was to him. Now he'll come to heel.

He began taking her mouth, twining his tongue against hers slowly. She got the impression that he was endeavoring to be gentle for her. He probably feared he'd scare her off. But when she met his tongue and gave it teasing laps with her own, his hands landed hard on her ass to rock her against his sizable erection.

So the rumors about demon males weren't exaggerated.

When she felt him subtly thrusting that shaft against her, she thought, This is better. Once males got to this state, they ceased to think.

As she relaxed somewhat, she began to find his kiss enjoyable. He tasted good, his lips were firm, and he knew how to use them. More of his delving kisses, more squeezing and exploring her body.

But when heavily aroused, Sabine unwittingly cast illusions of fire. If he saw them, he could guess her identity. Just when she began to worry that her reaction to him might get that intense, he broke away from her.

"I … can't do this now. I have to meet someone. Much rides on this."

Was he serious? "Make love to me," she whispered, now sidling closer to him. "Here. Under this tree, in the moonlight. I'm aching for you." And that might actually be true.

"No. I have obligations." His voice was rough, his thoughts in turmoil, blasting past his own blocks.

--"… she's so lush … cock's throbbing for her … horns straightening … No! The kingdom's needs always come before the king's."--

Yes, Rydstrom was supposed to be patient and wise. Apparently, she could add selfless to that list.

When he backed away, her lips parted in wonderment. He's going to deny me. She'd offered up her body, all but begged him to take it, and he'd declined.

How surprising. The only thing Sabine loved as much as a good juicy plot was a surprise. He'd resisted her--his own female. "Then you leave me no choice, Rydstrom."

Just when he frowned, no doubt wondering how she knew his name, she began withdrawing her illusion. The road and the moonlit night gradually disappeared, revealing the sealed and locked cell. As he twisted around, his eyes narrowed with recognition.

"You're Omort's sister, Sabine, the Queen of Illusions."

"Very good, Rydstrom."

The brows-drawn look of desire from before vanished. Now he appeared disgusted with her. "Show me your real form."

"This is." She smoothed her palms over her breasts and lower. "I'm so pleased by how much it arouses you." But it hadn't enough. …

Clearly struggling to control his temper, he asked, "Why have you done this to me, Sabine?"

She motioned toward the bed now revealed in the center of the cell--the one with chains at the head and foot. "Isn't it obvious?"

Chapter 3

"No, it's not obvious." Rydstrom glanced from the bed back to the sorceress before him.

Thoughts ran riot in his mind--suspicions arose and were dismissed. A bed and chains. She'd failed to seduce him to willingly bed her. Was she now intent on taking what she'd wanted?

When he felt a confusing surge of lust at the idea, he realized she must already be enthralling him. Of course she was. He'd seen the road disappear, had seen the bridge abutment move. She had unthinkable power, and for some reason she'd targeted him.

He surveyed the dimly lit space. She'd lured him directly into a large dungeon cell. And one he recognized, because he'd kept prisoners here when he was master and king of Castle Tornin.

She's trapped me in my own goddamned dungeon.

When he faced her once more, she met his gaze. Her eyes were unusual--with light amber irises surrounded by a ring as dark as coffee. He couldn't seem to look away from them. "You've brought me back to Tornin, so I assume you're working with Omort."

"That's correct." Her voice was a purr.

I'm in my own dungeon, a prisoner of my worst enemy. Between gritted teeth, he said, "And when will I get to face him?"

"You will not. You need not. All you need is me."

"Explain to me exactly what you plan," he demanded, cursing his reaction to her. He'd never responded so strongly to any woman before her. He'd been kissing her, lost in pleasure, actually thinking, She might be my queen.

Rydstrom had worried what such a beauty would think about his scar, about how much larger he was than she. For her, he'd tried to gentle his touch and kiss. All the while she'd been luring him into a trap.

"I plan," she began matter-of-factly, "to become pregnant with your heir."

His lips parted. Her very words made his shaft shoot hard as steel as every primal demon instinct inside him seemed to stir to life. This female with her plump breasts and sweet lips desired his seed, wanted to mate with him.

She's spellbinding me. She must be.

He'd studied Omort's family, had read about hundreds of his half siblings. Omort had murdered most of them after stealing their powers. But a few he kept close.

What have I read about this sorceress? She was aptly called the Queen of Illusions. Rydstrom had just fallen prey to one of remarkable detail. Though she looked to be in her early twenties, she would have to be centuries old.

She was reputed to be even more diabolical than Omort.

Grappling for patience, he grated, "Sabine, let's discuss this like rational beings." Rational was the last thing he felt. "What do you hope to gain?"

"With me in control of your heir, the last of rage demon rebellions will be quelled."

The idea that the rebels amounted to even a thorn in Omort's side was heartening. Rydstrom had thought that the sorcerer's sadistic regime had broken any true momentum. "There are two flaws to your plan."

"Enlighten me, demon."

"First, my body won't … give up seed." A rage demon could take release in sex, but could never spill his seed until he'd claimed his female, and the seal was finally broken. "Not for any but my fated one--"

"I am yours." Her eyes held his, and he realized that she, at least, believed what she'd said. Omort had oracles, basically his own Nïx at his beck and call.

Sabine could know more than I do …

Rydstrom shook his head hard, even as his mouth went dry. In fifteen hundred years, he'd never felt so attracted to another female. What if she were his? To find his queen after waiting so long? To find her as Omort's sister? "No, fate isn't that cruel."

She quirked a brow at that. "Fate is indifferent."

"What are the odds that my woman is related to my worst enemy?"

"Omort's sire lived for millennia and begot hundreds of daughters." She sidled around him. "Five centuries ago, a soothsayer told Omort that his own half sister, the Queen of Illusions, would be your fated mate, and that she would bear your heir in a time of war. After the foretelling, Omort searched for me specifically because of what I am to you. And then I merely waited here at Tornin for the right time."

"Why now? Why do this now?"

She tilted her head. "I was going to seduce you slowly. But we learned of a plot between you and Groot. I had to prevent you from joining forces with your brother, Cadeon the Kingmaker."

Did Sabine know the specifics of their plans? Tonight, Rydstrom had told his brother that should Omort learn of his quest to get the sword, he would stop at nothing to thwart them. Rydstrom hadn't known his enemy had a sorceress like this aiding him.

"What do you know about a plot?"

"More than you think," she replied. "I always know more than men think."

Did she know that there was at last a weapon to kill Omort? That Rydstrom had been intent on speeding to meet Cadeon so they could go barter with the psychotic Groot for the weapon? She must.

Cadeon would be at their meeting place right now, wondering where in the hell his older brother was. The brother who was never late, who never missed a meeting.

"Even if you are fated to be mine, Sabine, I'll never have you."

"Oh, you'll have me." Her lips curled in a knowing, sexual grin that made his heart pound. "Again and again until this deed is done."

Again and again. Taking her soft body, learning that perfect pale flesh … No! Resist her.

"Tell me the second flaw." She lowered herself to the large bed, sitting gracefully on the side. Her mane of glossy red hair tumbled forward, and her scent swept him up. "You've raised my curiosity."

He inwardly shook himself. "For my heir to be legitimate, you have to be my queen by marriage."

"I know." She ran her fragile-looking hand over the sheet. "We will wed."

She talked of marrying him as if it were an afterthought, while his mind was reeling.

Because he was drawn to her as no other woman before. And there was only one way to determine if she was truly his.

"You'll give your vow to me, demon. And I'll accept it."

The vow--the recitation that would bind a rage demon king to his queen. No ceremony, no witnesses, just a pact between two to become one. He would vocalize his claim on her, and if she accepted his right to her, then she would forever be his queen. "My people will never recognize a marriage coerced by sorcery--or a conception fueled by your notorious potions."

"Rydstrom, let's just be frank here. Considering your reaction to me"--she delicately pointed to his erection--"do you really think I'll need to use sorcery on you?"

He clenched his jaw, unable to deny what was so obvious. "Of course you'd kill me after our babe is born?"

Our babe. He'd never said the phrase in his life. Even she tilted her head at the words.

But then she slowly smiled--and it was beguiling and took his breath away. Had she noticed? "Well, I wouldn't be a very good evil sorceress if I allowed you to live."

"Then there's one thing I can assure you. You will never get my vow from me."

"Then, Rydstrom, I can't let you have me without it."

At that, everything became clear. She would tease him, sexually tormenting him until he gave up the words. Why did the thought make blood surge to his groin?

This creature taking him to the brink, over and over.

Imagining the power struggle between them, the complication of it . . . Fantasies arose in his mind, thoughts he usually buried at once. Secrets long kept--and forever denied. "Then all you're doing is wasting my time," he said, but his voice was roughened.

"What makes you so confident that I can't make you say or do anything to be inside me?"

Because so much is at stake. Never had Rydstrom been this close to all he wanted.

He had to escape to get to his brother before he did something monumentally selfish. Cadeon was a cutthroat mercenary who had just come into possession of what he'd yearned for most in the world. "You couldn't tempt me from my duty before--and I didn't even know who you were then." Bravado, Woede.

She stood, her shoulders back. "You haven't seen everything I have to tempt you with," she said, pulling a ribbon at her bodice. The gown slid over her pert nipples down her narrow waist and shapely legs to pool at her feet.

All that remained on her exquisite body was a sheer scrap of white silk covering her breasts and the tiniest panties he had ever seen.

His lips parted, and his cock felt like it could rip through his pants. With her eyes flashing, she raised her chin, well aware of her effect on him and prideful of it.

If this female weren't so evil, she'd be glorious.

In that instant, he decided, I'll claim her as my war prize when I escape.

And he would use her to get free.

Chapter 4

The demon ran a shaking hand over his mouth, then seemed to catch himself doing it.

With his gaze raking Sabine's body, Rydstrom began stalking toward her with slow, menacing steps. His eyes were growing black once more, but with desire or rage or both?

She assumed that he would try to escape, would likely seek to use her as a hostage, unless she could seduce him to forget himself. She thought she still had a chance--he couldn't hide his body's reaction to her. Yet the conflict was plain on his face.

Rydstrom didn't know whether to claim her or kill her. "What do you hope to gain from this?"

"I told you."

"No, you personally. Your kind looks down on mine. Why would you ever want to wed a demon, to bear one a child?" He narrowed his gaze. "Is Omort holding something over you to compel you to do this? Has he imprisoned a family member? A … lover?"

Sabine could tell how much he hoped that she was being forced into this. "No, he has no one that I hold dear imprisoned. I was quite eager to fulfill this duty." And to begin the prophecy.

Foretold centuries ago, it stated that if the Queen of Illusions bore the heir of the fallen king of the rage demons, that prince would unlock a source of inconceivable power. If she didn't, the Pravus would fall to its foes.

"Eager?" he bit out.

Earlier the demon had inhaled deeply, exercising more patience than Sabine had seen in a male in ages. But she sensed that with the possibility of her coercion gone, Rydstrom had just given up reasoning with her and had reached the end of his patience.

She could see him shutting down. A muscle ticced in his scarred cheek, and his eyes glowed fully black. In a flash of insight, she realized she was seeing a side of Rydstrom that few had encountered before.

"You have no idea what you're playing with," he said, his tone cruel.

"Tell me."

"You won't win this."

"No? Just imagine it, Rydstrom. I can give you whatever you want. I'll fulfill every secret desire you have."

"What do you know of my secret desires?" Had his voice roughened? Again she probed his mind but couldn't get through.

When he was directly before her, he made no move to touch her. This close to him, she felt so small next to his great height. She could perceive the heat coming off his body.

Without warning, his hands shot to her camisole, fisting the material. She stifled a gasp as he ripped it off her, exposing her breasts to him.

Collecting herself immediately, she asked in a femme fatale voice, "Do you think them pretty?"

As he peered hard at them, his brows drew together in answer.

"Won't you touch them? You've waited all your life to pet your female like this."

Just when she thought he would succumb, he wrapped her hair around his fist. He yanked her close until he was staring directly down at her.

"A little girl like you shouldn't toy with a demon like me," he said with another yank, until her hands flew to his broad chest. "You're going to lose, and when you do, I'll make you pay for this."

"Is that so--"

He cut off her words with a brutal kiss. It was so different from the first time when he'd been striving to please her. Now he seemed intent on punishing her. But she liked how bold and firm his kiss was. She liked that he didn't fear her, though many males did.

She felt herself getting caught up, lowering her defenses. When she moaned, he seemed to be losing himself as well, a growling sound breaking from his chest.

Grazing his torso with her bared breasts, she murmured against his lips, "Rydstrom, put your hands on them. You know you want to feel me once more."

With a defeated groan, he covered her flesh. The heat and texture of his palms shocked her. A warrior's hands, callused from his sword hilt. As he kneaded her, he took her mouth again, flicking her tongue with his.

When he pinched one nipple--hard, angrily--she gave a cry, anticipating pain; instead, pleasure flooded through her body.

What a surprise.

He pinched the other one until both peaks were plump and swollen. Then he grazed his flattened palms over them, up and down, his callused skin rasping her tender flesh.

He drew his head back. "Your eyes are turning blue." A timbre of pure masculine satisfaction marked his tone. "You like my touch, female."

I do. They were strangers, he knew nothing about her, but the way he stroked her was perfection.

Her breasts grew heavy under his ministrations, her sex damp. She'd waited so long for this. For him. She was so close to finally knowing what it would be like to have a man moving inside her. "More, demon."

He turned her so that her back was against his chest. Still fondling her breasts, he leaned in to run his face against hers, his breaths hot at her ear. When his big shaft prodded her, he ground it against her.

One of his hands trailed down her belly toward her sex. Her hips rocked up in invitation, but he teased his fingers at the line of her panties.

"Mmm. Touch me there." She trembled with anticipation as his hand slowly inched inside her panties. Illusions of fire began to appear, but she extinguished them … barely.

Finally his fingers smoothed through her small triangle of curls. He hissed in a shocked breath to find she was shaven everywhere below it. His voice gravelly, he said, "So soft . . . will I find you wet, sorceress?"

When he dipped into her slick folds, she moaned with pleasure. His body tensed against hers, and he muttered a harsh curse. "You're ready for me."

He spread her moisture to her swollen clitoris, then rubbed it with two fingers, circling again and again. There was no hesitation--he was deliberate, but agonizingly slow.

"It wouldn't take much to make you come on my hand." As he fingered her flesh more aggressively, her eyes slid shut on a wordless cry. She was on the brink, scarcely noticing him raising the arm he held her with--

Until it was constricted around her neck in a chokehold, cutting off her air.

She dug her nails into his arm. He didn't budge. Can't breathe … can't …

"I can play dirty, too." He let up his grip just enough for her to catch a gasping breath. "Scream for a guard."

"Don't need to … one's here."

An illusion of a masked guard appeared from the shadows with his sword raised, swinging for the demon's neck. Rydstrom released her, shoving her away to defend himself.

Once clear, Sabine flipped her ring open, loosing her sleeping powder, then crept behind Rydstrom. As she let the illusion fade, she whispered, "Behind you."

When the demon twisted around, she blew the powder up into his eyes. "If you're going to act like an animal, then you'll be kept like one."

He gave her a blind look of pure hatred. "You little bitch!" Then he crashed to the floor.

REVIEW

"Perennial favorite Cole continues to round out her Immortals After Dark world with kick-butt action and scorching passion!" -- Jill Smith, Romantic Times Magazine

"Kresley Cole knows what paranormal romance readers crave and superbly delivers on every page of KISS OF A DEMON KING."-- Amelia Richard, Singletitles.com

"KISS OF A DEMON KING is full of magic, mayhem, sorcery and sensuality. Readers will not want to miss one word of this memorable and enchanting tale. The closer to the end I got the slower I read because I knew once the story ended I would be left craving more of this brilliant and emotionally gripping saga . . . it is truly one of the most amazing tales Kresley Cole has ever released."--Natalie S., Wild On Books

Editorial Reviews

Product Description
From New York Times bestselling author Kresley Cole comes this spellbinding story of a demon king trapped by an enchantress for her wanton purposes -- and the scorching aftermath that follows when he turns the tables and claims her as his captive.

HIS OBSESSION...

Sabine, Sorceress of Illusions: the evil beauty who surrenders her body, but not her heart.

HER DOWNFALL...

Rydstrom Woede: the ruthless warrior who vows to keep her at all costs.

THEY WERE NEVER SUPPOSED TO WANT EACH OTHER THIS MUCH...

With each smoldering encounter, their shared hunger only increases. If they can defeat the sinister enemy that stands between them, will Sabine make the ultimate sacrifice for her demon? Or will the proud king lay down his crown and arms to save his sorceress?

About the Author
Previously a competitive athlete and coach, Kresley Cole is fast becoming one of the hottest names in historical and paranormal romance. She has a master's degree in English from the University of Florida, and spent much of her time in the research library there, gathering background material for her books. She is the author of the MacCarrick Brothers trilogy, which begins with If You Dare and includes the forthcoming If You Desire and If You Deceive. Her other award-winning novels include No Rest for the Wicked, A Hunger Like No Other, The Captain of All Pleasures, and The Price of Pleasure. Her short fiction is featured in the bestselling anthology Playing Easy to Get.

About the Author
Kresley Cole has a Master's degree in English from the University of Florida and a lifelong interest in nautical literature and sailing. You can visit her website at www.kresleycole.com.

Rating:

From New York Times bestselling author Kresley Cole comes this spellbinding story of a demon king trapped by an enchantress for her wanton purposes -- and the scorching aftermath that follows when he turns the tables and claims her as his captive.

Kresley Cole The Immortals After Dark Series: Dark Desires After Dusk (The Immortals After Dark, Book 5)

noreply@blogger.com (alisapp) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 21:04:00 +0000

Kresley Cole The Immortals After Dark Series: Dark Desires After Dusk (The Immortals After Dark, Book 5)

Book 5 in the bestselling Immortals After Dark series

A ruthless demon mercenary. A lovely young halfling.
In the dark, he'll find her.

A seductive beauty he can never have, yet can't resist...

Cade of the rage demons will stop at nothing to atone for the one wrong that will haunt him forever. But once he secures the key to his redemption, the halfling Holly Ashwin, Cade finds that the woman he thought he could use for his own ends and then forget haunts him as much as his past.

A tormented warrior she should fear, but can't deny...

Raised as a human, Holly Ashwin never knew that some frightening legends are real until she encounters a brutal demon who inexplicably guards her like a treasure. Thrust into a sensual new world of myth and power, with him as her protector, she begins to crave the demon’s wicked touch.

Surrender to dark desires...

Yet just when he earns Holly’s trust, will Cade be forced to betray the only woman who can sate his wildest needs—and claim his heart?

Read an Excerpt

"A lot of people fear change. And traveling. And disarray.

Sidewalk crack avoidance is more common than one would suspect."

--Holly Ashwin, Tulane math instructor,

PhD candidate with an emphasis on formal and computational cryptography

"The first rule of being a mercenary? Find out what the client wants, then convince him that, a) you can get it for him, and, b) you're the only one who can get it for him. Second rule? Lie. Often. The truth rarely serves you well in this business."

--Cadeon Woede, mercenary, second in line to the throne of the rage demons,

a.k.a. Cade the Kingmaker

Chapter 1

Tulane Campus

New Orleans

"Stupid . . . safety lock," Holly Ashwin muttered as she fiddled with the nozzle of the pepper spray in her bag.

With her free hand, she pushed up her glasses, casting another nervous glance over her shoulder. She'd thought she heard footsteps behind her in the night. Was she being followed--or paranoid?

For months, she'd had the sense that someone was watching her. Yet strangely it hadn't bothered her before. She couldn't explain it, but there had been an almost soothing quality to the presence she'd felt.

Tonight, all that had changed.

She sensed raw menace, and wished she hadn't made the walk from the parking lot to Gibson Hall by herself. Usually her boyfriend escorted her to class, but Tim was at a symposium presenting their latest paper--alone, because her condition made it nearly impossible for her to travel.

The manicured lawns on the way to her classroom were unusually empty. No doubt there were widespread parties tonight celebrating the full moon, which hung heavy and yellow in the black sky.

There was enough light that she could see the bushes behind her trembling. In a growing panic, she broke off the nozzle of the spray.

"Crap." She hastily abandoned her one weapon, tempted to snag one of the pill bottles in the pocket beside it for a dose of relief. Instead, she increased her pace toward her destination, the math building, brightly lit like a beacon.

Almost there. Her heels clicked along on the sidewalk--though they never landed on a crack, even in her rush. Apparently, obsessive-compulsive disorder was panic-proof. . . .

She checked her watch. She was on time, of course, but she was late enough that her Remedial Math 101 students would be in the classroom already.

A few yards left. Almost to safety. . . .

Once she'd made it up the six stone steps to the doors, she exhaled in relief. Inside, the hall was ablaze with fluorescent light. Made it.

Her class was in the second room on the right and would be filled with thirty-three very large and very loyal Tulane football players. Anyone thinking to frighten her would soon learn how a tackle dummy felt at season's end.

Holly's colleagues believed she'd drawn the short straw to have to teach Digits for Idjits, as some of the instructors called it. But Holly had actually volunteered for jock duty.

If she was to teach math, then why not instruct the ones who had exponentially more to learn?

And in truth, they were on their best behavior ninety-nine percent of the time. Though each Tuesday and Thursday night, some of the players always got there early to scribble sprawling messages for her on the blackboard. A fellow instructor had related to Holly that "the boys"--who were all of five or six years younger than she was--enjoyed watching her erase things in "those skirts."

Holly wore old-fashioned pencil skirts with hemlines past her knees. Would she never catch a break?

She wondered what she'd be erasing tonight. Some of the past offerings included "Got it bad, sooo bad, I'm hot for teacher," "I've been a naughty boy, Ms. Ashwin," and "Professor + Ginger = Holly Ashwin." They'd crossed the l's to make them t's.

So far she didn't think any of them had noticed her need to erase every millimeter of writing on the board, or to arrange the chalk in the tray into perfect trios, even breaking a stick to achieve a multiple of three. . . .

Outside the door to her room, she took a calming breath and smoothed her tight chignon. After ascertaining that the clasp of her strand of pearls was directly over the center of her nape, she tugged each sleeve of her twinset sweater until the ends perfectly hit her wristbones. She checked the backs of her earrings, then opened the door.

Empty. Every chair sat empty.

CLASS IS CANCELED was scrawled across the board. They'd gone too far this time.

Or maybe it wasn't them? She swallowed, whirling around.

Rough cloth covered her face, reeking of fumes, drowning out her scream.

Just as her eyelids slid shut and her body went limp, she heard the unholy roar of a man in the distance.

* * *

Rogue demons have my female.

As Cadeon Woede's old Ford truck tore through traffic to yet another demon lair, he grappled to control the rage his breed of demon was known for.

They've taken Holly. . . .

Almost one year ago, Cade had crossed paths with Holly Ashwin and had recognized the human as his own fated female. Unable to claim a mortal, he'd had to content himself by following her, guarding her.

Which was the only reason why he'd been there when a group of demons had traced her, teleporting her to gods knew where. But they'd hunted on the campus; surely their lair would be near.

Why would they want her? Because she was an innocent? Then they'd picked the wrong virgin--Cade would hang them by their own entrails and watch them dance if they touched so much as a hair on her head.

His phone rang just as he surged past a visibly drunk driver. When drunks drove slowly, it was exactly like they whispered--noticeably.

"What?" he barked in answer. Tonight he was supposed to receive the details of his latest job. It'd be the most important one he'd had since becoming a mercenary centuries ago.

"I've just left the meeting," his brother Rydstrom said. "I have the information we need."

Riding the bumper in front of him, tempted to give it a tap, Cade asked absently, "So who's the pay?"

"The client is Groot the Metallurgist."

Normally that would have had Cade raising his brows. Groot was the half brother of Omort the Deathless--the dark sorcerer who had stolen Rydstrom's crown and kingdom ages ago. "Groot intends to help us against Omort?" Cade's truck overtook another car, nearly trading paint with it.

"He's crafted a sword that can kill Omort."

Then it would be the only one in existence that could. Omort the Deathless didn't come by his name without reason. "What's the job?"

"He wants us to find the Vessel and deliver her to him before the next full moon."

The Vessel. Every Accession, a female from the Lore would come into sexual maturity. Her first child would be a warrior of either ultimate evil or of ultimate good, depending on which way the father leaned.

A car weaved in front of Cade. "Son of a--"

"What are you doing?" Rydstrom demanded.

"Traffic." He didn't want his brother to know anything was off. Cade had told him that he would stop watching Holly. Though they both suspected she was his female, a future with her was impossible.

Humans were forbidden to demons. Because they never survived the initial claiming.

But Cade hadn't been able to stop himself from watching her from afar, studying her, growing more and more fascinated with the odd, young mortal. Becoming more convinced that she was his.

He knew it was ridiculous. He was an ancient immortal, a brutal mercenary, head of a crew of soldiers of fortune. And yet Cade looked forward to nothing--except seeing her.

Holly went through her life having no idea that she was the highlight of a millennium-old demon's disappointing existence. . . .

This new job was supposed to be the last chance for him and his brother to reclaim Rydstrom's crown--the crown that Cade lost for him. If Rydstrom found out Cade wasn't "on," the two of them would be heading for another of their infamous house-killing brawls. Cade used to enjoy working off his anger. Now the idea wearied him.

"How are we supposed to find the Vessel?" Cade asked.

"I was told it's a Valkyrie this time around."

"Handing over a Valkyrie for the use of an evil sorcerer. You're not worried about our alliance with them?"

"I'm going to take a page from your book and say that what they don't know won't hurt them."

"They will know. Nix will be able to see this." Nix, the half-mad Valkyrie soothsayer, had helped Rydstrom and Cade in the past. In fact, she'd put together this deal, though she'd given them no indication who they'd be working for.

Cade had talked to her less than a week ago about Holly. Nix had revealed nothing about tonight.

"If Nix didn't see that the Vessel would be one of her own before, she might not now. Besides, it can't be helped," Rydstrom said. "Nothing is more important than this job. It was Nix herself who vowed this was our last chance to defeat Omort."

"Do you have a location on the target?"

"Groot's oracles have been searching for her. As expected, she's here in this city."

The coming Accession was already pushing and pulling all the factions together in mystickal hotspots like New Orleans.

"And we're not the only ones who want her," Rydstrom added. "Oracles, witches, and sorcerers are all scrying for her."

Cade could imagine. "You got a name?"

"No name on her. But we have her last known whereabouts, a place called the Hall of the Son of Gib. I know it sounds like typical soothsayerese, but it's a lead."

A chill slithered up Cade's spine. No. No way. The Hall of the Son of Gib. Or Gibson Hall--the mathematics building on the Tulane campus.

Holly wasn't a Valkyrie; yet those demons might have seen her in the predicted location and mistaken her for one. She had the right delicate features and slight build. They could have assumed she was the Vessel.

Only one local demon faction would have had the resources to determine the Vessel's location before Cade and Rydstrom--the Order of Demonaeus.

"We go for the Valkyrie tonight," Rydstrom said. "I'll be back at the house in two hours. Meet me then."

Two hours. Even if Cade was tempted to ask his brother for help with the Demonaeus, there wouldn't be time to wait for him. "Yeah, will do." Click.

The wide wheels of his truck screeched as Cade cut across three lanes of traffic, careening over the median to speed back in the other direction.

He knew where the Order of Demonaeus was located, had been forced to convene with their kind on more than one occasion.

Cade had even seen their ritual altar. Was the sweet, impossibly innocent Holly stripped atop it even now?

The steering wheel bent under his grip.

Chapter 2

She woke.

Her eyelids were too heavy to open, and she didn't know if she wanted to see anyway. A quick mental survey of her body revealed terrifying things.

She was lying on what felt like a stone slab, naked except for her jewelry, and with her long hair hanging down over the end, snagging on the rough edges. The stone seeped a deep chill into her body, so cold her teeth were chattering.

They'd taken her glasses from her face, ensuring that everything within ten feet would be a blur.

Deep-voiced chanting sounded all around her, in a bizarre language she'd never heard.

Holly finally cracked open her eyes. No man had ever seen her completely naked before--now a dozen indistinct figures leered down at her.

One pinned her arms, another her legs. With a cry, she struggled against their grip. "Let me go!" This is a dream. A nightmare. "Release me! Oh, God, what are you doing?"

The meds were messing with her brain. Surely she was hallucinating.

When they didn't answer, only continued their chanting, she pleaded, "Don't do this," but she didn't know exactly what "this" could be.

Though no electric lights were on in this dank chamber, black candles sat all around and moonlight shone through a skylight of some kind. She squinted around her and could see that the men were wearing robes and . . . costume horns?

In their chanting, one word seemed to be repeated: Demonaeus. This must be some kind of sicko, demon-worshipping cult.

Yet they weren't wearing masks to conceal their identities. She was certain that meant one thing--they didn't plan to let her out of this place alive.

"My family will be looking for me," she lied. Her parents were dead. She had no siblings. "I'm not the one you want for this . . . this sacrifice." Tears pooled, then spilled down her temples. "I'm not special in any way."

A couple of them gave harsh laughs at that.

"This isn't happening," she whispered to herself, trying to stem her panic. "This isn't happening."

She gazed up at the glass dome above her. The moon had risen almost directly over an unusual etching in the center of the glass, depicting what looked like the face of a horned demon.

The shadow from the etching would slide directly over the altar, over her, when the moon hit it. It was a gnomon, a shadow maker, like that of a sundial.

The men seemed to await the shadow's advent, glancing up every so often. Await it for what?

As the moon continued to ascend, their chanting grew louder. She struggled harder, kicking her legs and thrashing her arms.

Lightning flashed across the sky. She vaguely noted that the more she strained to get free, the more frequently the bolts flickered overhead.

The largest of the men slid between her spread legs. When he removed his robe, comprehension hit her. She couldn't see below his waist but knew he was naked. "No, no, no . . . don't do this!"

The whites of his eyes were . . . flooded with black? He clamped her thighs, dragging her over rough stone to the edge of the altar.

She shrieked. All hell broke loose.

The men slapped their hands over their ears; the glass above them splintered into ominous forks--then the whole of it shattered, raining heavy shards all around the untouched altar.

A lightning bolt jagged down through the opening to spear her squarely in the chest, tossing the men away.

She screamed from the impact, arching with her fists clenched. The bolt was a physical force continuing on and on.

Unimaginable heat sizzled through her veins. Her two rings melted off her fingers, her earrings from her ears. Her necklace and watch were seared to liquid, dripping from her body.

She was unharmed--because her skin was somehow hotter than the boiling metal.

The pressing weight of the electricity filled her with power, with . . . comfort. When it ended, Holly was changed. She didn't feel alone in this place.

Punish them, a voice seemed to whisper in her mind. They dared to hurt you. . . .

Her earlier terror was strangled by a fresh rage. Her fingers were suddenly tipped with razor-sharp claws. Her eyesight was keener than it had ever been even in the darkness. Fangs grew in her mouth.

Though she felt no ill effects from the lightning, the demons looked dazed, blinded. They were bleeding from the falling glass.

But they quickly regrouped. She rose, crouching on the altar, waiting as they stalked closer. One had a club--her eyes fixed on it.

A club. To beat her unconscious so they could continue their sick ritual.

Red covered her vision. When one lunged for her, she snatched him by the horns. They were . . . attached to his skull. Not a costume. Which meant real demons?

Which meant hallucination. This couldn't truly be happening. She laughed as she twisted the demon's head, assured this was some kind of nightmare.

And in her nightmare, the instinctive drive to kill with her new strength and fury overwhelmed her.

When the others attacked, Holly was unafraid.

She knew how to kill them as if she'd been hunting and slaughtering them for thousands of years. She knew to wrench their heads from their necks, to slash out with claws that would rend through skin and arteries as they would tissue paper.

Punish . . .

When the blood began to spray, lightning scored the sky above her as if in encouragement.

"I understand," she murmured as she aimed for one's jugular and severed it. "I see." Yes, their last sight on earth should be my laughing face.

* * *

"Easy, female," Cade soothed as he crept closer to where Holly huddled naked in a corner.

She was covered in blood. But had it come from her, or the twelve demons she'd apparently slain?

Her eyes were . . . silver, glowing in the shadows. Which meant Valkyrie. Somehow she was no longer a mere human.

A Valkyrie at Gibson Hall. Holly was indeed the Vessel.

She had her knees drawn up to her chest and was trying to cover her breasts while baring her little claws at him to ward him off. She was trembling with fear and shock, and tears coursed down her blood-splattered face.

It was killing him.

"Easy," he murmured. "I don't want to hurt you."

Her eyes darted from his horns to those on one of the heads lolling on the stone floor.

"Yeah, I'm a demon, too," he said. "But not at all like them. My name's Cadeon Woede."

How far had they gotten with her before she'd turned and attacked? Though the carnage looked to have been done some time ago, Holly still had gashes on her arm from the claws of one of these demons.

She might have been turned to a Valkyrie, but she hadn't yet been granted the accelerated healing and immortality of one. Which meant that she was still incredibly vulnerable to harm. Like a human.

Humans die so easily.

"Did they injure more than your arm?"

She finally shook her head.

"Hurt you anywhere? Do I need to get you to a hospital?" he asked, even as he knew that wouldn't work.

Other factions were searching for her. He would be surprised if they hadn't already scried the lightning he'd seen from a distance. Power still sizzled from her and throughout the chamber. New power was easily traceable.

She whispered, "They d-didn't hurt me."

"Good. I want to help you, Holly."

She frowned at his use of her name, studying his face.

"We've met before," Cade said, but she was in no way calmed--lightning continued to strike in constant streams. Lightning gave Valkyrie strength, but it also mirrored their emotions.

When he began unbuttoning his shirt to cover her, she gave a cry, and bloody claws swiped out at him. Then she stared in horror at her fingertips.

Just hours ago, she'd been living as a normal human--or near normal with some eccentricities. Now she had become something he never could have predicted. A Valkyrie. Or half one. He hadn't known she'd possessed this latent potential. The shock of the ritual must have triggered the transformation.

If not for this power, she would have been brutalized, her womb offered to the dark god this order of demons worshipped.

When he removed his shirt, she bared her small fangs and hissed, then looked aghast at her reaction.

"There, now, a good hiss never hurt anyone." He crouched beside her, fighting the urge to clasp her to his chest. "I'm going to put this on you. Easy . . ."

She gazed up at him with eyes wavering between silver and the intense violet he recognized. "Wh-what's happening to me?"

"You know all those creatures you thought were myths?" When she shakily nodded, he said, "Well, they're not. And you're changing from a human to an immortal."

Which meant it had become possible for Cade to claim her for his own.

And you've just become my target--the Vessel. The means to pay for a sword to kill our enemy.

She equaled the crown he'd worked for nine hundred years to reclaim--the unyielding pursuit that had given him a reason to go on living.

Never had it been so close. . . .

All he had to do was use and betray the woman he'd waited just as long to possess

Chapter 3

Holly turned and hunched to button the shirt, peering over her shoulder to keep this Cadeon in sight.

She remembered meeting him before. As if she could ever forget those stunning green eyes. She recalled his accent as well--it sounded like some type of British colonial, and he spoke with an unusual intonation.

Months ago, he'd approached her on campus. Initially he'd been cocky, then grew tongue-tied, stammering, even as he'd boldly studied her figure.

She'd found him weird. And that was before she'd known what had been hidden beneath the hat he'd worn.

Now she could see what had been covered by his shirt as well. His bared chest was rippling with muscles, and he wore a wide gold band just above his bulging bicep.

He was as massive as the others, admittedly one of them. She shuddered, trying to block out the sight of the corpses all around her.

But he looked different as well, his facial features appearing more human. His horns ran back along his head through his tawny hair, instead of jutting forward.

How can I see this well without my glasses? "Why should I t-trust you?"

"Because it's my job to protect you. More will be coming--I'll explain everything later."

When she still hesitated, he said, "These twelve were just the first round intended for you."

"First round?" she cried.

A creaking door sounded from somewhere on a floor above them. He shot to his feet. "Come with me if you want to get out of here alive."

"Wh-where are we going?"

"We're going to run for it. I'll keep you safe, but you'll have to trust me." He held out his big hand to her.

Seeing no other choice, she took it, and he pulled her up. She was surprisingly steady on her feet, all things considered. Never relinquishing her hand, he led her out of the chamber, then down a murky stone corridor.

When the passageway intersected with an alcove, they spied a group of three males, robed like the ones before, speaking that same odd language. Cadeon pulled her back against the wall, then whispered directly at her ear, "Don't make the smallest sound. You stay here until I return for you. Clear?"

She nodded, and he turned back. As he prepared to attack, the broad muscles in his back grew before her eyes. His horns straightened and blackened.

Her lips parted when he lunged for the others. His speed was mind-boggling, and his roar shook the room, paining her sensitive ears. He snatched the horns of one demon and twisted its head until an audible pop sounded.

As he faced off against the other two, his upper and lower fangs shot longer. He used them like an animal as he bit and clawed.

Had she looked that overcome with rage when she'd killed? Her earlier fearlessness disappeared. When his eyes flooded with black like the other one's had, she shuddered, backing away.

Had she thought him different? I just want to go home. Forget this ever happened. Why should she trust him? I can find my own way out.

Clear of the fray, she hastened in the direction they'd been traveling, eventually stumbling into an open gallery.

More bizarre symbols were stamped into the wooden chairs and stone floor. Ancient-looking tapestries hung from the ceiling. On a display shelf were skulls that looked human, but they had horns and upper and lower fangs.

Then she saw what appeared to be double doors to the outside. If she could get outside, she could find a car or hide--

Rapid gunshots exploded the plaster just feet to the right of her. She sucked in a breath and dared a glance as she ran to her left. Men aimed machine guns at her with deadly intent.

A second man began shooting from the other direction. Bullets riddled the wall on either side of her, closing in. She darted right, then left once more, blocked each way. The sweep grew closer . . . closer.

A foot away on each side. She froze with terror.

A bellow sounded over the gunfire. Cadeon hurdled the line of bullets to get to her. Scooping her up in his arms, he tucked her against his chest. Just as the shots reached them, he pressed her against the wall until his body covered every inch of hers.

He gritted his teeth when the first bullet hit him, unable to turn to run without risking her. She burst into tears. Two bullets, three, four . . .

He stared down at her, those jet eyes seeming to consume her, and grated, "No more . . . running from me. Yeah?"

"Y-yeah," she whispered brokenly, crying harder every time his big body jerked from the impact.

Over his shoulder, he roared at them, a furious warning growl, and she whimpered. His voice a harsh rasp, he said to her, "No, no, female. Shh." He petted at her tears with huge fingers tipped with short black claws.

The shots abruptly stopped. Holly peered over Cadeon's shoulder. The robed demons were attacking the gunmen.

As the others clashed, Cadeon sprinted toward those double doors with her in his arms. He turned in midstride, hitting the doors with his bullet-riddled back, bursting them from their hinges.

Charging out into the night, he made for an older truck parked off to the side of the manor. After opening the groaning cab door, he tossed her inside on the cracked vinyl seat and followed her in. He pinched the key and turned. Nothing.

"Is the battery dead?" she asked, shaking off some of the shock and fog. "Does this thing still run?" Wrappers and crushed cans littered the floorboards.

"Hey, hey, no disrespecting The Truck. She's gotten me out of a lot of scrapes." He finessed the gearshift up and back. "I just need to make sure . . . she knows we're in neutral." Holly thought she heard a click. "There."

The engine roared to life. He cast her a patronizing glance as soon as they were tearing up the shell drive.

She peered back at the manor. From the outside, the residence was stately, the grounds immaculate. She would never have guessed what beings lurked in the bowels of that place.

And now she was with another of their kind. She turned to him, studying this being--this . . . demon.

He had blond stubble on his tanned face, and his hair was thick and straight, reaching past his masculine jaw. Uneven strands looked lightened by a life in the sun.

The gold band he wore on his right arm appeared to be permanent, as if he'd have to cut it to get it past that bulging bicep. And those horns . . .

When they'd straightened earlier, they'd become much larger and darker. Now they were smooth, the color of a shell, lying close to his head. With his hair tousled over them, they probably wouldn't be easy to discern.

"How am I measuring up?" he asked, his voice deep and rumbling.

She flushed. "I've just never seen . . . horns before tonight."

"Figured you'd be in for a shock."

"Where are we going now?"

"I've got to get you out of town," he said. "This place is too hot for us to stay."

She noticed blood on the back of his seat. "How are you still moving with all those bullets?"

"With a lot of fucking pain, Holly."

She gasped, his foul language grating on her like nails on a chalkboard.

"Oh, come on, halfling! My language's only going to deteriorate from here."

"I . . . it's just habit. Are you going to be okay?"

"I should be able to shed them." When she frowned, he explained, "My skin should push them out when I heal."

Holly couldn't scarcely wrap her mind around that. "What did those men want with me? Who were the ones shooting?"

"The gunmen were leeches. Vampires."

"Vampires," she said softly, but her mind was screaming, This is insanity!

"They must know you haven't turned fully immortal yet. Our kinds never use guns, as evidenced by their shite aim."

She winced at the vulgarity, but managed not to gasp this time. "Again, why?"

"Because you just became the most popular girl in town."

"What does that mean?" In the stern tone she usually reserved for her students, she added, "This isn't the time for cryptic answers, Cadeon."

"This isn't the time for questions whatsoever, Holly."

Headlights met them on the drive. An SUV blocked the gated exit.

"Fuckall," he snapped, wheeling around, spraying up shells. "More vampires."

She clamped hold of the dashboard to brace herself. "Where are we going now?"

"Only one other way off this property. Into the swamp."

"How would you know?"

"Been here before." At her look, he said, "I've met with the demons here on occasion. As a representative of my breed."

"You . . . you fraternized with those animals? Does your ‘breed' kidnap women as well?"

"Kidnap women? I can hardly keep the chits off the jock as it is, pet."

Eyes wide, she said, "Chits? Pet? Are you from the nineteenth century or just trying to be misogynistic?"

"I'm from medieval times, and I never have to try to be misogynistic." He slammed on the brakes, and cranked the four-wheel-drive gear, peering at her hard. "It just comes to me natural, like a gift." Stomping on the gas once more, he sent her flying back into the seat as they lurched forward, racing over pristine greens.

"Why did they want to hurt me? I've never done anything to deserve this!"

"It's not what you've done--it's what you are."

"A math instructor?" she said in a strangled tone.

"You're a Valkyrie now. And a special one at that. Your mum must've been one."

"Valkyrie! My mom was a pie contest winner! And she was human. She died two years ago."

"Then your biological mother must have been one."

She was shocked into silence for a moment. How had this demon known she was adopted? "I didn't even know her." Holly had always imagined her as a scared teenager who'd had the incredible good sense to leave her baby on the most wonderful doorstep imaginable. Now this demon was saying that her mother was a Valkyrie? "What exactly is a Valkyrie? And how did you know I was adopted?"

"Questions later. Right now we've got to get through the swamp."

The dark line of brush loomed. "I don't see a road!"

"There's a service trail," he said, then added in a casual tone, "It might be a shade grown over."

"A shade! Are you certain there's no other way to get out?"

He nodded. "The property's surrounded by bayou and swamp."

"What are the odds that we'll make it through?"

"I give us one in fifteen."

Her eyes went wide. "I wouldn't take those odds!"

"You would if there's zero chance otherwise."

"Oh, God," she muttered, feeling around the seat. "Where's the seatbelt?"

"Broke a few years back."

"And you didn't get it fixed?" she snapped.

"Don't usually ferry around mortals, then!" he thundered back.

Struggling for calm, she said, "Cadeon, I do not see even a hint of a trail."

"Demon senses. I can find it." But he pressed his straightened arm over her chest as they closed in.

"Y-you're not really going in there?"

"Trust me."

This being had saved her life, had even taken bullets for her, and yet there was something so markedly untrustworthy about him.

He flashed her a rakish grin with barely noticeable fangs. "Though if you're the praying type, now might be a choice time. . . ."

REVIEW

"The snappy dialogue and sensual tormenting make this the best in the Immortals After Dark series so far!" —Romantic Times Magazine

"Kresley Cole is a gifted author with a knack for witty dialogue, smart heroines, fantastic alpha males and yes, it has to be said, some of the hottest loves scenes you'll read in mainstream romance …You're in for a treat if you've never read a Kresley Cole book."—RomanceNovel.tv

"I absolutely love the Immortals After Dark series. Kresley Cole has again woven a wonderfully romantic tale of two people from the opposite sides of their immortal world … I'm sure I will re-read Dark Desires After Dusk, the love story of Cadeon the rage demon and Holly the halfling Valkyrie many, many times as it was everything I had hoped it to be and so much more!"—Queue My Review

Editorial Reviews

Product Description
RITA Award-winning author Kresley Cole continues her bestselling Immortals After Dark series with this electrifying tale of a ruthless demon mercenary and the lovely young halfling who enchants him.

A seductive beauty he can
never have, yet can't resist...

Cadeon Woede will stop at nothing to atone for the one wrong that will haunt him forever. But once he secures the key to his redemption, the halfling Holly Ashwin, Cade finds that the woman he thought he could use for his own ends and then forget haunts him as much as his past.

A tormented warrior she
should fear, but can't deny...

Raised as a human, Holly never knew that some frightening legends are real until she encounters a brutal demon who inexplicably guards her like a treasure. Thrust into a sensual new world of myth and power, with him as her protector, she begins to crave the demon's wicked touch.

Surrender to dark desires...

Yet just when he earns Holly's trust, will Cade be forced to betray the only woman who can sate his wildest needs -- and claim his heart?

About the Author
Previously a competitive athlete and coach, Kresley Cole is fast becoming one of the hottest names in historical and paranormal romance. She has a master's degree in English from the University of Florida, and spent much of her time in the research library there, gathering background material for her books. She is the author of the MacCarrick Brothers trilogy, which begins with If You Dare and includes the forthcoming If You Desire and If You Deceive. Her other award-winning novels include No Rest for the Wicked, A Hunger Like No Other, The Captain of All Pleasures, and The Price of Pleasure. Her short fiction is featured in the bestselling anthology Playing Easy to Get.

Rating:

"The snappy dialogue and sensual tormenting make this the best in the Immortals After Dark series so far!" —Romantic Times Magazine

4 1/2 STARS TOP PICK!

Kresley Cole The Immortals After Dark Series: Dark Needs at Night's Edge (The Immortals After Dark, Book 4)

noreply@blogger.com (alisapp) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 20:50:00 +0000

Kresley Cole The Immortals After Dark Series: Dark Needs at Night's Edge (The Immortals After Dark, Book 4)

Book 4 in the bestselling Immortals After Dark series

A vampire warrior consumed by madness,
trapped in the lair of an otherworldly temptress only he can see.
The beauty wants him gone--the warrior can't leave.
Let the games begin…

Néomi Laress, a famous ballerina in the early 1900s, became a phantom the night she was murdered. Imbued with powers, but invisible to the living, she haunts her beloved home, scaring away any trespassers--until she encounters a ruthless immortal even more terrifying than Néomi herself.

To prevent him from harming others, Conrad Wroth's brothers imprison him in an abandoned manor. There only Conrad can see the dancer with wild raven hair--who seems determined to drive him further into madness. The exquisite creature inflames him with desire, leaving his body racked with lust and his soul torn as he finds himself coveting her for his own.

Yet even if Conrad can win Néomi and claim her completely, evil still surrounds her. Once he returns to the brutality of his past to protect her, will he succumb to the dark needs

Read an Excerpt

A femme fatale? With a history of burlesque dancing? You must have the wrong girl. I'm naught but a humble ballet dancer, a mere delicate sparrow.

—Néomi Laress, prima ballerina, former femme fatale and burlesque dancer

(b. approx. 1901—d. August 24, 1927)

I hereby vow to devote my life to annihilating the vampiir.

None shall know my presence and live.

—Conrad Wroth, age thirteen,

upon being inducted into the Order of Kapsliga Uur in the year 1609

Prologue

New Orleans

August 24, 1927

I'll kill you for spurning me. . . .

Struggling to block out memories of Louis Robicheaux's latest threat, Néomi Laress stood at the top of her grand staircase and gazed out over the packed ballroom.

As she might cradle a babe, she held bouquets of roses swathed in silk. They were gifts from some of the men in the crowd of partygoers below, a motley mix of her rollicking set, rich patrons, and newspaper reporters. A sultry bayou breeze slid throughout the space, carrying strains of music from the twelve-piece orchestra outside.

. . . you'll beg for my mercy.

She stifled a shiver. Her ex-fiancé's behavior had become more chilling of late, his atonement gifts more extravagant. Néomi's long-standing refusal to sleep with Louis had frustrated and angered him, but breaking off their relationship had enraged him.

The look in his pale eyes earlier tonight . . . She gave herself an inward shake. She'd hired guards for this event—Louis couldn't get to her.

One admirer, a handsome banker from Boston, noticed her aloft and began to clap. The throng joined in, and in her mind she envisioned a curtain going up. With a slow, gracious smile, she said, "Bienvenue to you all," then began descending her stairs.

No one would ever sense her anxiety. She was a trained ballerina, but above all things, she was an entertainer. She would work this room, dispensing teasing nibbles of sarcasm and softly spoken bons mots, charming any critics and coaxing laughter from even the most staid.

Though her arms already ached from cradling so many bouquets, and flashbulbs went off in glaring succession, her smile remained fixed. Another gliding step down.

She'd be damned before she'd let Louis ruin her night of triumph. Three hours ago, she'd given the performance of a lifetime to a sold-out house. For tonight's soiree celebrating her newly renovated estate, Elancourt, the Gothic manor house was resplendent with the glow of a thousand candles. Through her dancing, she'd paid for the painstaking restoration of her new home and all the sumptuous furnishings inside it.

Every detail for the party was perfect, and outside, a sliver moon clung to the sky. A lucky moon.

Her dress for this evening was a more risqué version of the costume she'd worn earlier, the satin as black as her jet hair. It had a tight bodice that she laced up the front like a bygone corset and a slit in the skirt that almost reached up to where her garter belt snapped to her stockings. Her makeup was styled after the Hollywood vamps—she'd kohled her eyes with a smoky hue, donned lipstick of oxblood red, and painted her short nails a dark crimson.

With her jeweled choker and dangling earrings, the ensemble had cost a small fortune, but tonight was worth it—tonight all her dreams had finally come true.

Only Louis could ruin it. She willed herself to ignore her apprehension, inwardly cursing him in English and in French, which helped ease her tension.

Until she nearly stumbled on the stairs. He was there, standing at the periphery, staring up at her.

Usually so perfect and kempt, he had his tie loosened, his blond hair disheveled.

How had he gotten past the guards? Louis was filthy rich—had the bastard bribed them?

His bloodshot eyes were burning with a maniacal light, but she assured herself that he wouldn't dare harm her in front of so many. After all, there were hundreds of people in her home, including reporters and photographers.

Yet she wouldn't put it past him to make a scene or expose her scandalous history to everyone. Her uptown patrons winked at her and her friends' colorful antics, but they had no idea what she was—much less of her past occupation.

Chin raised and shoulders back, she continued down, but her hands were clenching the roses. Resentment warred with her fear. So help her, God, she'd scratch his eyes out if he ruined this for her.

Just before she reached the bottom step, he began elbowing his way toward her. She tried to signal the burly guard at the opened patio door, but the crowd enveloped her, effectively trapping her. She attempted to make her way to the man, yet everyone wanted "to be the first to congratulate her."

When she heard Louis pushing people behind her, Néomi's soft-spoken apologies—"Pardonnez-moi, I'll just be a moment"—turned to "Let me pass!"

He neared. Out of the corner of her eye she spied his hand fiddling with something in his jacket pocket. Not another gift? This will be so embarrassing.

When that hand shot out, she whirled around, dropping her bouquets. Metal glinted in the light of the candles. Eyes wide, she screamed—

Just before he plunged a knife into her chest.

Pain . . . unimaginable pain. She could hear the blade grating past her bones, felt a force so jarring the tip pierced through her very back. As she clawed at his arms, ugly sounds erupted from her throat; those nearest her backed away in horror.

This can't be happening. . . .

Only when he released the knife with splayed fingers did her body collapse to the floor. Rosebuds scattered around her, their petals wafting around the jutting hilt. She stared dumbly at the ceiling as warm blood seeped from her back, pooling all around her. She perceived the silence of the room over Louis's harried breaths as he knelt beside her, beginning to weep.

This isn't happening. . . .

The first hysterical scream rent the quiet. People fled the scene, shoving and tangling all around them. She heard the guards finally yelling and fighting past the crowd.

And Néomi lived still. She was dogged, a survivor—she would not die in her dream home on her dream night. Fight—

Louis fisted the hilt once again, jarring the knife inside her. Agony . . . too much . . . can't bear this . . . But she had no breath to scream, no strength to raise her limp arms to defend herself.

With a choking bellow he twisted the blade in the pocket of her wound. "Feel it for me, Néomi," he gasped at her ear. Pain exploded, radiating out from her heart to every inch of her body. "Feel what I have suffered!"

Too much! The temptation to close her eyes nearly overwhelmed her. Yet she kept them open, kept living.

"See how much I love you? We'll be together now." The knife made a sucking sound when he yanked it from her. Just before he was finally tackled to the ground, he sliced his own throat ear to ear.

Her blood had begun to cool by the time a doctor crouched to grasp her wrist. "There's no pulse," he said to someone unseen, his voice raised over the commotion. "She's gone."

But she wasn't! Not yet!

Néomi was young, and there were so many things she had left to experience. She deserved to live. I'm not dying. Her hands somehow clenched. I refuse to!

Yet as the breeze picked up once more, Néomi's vision guttered out like a candle. No, no . . . still living . . . can't see, can't see . . . so scared.

Rose petals caught on the wind and tumbled over her face. She could feel each cool kiss of them.

Then . . . nothingness.

CHAPTER 1

Outside Orleans Parish

Present day

Stay sane, act normal, he chants to himself as he strides down the rickety pier. On either side of him, water black like tar. Ahead of him, muted light from the bayou tavern. A Lore bar. A lone neon sign flickers over flat skiffs below. Music and laughter carry.

Stay sane . . . need to dull the rage. Until the endtime.

Inside. "Whiskey." His voice is low, rough from disuse.

The bartender's face falls. Like last night. Others grow skittish. Can they sense that I ache to kill? The whispers around him are like metal on slate to his ragged nerves.

—"Conrad Wroth, once a warlord . . . madder than any vampire I've seen in all my centuries."

—"A killer for hire. If he shows up in your town, then folks from the Lore there'll go missing."

Missing? Unless I want them found.

—"Heard he drains 'em so savagely . . . nothing's left of their throats."

So I'm not fastidious.

— "I heard he eats them."

Distorted rumors. Or is that one true?

Tales of his insanity spreading once more. I've never missed a target—how insane can I be? He answers himself: Very fucking much so.

Memories clot his mind. His victims' memories taken from their blood toll inside him, their number always growing. Don't know what's real; can't determine what's illusion. Most of the time, he can scarcely understand his own thoughts. He doesn't go a day without seeing some type of hallucination, striking out at shadows around him.

A grenade with the pin pulled, they say. Only a matter of time.

They're right.

Stay sane . . . act normal. Glass in hand, he chuckles softly on his way to a dimly lit table in the back. Normal? He's a goddamned vampire in a bar filled with shifters, demons, and the sharp-eared fey. Christmas lights are strung up in the back—through the eye sockets of human skulls that frame a mirror. In the corner, a demoness lazily strokes her lover's horns, visibly arousing the male. At the bar, an immense werewolf bares his fangs, bowing protectively as he tosses a small redhead behind him.

Can't decide if you should attack, Lykae? That's right. I don't smell of blood. A trick I learned.

The couple leaves, the redhead all but carried out by the Lykae. As they exit, she peers over her shoulder, her eyes like mirrors. Then gone. Out into the night where they belong.

Sit. Back against the wall. He adjusts the sunglasses that shade his red eyes, dirty red eyes. As he scans the room, he resists the urge to rub his palm over the back of his neck. Watched by someone unseen?

But then, I always feel like that.

He swoops up the drink, narrowing his eyes at his steady hand. My mind's decayed, but my sword hand's still true. A ruinous combination.

He takes a liberal swallow. The drink. The whiskey dulls the need to lash out. Not that it has disappeared.

Small things enrage him. An off look. Someone approaching too quickly. Failing to give him a wide enough berth. His fangs sharpen at the slightest provocation. As though a living thing hungers inside me. Ravenous for blood and a throat to tear. Each time he acts on the rage, others' memories blight more of his own.

He still has enough sanity to stalk his targets—his brothers. He will mete out retribution to Nikolai and Murdoch Wroth for doing the unspeakable to him. Sebastian, the third brother, was a victim like him, but must be slain—simply because of what he is.

And my time grows nigh. Like an animal, he recognizes this. He's found them in this mysterious place of swamps and haze and music. He's seen Nikolai and Sebastian with their wives. He might have felt envy that his brothers laugh with them. That they touch them possessively, with wonder in their clear eyes. But hatred drowns out any confusing jealousy.

Offspring will follow. He'll kill their females as well. Destroy them. Destroy myself. Before my enemies catch up with me.

He adjusts the bandage under his shirt on his left arm. The slashed skin beneath it will not heal. Five days ago, he was marked by a dream demon, one who tracks him by this very injury. One who promised that his most coveted dream and most dreaded nightmare would follow the mark.

His brows draw together. The hunter will soon become the hunted—his life is nearing its end.

A whisper of regret. The thing he regrets most. He tries to remember what he covets so dearly. Another's memories bombard him, exploding in his mind. His hand shoots up to clasp his forehead—

Nikolai enters the bar, Murdoch behind him. Their expressions are grave.

They've come to kill me. As he expected. He thought he could draw them out by returning here again and again. He lowers his hand, and his lips ease back from his fangs. The bar empties in a rush.

Then . . . stillness. His brothers stare at him as if seeing a ghost. Insects clamor outside. Rain draws near and steeps the air. Just as lightning strikes in the distance, Sebastian enters, crossing to stand beside the other two. He's allied with them? This he hadn't expected.

He removes his sunglasses, revealing his red eyes. The eldest, Nikolai, stifles a wince at the sight, but shakes it off and advances. The three seem surprised that he'll stay to engage them, that he hasn't traced away. They are strong and skilled, yet they don't recognize the power he wields, the thing he's become.

He can slaughter them all without blinking, and he'll savor it. They haven't drawn their swords? Then they walk to their doom. Can't keep them waiting.

He lunges from his seat and hurdles the table, knocking Sebastian unconscious with a blow that cracks his skull and sends him flying into the back wall. Before the other two can raise a hand in defense, he snatches them by their throats. One in each tightening hand as they grapple to free themselves. "Three hundred years of this," he hisses. Their struggles do nothing; their shocked expressions satisfy. Squeezing—

Wood creaks behind him. He shoves back and heaves his brothers at a new enemy. Too late; that Lykae's returned and slashes out with flared claws, ripping through his torso. Blood gushes.

He roars with fury and charges the werewolf, dodging claws and teeth with uncanny speed to barrel him to the ground. Just as his hands are about to meet around the Lykae's corded neck, the beast claps something to his right wrist.

A manacle? Clenching harder, he grates out a rasping laugh. "You don't think that will hold me?" Bones begin to pop beneath his palms. The kill is near, and he wants to yell with pleasure.

The werewolf cuffs his left wrist.

What is this? The metal won't bend. Won't break. They goddamned mean to take me alive? He leaps to his feet, tensing to trace. Nothing. Sebastian on the floor, pouring blood from his temple, has him by the ankles.

He kicks Sebastian, connecting squarely with his brother's chest. Ribs crack. He whirls around—in time to catch the bar rail the Lykae swings at his face.

He staggers but remains on his feet.

"What the fuck is he?" the Lykae bellows, swinging the rail again with all his might.

The brutal hit takes him across his neck. A split second of faltering. Enough for his brothers to tackle him.

He thrashes and bites, snapping his fangs. Can't break free . . . can't . . . They attach the manacles at his wrists to another chain. He kicks viciously, stunned when they trap his legs as well.

Choking with rage, he strains against his bonds with all his strength. The metal cleaves his skin to the bone. Nothing.

Caught. He roars, spitting blood at them, dimly hearing them speak.

"I hope you came up with a good place to put him," Sebastian says between ragged breaths.

"I bought a long-abandoned manor," Nikolai grates, "place called Elancourt."

Chills course through him even through his fury; pain erupts from the injury on his arm. A dream. His doom. He can never go to this Elancourt—knows this with a savage certainty. He's too strong for them to trace him—there's still time to escape.

If they take him there, they won't take him alive. . . .

* * *

Under a clouded nighttime sky, the spirit of Néomi Laress knelt in the drive at the very edge of her property line, gazing hungrily at the newspaper, lying wrapped in wet plastic.

Today the deliveryman—that capricious fiend—had missed the drive again, this time tossing the bundle squarely onto the desolate county road.

Néomi was starving for that paper, desperate for the news, reviews, and commentary that would break up the monotony of her life—or her eighty-year-long afterlife.

But she couldn't leave the estate to seize it. As a ghost, Néomi could manipulate matter telekinetically, and her power was nearly absolute at Elancourt—she could rattle all the windows or tear off the roof if she wanted to, and the weather often changed with her emotions—but not outside the property.

Her beloved home had become her prison, her eternal cell of fifteen acres and a slowly dying manor. Among fate's other curses, each seemingly designed to torture her in personal and specific ways, Néomi could never leave this place.

She didn't know why this was so—only that it was, and had been since she'd awakened the morning after her murder. She recalled seeing her haunting reflection for the first time. Néomi remembered that exact moment when she'd realized that she'd died—when she'd first comprehended what she'd become.

A ghost. She'd become something that frightened even her. Something unnatural. Never again to be a lover or friend. Never to be a mother, like she'd always planned after her dancing career. As a storm had boiled outside, she'd silently screamed for hours.

The only thing she could be thankful for was that Louis hadn't been trapped here with her.

She stretched harder. Must . . . have that . . . paper!

Néomi wasn't certain why it continued to arrive. A past article had recounted the problems inherent with "recurrent billing of credit cards," and she supposed she was the benefactress of her last tenant's credit card negligence. The delivery could end at any time. Every one was precious.

Eventually she gave up, defeated, sitting back in the weed-ridden drive. Out of habit, she made movements as if she was rubbing her thighs, yet felt nothing.

Néomi could never feel. Never again. She was incorporeal, as substantial as the mist rolling in from the bayou.

Thanks, Louis. Oh, and may you rot in hell—because surely that's where you went.

Usually, at this point in the newspaper struggle, she'd be battling the urge to tear her hair out, wondering how much longer she could endure this existence, speculating what she'd done to deserve it.

Yes, on the night of her death, she'd refused to die, but this was ridiculous.

But even as desperate as she was for the words, she wasn't as badly off as usual.

Because last night a man had come into her home. A towering, handsome man with grave eyes. He might return this night. He might even move in.

She shouldn't get too excited about the stranger, to have her hopes crushed yet again—

Lights blinded her; the shriek of squealing tires ripped through the quiet of the night.

As a car shot forward onto the gravel, she futilely raised her arms to protect her face and gave a silent cry. It drove straight through her, the engine reverberating like an earthquake when it passed through her head.

The vehicle never slowed as it prowled down the oak-lined drive to Elancourt.

CHAPTER 2

Néomi blinked, her strong night vision returning slowly. Even after all these years, she was still surprised that she was unharmed.

She recognized the sharp, low car from last night, so markedly different from the trucks that usually chugged by on the old county road. Which meant . . . which meant . . .

He's returned! The grave-eyed man who came here last night!

The paper forgotten, she materialized to Elancourt's landing, overlooking the front entrance. She moved as if to clutch the sides of the window there, her arms floating outspread.

And there sat his car in the drive.

Won't you move in? she'd wanted to beg last night as the man had examined the manor. He'd tested the columns, drawn sheets off some of the remaining furniture, and even yanked on the radiant heater in the main salon. Appearing satisfied that it was solid, he'd followed the contraption's underfloor pipes by stomping on the marble tiles.

The heater will work, she'd inwardly cried. Ten years ago, the manor had been modernized by a young couple who'd stayed for a time.

Yet she couldn't relate the merits of Elancourt to this mysterious stranger. Because she was a ghost. The act of speaking, or at least talking in a way that others could hear, had proved impossible for her, as had making herself visible to others.

Which was probably for the best. Her reflection was haunting even to her. Though Néomi's appearance was a close facsimile of how she'd looked the night she died—with the same dress and jewelry—now her skin and lips were as pale as rice paper. Her hair flowed wildly with rose petals tangled in it, and the skin under her eyes was darkened, making her irises seem freakishly blue in contrast.

She focused on the car again. Deep masculine voices sounded from within it. Was there more than one man?

Maybe there'd be two more "confirmed bachelors" like the handsome couple who had lived here during the fifties!

Whoever was within the car needed to hurry inside. Autumn rains had been tentatively falling all night and lightning had begun flaring in a building rhythm. She hoped the men didn't catch the front façade lit by the glow of lightning. With its arches and overhangs and stained glass, the manor could appear . . . forbidding.

The very Gothic traits she'd admired seemed to drive others away.

The vehicle began to rock from side to side on its wide wheels, and the voices grew louder. Then came a man's bellow. Her lips parted when two large boots kicked through the back window, shattering it, glass spraying out into the gravel.

Someone unseen hauled the booted man back inside, but then a rear door began to bulge outward. Were cars so weak in this age that a man could kick it out of shape? No, no, she'd dutifully read the crash test reports, and they said—

The door shot off its hinges, all the way to the front porch. She gasped as a wild-eyed, crazed man lunged out of the vehicle. He was manacled at his wrists and ankles and covered in blood. He immediately fell into a deep slick of mud, only to be tackled by three men.

One of them was her prospective tenant from last night.

She saw then that they all were covered in blood—because the chained one was spitting it at them as he thrashed.

"No . . . no!" he yelled, struggling not to enter the house. Could he possibly sense there was more here than could be seen? No one ever had before.

"Conrad, stop fighting us!" the tenant said through gritted teeth. His accent sounded Russian. "We don't want to hurt you."

But the madman named Conrad didn't let up one bit. "God damn you, Nikolai! What do you want with me?"

"We're going to rid you of this madness, defeat your bloodlust."

"You fools!" He laughed manically. "No one comes back!"

"Sebastian, grab his arms!" this Nikolai barked to one of the others. "Murdoch, get his damned legs!" As Murdoch and Sebastian rushed to action, she realized that they both resembled Nikolai. All three had the same grim expression, the same tall, powerful bodies.

Brothers. Their captive must be one as well.

They carried the bloody and flailing Conrad toward the front double doors. Blood in her home. She shuddered. She detested blood, hated the sight of it, the scent of it. She'd never forget how it'd felt to be bathed in her own, to have it thicken and cool around her dying body.

Hadn't Elancourt seen enough of it?

In a panic, she raced downstairs and shot her hands up, exerting an invisible force against the doors. She used all her strength to keep them sealed tight. No one could bust through this hold—

The doors flew open. The men barreled through her, making her shiver as though she'd walked through a cobweb. A gust of wind rushed inside, following them in to stir the leaves and grit coating the floor.

Just how strong were they? Yes, they were huge, but she'd held the doors with what had to be the strength of twenty men.

Once inside the darkened room, Nikolai cast a chain across the floor with no care for her Italian marble.

The lunatic broke free once more, making it to his feet. He was towering! He lumbered toward the door, but his bound ankles ensured that he careened into an antique armoire covered with a sheet. It collapsed under the impact. Crushed.

She'd had to dance two performances to afford that piece and remembered lovingly polishing it herself. It was one of the few original furnishings that remained.

After Murdoch and Sebastian hoisted him out of the wreckage, Murdoch wrapped his thick arm around Conrad's neck, cupping the back of Conrad's head with his free hand. She could see that Murdoch was tightening this hold with all his might, his face drawn with the effort, the muscles in his neck standing out with strain.

Somehow Conrad was unaffected for long moments. Eventually, his thrashing eased and he went limp. While Murdoch laid him on the ground, Nikolai hastily affixed the chain to the same radiator he'd tested last night, then attached the other end to Conrad's handcuffs.

That's why Nikolai had been assessing it? Because he intended to jail this lunatic here?

Why here?

"Could you have found an eerier place to keep him?" Sebastian said between breaths as they all stood. At that instant, lightning crackled just outside. The high stained-glass windows were broken in places and cast tinted light, distorting the shadows within."Why not use the old mill?"

"Someone might come across him there," Murdoch answered. "And Kristoff knows about the mill. If he or his men discover what we're planning . . ."

Who's Kristoff? What are they planning?

Nikolai added, "Besides, Elancourt was recommended to me."

"Who would ever recommend this?" Sebastian waved a hand around. "It looks straight from a horror movie." She wished he was wrong, but a bolt flashed then; hued shadows appeared to slither and pounce. Sebastian raised his brows as if his point had been made.

Nikolai's gaze focused on his brothers' faces, studying their reactions as he answered, "Nïx did." He hesitated, seeming not to know if they'd laugh, rail, or nod.

Murdoch shrugged and Sebastian nodded grimly.

Who's Nïx?

Sebastian glanced around. "Raises my hackles, though"—another flash of lightning—"almost like it's . . . haunted."

Sebastian gets a cookie.

"And it spooked Conrad as well."

Yes, because otherwise he clearly would be fine.

"The weather makes it seem worse." Nikolai ran his hand through his wet hair, then wiped his face with his shirttail. "And if there are spirits lingering about? You forget what we are—any ghosts would do well to fear us."

Fear them? No living thing could touch her.

"It's actually ideal because the place scares people away," Nikolai continued over another bout of thunder. "And the Valkyrie compound isn't far from here—not many from the Lore will venture anywhere near their home."

Valkyrie? Lore? She remembered a newspaper article a few years back on "Gang Speak." These men were speaking Gang. They had to be.

Murdoch said, "Perhaps the Valkyrie won't appreciate vampires so close to Val Hall."

Vampires? Not Gang? They're all mad. Mon Dieu, I need a bourbon.

"Is it even habitable?" Sebastian asked in a scoffing voice.

Nikolai nodded. "The structure and the roof are solid—"

As rock.

"—and once we do some modifications, it'll be suitable for our purposes. We'll fix just what we need: a couple of bedrooms, a shower, the kitchen. I already had the witches come around today to do an enclosure spell along the perimeter of the estate. As long as Conrad's wearing those chains, he can't escape the boundary."

Witches? Oh, come now! Néomi moved to rub her temple, felt nothing, but was somewhat soothed by the familiar act.

In the lull, Murdoch cased the main salon, plucking at cobwebs. "Conrad knew we were going to be at the tavern."

"No doubt of it," Nikolai answered, crossing to a dirt-caked window to glance outside. "He was awaiting us. To kill us."

"Obviously he's gotten good at it." Sebastian patted his ribs in an assessing manner and winced. Looking more closely, she could see that they all seemed injured in some way. Even Conrad appeared to have been clawed across the chest by some beast. "He likes it."

Likes to kill? A murderer in my home. Again. Was he the same kind of man as Louis—one who would stab a defenseless woman through the heart? Tamp it down, Néomi. . . . The wind picked up. Control the emotion.

Murdoch said, "I suppose he'd have to, if the word about his occupation is true."

A professional killer?

"Finding him now . . . it couldn't come at a worse time," Sebastian said. "How are we going to manage this?"

"We fight a war, deceive our king, try not to worry about our Kaderin and Myst, all the while attempting to salvage Con's sanity," Nikolai replied evenly.

Murdoch lifted a brow. "And here I thought we would be busy."

The brothers began exploring nearby rooms, testing wood for rot and pulling sheets from furniture, examining their surroundings.

In the past, she'd been fortunate with those who'd occupied Elancourt. Nice families had come and gone, a few harmless vagrants. Nothing about these men said We're nice and harmless!

Especially not the chained murderer. He lay on the floor, blood collecting at the corner of his parted lips to drip down.

Drip . . . drip . . . A crimson pool was stark against her marble. Just as before. Tamp it down. Control it.

The madman's eyes flashed open. She couldn't warn the others! In the space of a bolt of lightning, he somehow shot to his chained feet, hobbling forward with unnatural speed. Before she could even raise her arms to exert pressure against him, he'd stretched the chain taut . . . the radiator was bending under the pressure.

He couldn't break it. Imposs—

Like a whip, it snapped free as he charged across the room for the door—the door where she stood. As she stared in disbelief, the radiator trailed in his wake, destroying everything in its wildly sweeping path.

Suddenly, the underfloor web of attached heating pipes burst up through the floor, foot after foot of groaning metal and exploding marble and splinters.

The three men dove for him once more, the pile of them skidding to a stop right at her slippers.

She gaped. Her home, her beloved home. In fifteen minutes, the madman had wrought more destruction to Elancourt than it had sustained in the last eighty years.

Her hands fisted. Control it. But her hair had already begun to swirl about her face, rose petals floating in a tempest around her body. Outside, the wind kicked up, streaming through the holes in the high windows, sweeping the grit and dust until she was able to see all the destruction.

The marble! When her eyes watered with frustration, rain poured outside.

Tamp it down.

Too late. Lightning bombarded the house, illuminating the night like successive bomb blasts. From under the pile of men, Conrad yanked his head up at her.

In a flash, Néomi twisted round, sweeping her hair over her face as she dissipated. Reemerging on the landing, she gazed down at him.

Conrad continued to stare at the spot where she'd stood, blinking and easing his struggles as if dumbfounded.

Had he . . . had he possibly seen her?

No one ever had before. Ever. She'd been so uniformly ignored for so long that she'd begun to wonder if she truly existed.

Up close, she'd been able to see that the whites of his eyes were . . . red. She'd thought he'd been injured, with burst blood vessels shooting across, but in fact, they were wholly glazed with red.

What were these beings? Could they truly be . . . vampires? Even in light of what she'd become, she still struggled to believe in anything supernatural.

With a shake of his head, Conrad frenziedly renewed his flight for the door, gaining inches, even as the three wrestled with him.

"I didn't want to have to do this, Conrad!" Nikolai dug into his jacket pocket. As the others pinned Conrad, he bit the end off what appeared to be a syringe and injected its contents into Conrad's arm.

Whatever it was slowed him, making him blink his red eyes again and again.

"What did you give him?" Sebastian asked.

"It's a concoction from the witches—part medical, part mystickal. It should knock him out."

For how long would it knock Conrad out? How long were they expecting him to stay here? To spit across her floor and roar within her halls? She'd be damned if she allowed another of Louis's ilk to taint her home once more! This Conrad was an animal. He should be put down. Or at the very least, put out.

She'd show these trespassers power like they'd never seen, sweeping them into the yard like trash! She'd toss them by their feet all the way to the bayou!

Néomi would demonstrate what happened when a ghost went poltergeist—

"Where . . . is she?" Conrad grated between heaving breaths.

Néomi froze. He couldn't be talking about her, couldn't have seen her.

"Who, Conrad?" Nikolai demanded.

Just before the shot knocked him unconscious, he rasped, "Female . . . beautiful."

REVIEW

"Literal lost souls are the unlikely protagonists of Cole’s latest paranormal romance. Placing huge roadblocks in front of these potential lovers makes their struggles all the more poignant and daring. You can trust Cole to always deliver sizzling sexy interludes within a darkly passionate romance."--Jill Smith, Romantic Times Magazine

"Conrad leaps off the page and into your heart. He's unexpected and unpredictable, fiercely determined to get better and to protect his mate, and an absolute fantasy lover in his devotion to Néomi's pleasure. Their sizzling attraction transcends the limits of the physical; Conrad loves her before he ever touches her, and the evolution of their romance is among the most believable and engrossing I've ever read. Cole's Immortals After Dark series continues stronger than ever with this latest installment."--Louisa White, Fresh Fiction

"Dark Needs At Night's Edge is an entertaining and adeptly imagined addition to a great series"--Janet, DearAuthor.com

Kresley Cole and Her Innocent Men--write up by Jane at DearAuthor.com

"Prepare yourself for a wickedly exhilarating ride through the world of the Lore with Kresley Cole's latest offering. I can't recommend Conrad and Néomi's book enough. Fabulous, Ms. Cole! Simply fabulous!"--Jolie Dreyson, Romance Junkies

Editorial Reviews

From Publishers Weekly
A New Orleans ballerina in the 1920s, Neomi Laress had her life cut short by a murderous fiancé. She has haunted her estate, Elancourt, for the past 80 years, desperately seeking contact. Conrad Wroth is a self-loathing vampire mercenary with serious bloodlust. His brothers bring him to Elancourt to try to make him sane again, but he soon gets drawn into Neomi's difficult world, and the two fall for each other. But since Neomi isn't embodied, they can't touch. And that's just one of their problems. The banter of secondary characters, particularly Mariketa the Witch, distinguishes this standard story of an unattainable woman who needs saving and a rageful man who needs taming. (May)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

Product Description
Bestselling author Kresley Cole continues her seductive Immortals After Dark series with this tale of a vampire shunned even by his own kind and a beautiful phantom, bound together by a passion they cannot resist.A RAVEN-HAIRED TEMPTRESS OF THE DARK...

Néomi Laress, a famous ballerina from a past century, became a phantom the night she was murdered. Imbued with otherworldly powers but invisible to the living, she haunts her beloved home, scaring away trespassers -- until she encounters a ruthless immortal even more terrifying than Néomi herself.

A VAMPIRE WARRIOR CONSUMED BY MADNESS...

To prevent him from harming others, Conrad Wroth's brothers imprison him in an abandoned manor. But there, a female only he can see seems determined to drive him further into madness. The exquisite creature torments him with desire, leaving his body racked with lust and his soul torn as he finds himself coveting her for his own.

HOW FAR WILL HE GO TO CLAIM HER?

Yet even if Conrad can win Néomi, evil still surrounds her. Once he returns to the brutality of his past to protect her, will he succumb to the dark needs seething inside him?

About the Author
Previously a competitive athlete and coach, Kresley Cole is fast becoming one of the hottest names in historical and paranormal romance. She has a master's degree in English from the University of Florida, and spent much of her time in the research library there, gathering background material for her books. She is the author of the MacCarrick Brothers trilogy, which begins with If You Dare and includes the forthcoming If You Desire and If You Deceive. Her other award-winning novels include No Rest for the Wicked, A Hunger Like No Other, The Captain of All Pleasures, and The Price of Pleasure. Her short fiction is featured in the bestselling anthology Playing Easy to Get.

Rating:

. . intense action, devilishly passionate sex and fascinating characters . . . hot stuff! -- Romantic Times Magazine, 4 1/2 STARS TOP PICK!

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Friday, February 20, 2009

Kresley Cole My Faverite Books Directory

The MacCarrick Brothers Trilogy

The Sutherland Brothers Series

Kresley Cole My Faverite Love Novel Hightlander :If You Deceive

If You Deceive (The MacCarrick Brothers, Book 3) by Kresley Cole

Can a ruthless Highlander ever learn to love … ?

Burning vengeance …

Ethan MacCarrick was a heartbreakingly handsome rake until a powerful nobleman ordered him brutally beaten and his face scarred for a crime he didn’t commit. Ethan’s reprisal—bankrupting the nobleman and forcing his exile—does little to appease his wrath. Ten years later, a haughty, mysterious beauty enchants Ethan—the daughter of his enemy. At last, Ethan will have the revenge he’s craved; he’ll promise her marriage, seduce her, then cast her aside.

Bitter hardships …

When Madeleine Van Rowen’s family was suddenly plunged into destitution and dishonor, she steeled herself against further heartache. She never weakened, never trusted, until a towering, scarred Highlander relentlessly pursues her, breaking down her defenses.

At what price forgiveness?

The passion between them burns hotter than Ethan’s fury, and soon he finds he can’t let her go. But when Madeleine uncovers the truth about him, can Ethan convince her to accept all he now offers—when he once destroyed everything she had?

Editorial Reviews Review

With power and passion Kresley Cole completes her MacCarrick Brothers trilogy with a bang. You'll be held fast in Cole's grip and utterly satisfied with every aspect of her story. -- Romantic Times Magazine, 4 1/2 STARS TOP PICK!

Product Description
Burning vengeance...

Ethan MacCarrick was a heartbreakingly handsome rake until a powerful nobleman ordered him brutally beaten and his face scarred for a crime he didn't commit. Ethan's reprisal -- bankrupting the nobleman and forcing his exile -- does little to appease his wrath. Ten years later, a haughty, mysterious beauty enchants Ethan -- the daughter of his enemy. At last, Ethan will have the revenge he's craved; he'll promise her marriage, seduce her, then cast her aside.

Bitter hardships...

When Madeleine van Rowen's family was suddenly plunged into destitution and dishonor, she steeled herself against further heartache. She never weakened, never trusted, until a towering, scarred Highlander relentlessly pursues her, breaking down her defenses.

At what price forgiveness?

The passion between them burns hotter than Ethan's fury, and soon he finds he can't let her go. But when Madeleine uncovers the truth about him, can Ethan convince her to accept all he now offers -- when he once destroyed everything she had?

About the Author
Previously a competitive athlete and coach, Kresley Cole is fast becoming one of the hottest names in historical and paranormal romance. She has a master's degree in English from the University of Florida, and spent much of her time in the research library there, gathering background material for her books. She is the author of the MacCarrick Brothers trilogy, which begins with If You Dare and includes the forthcoming If You Desire and If You Deceive. Her other award-winning novels include No Rest for the Wicked, A Hunger Like No Other, The Captain of All Pleasures, and The Price of Pleasure. Her short fiction is featured in the bestselling anthology Playing Easy to Get.

Kresley lives on a bayou in the Florida panhandle with her husband, Richard. She loves to hear from readers and invites you to visit her website: www.kresleycole.com.

If You Deceive

The love of a good woman? To save a wicked man like me? Never . . . because there's no woman born who's as good as I am bad.

—Ethan Ross MacCarrick, Laird of Clan MacCarrick, Eighth Earl of Kavanagh

I didn't steal it—I swear! Oh, as if things never fall into your pocket!

—Madeleine Isobel Van Rowen, sneak thief, opportunist

Read an Excerpt

London, England
1856

If Madeleine Van Rowen was ever going to lose her virginity outside of a collateralized, signed marriage contract, it'd be with the towering man she'd spied in the black domino. He'd just begun navigating his way through the crowds of the Hive, the gaudily extravagant dance hall in which she found herself tonight.

From her spot on a raised dais, decorated with swans and lusty satyrs, Maddy watched him over the rim of her second glass of punch. She was growing light-headed and suspected the drink was spiked with more than rum—the spirit du jour—but she didn't particularly care. She wouldn't mind getting foxed after the day she'd just endured.

Today she'd learned that she'd failed to secure the man she'd journeyed from Paris to London to marry. "Madeleine, I'm just not the marrying type," he'd said. "I'm sorry."

Preferring to drown her sorrows in private, she'd wandered off from her group of friends, the Weyland women: Maddy's childhood friend Claudia, her sister Belinda, and their cousin Jane. The three Londoner Weylands were always craving the next forbidden thrill, and the Hive was supposed to be . . . thrilling.

Jane Weyland, the de facto leader of their group, had told the younger Maddy not to wander off again. After all, gentlewomen needed to stay together at all costs when out in London at night. Maddy rolled her eyes even now.

Please, innocent girls, Maddy had wanted to say. Though this masquerade was packed to the rafters with not only prostitutes and their lecherous patrons but also thieves and swindlers, it still paled in comparison to her everyday life.

Her secret life.

Maddy told everyone she lived in the wealthy Parisian parish of St. Roch with her mother and stepfather, but she actually lived alone in a slum called La Marais—translated as The Swamp—and every night she drifted to sleep to the music of gunfire and brawls.

She was a sneak thief, a pickpocket who would steal a diamond as easily as an apple, and she wasn't above an occasional burgle. In fact, if Maddy hadn't considered the Weylands her friends, they'd do well to be wary of her.

After adjusting her sapphire cape behind her and then her blue glacé mask, Maddy relaxed back on the dais bench, settling in to enjoy her view of the tall man. He stood well above most everyone in the room—six and a half feet in height, at least—and he had broad, muscular shoulders filling out his jacket.

The black domino he wore had a fluttering drop in the front, and though she could see his brow and lips and strong chin, the rest of his face was covered. He had thick, straight jet hair, and, she'd bet, dark, intense eyes.

He was clearly searching for someone, striding with aggression, his head turning this way and that, fighting the crush of what looked like thousands of people. When a gaggle of bare-breasted tarts blocked his path, angling for his attention, his brows drew together—with consternation or aggravation, Maddy didn't know.

What she wouldn't give to bed a strapping man like that for her first time. After all, she was an aficionada of male beauty. Her friend Claudia would chuckle each time Maddy tilted her head and peered at a passing man on the street. Maddy grinned into her glass. Making men blush as she so obviously sized them up was one of the things she lived for.

But if today was any indication of her luck, her husband and first lover was to be the Compte Le Daex, an obscenely wealthy roué, who was three times her age. In a last bid to avoid marrying that man, Maddy had journeyed to London, calling on her childhood friendship with Claudia, specifically to snare her brother Quinton Weyland. Unfortunately, Quin—with his curling hair, laughing green eyes, and robust finances—refused to marry. . . .

To distract her thoughts, she focused once more on the tall one as he made the perimeter of the building. His methodical and determined hunt, even the way he moved, fascinated her. He finally stopped, raking his fingers through his hair, turning in a circle in the crowd. She felt sad that he couldn't find the paramour he sought so urgently, and she drank to him, wishing him luck—

He raised his head up to where she sat, and his gaze locked on her. At once, he turned that aggressive stride toward the swan-and-satyr dais.

Frowning in confusion—she was the only one seated here—Maddy lowered her glass. He must have mistaken her for someone else. She wondered if she should let him think it and enjoy a few kisses with him. How delicious that would be. Just to squeeze those muscular shoulders while his lips brushed hers . . .

As he neared, his gaze held hers until she was captivated. Everything else dimmed. The drunken men were unseen; the high, false laughter of the courtesans below her were silenced.

He took the steps to her two at a time. When he stood before her, she stifled a gasp. She was eye level with his groin, and there was no disguising the fact that he was . . . aroused. She slowly craned her head up.

He stared down at her, silently offering her his big hand. His eyes were dark—and she'd never seen such intensity. She inhaled a shaky breath.

Le coup de foudre.

Bolt out of the blue. No, no. No bolts for me! Maddy was ever practical, never fanciful. She had no idea why that thought had arisen—because le coup de foudre had a second, more profound meaning.

The urge to take his hand was overwhelming. She clutched her glass in one hand and her skirts in the other, finally saying, "I'm sorry, sir. I'm not who you seek, nor am I, er, one among these other women."

"I ken that." He took her elbow—gently, but firmly—and helped her to her feet. "If you were like these other women, I would no' be seeking you at all." He had a marked Scottish accent and a voice so deep and husky that it gave her shivers.

"But I don't know you," she said, sounding breathless.

"You will soon, lass," he answered, making her frown. But before she could say anything, he took her glass and set it away, then caught her hand to pull her from the dais into the crowd.

For Maddy, two flaws warred with each other for the title of What Would Prove to be Maddy's Ultimate Downfall: an overly developed sense of curiosity and a marked pride. She imagined the traits to be in a race, like two horses in the mutuels on which she occasionally gambled. Right now, curiosity took the lead, demanding that she hear what the Scot had to say—even when she realized he was taking her toward the rooms lining the back wall of the warehouse. She quirked a brow. The rooms where prostitutes more fully serviced their patrons.

He opened the first door they came upon. Inside the dimly lit area, a woman was on her knees before a young man, taking him with her mouth while he leaned down and pinched her swollen, rouged nipples.

"Out," the Scot ordered with quiet menace. "Now."

The woman obviously sensed a threat better than her patron, and she pushed the drunken man back to tug up her bodice and scurry to her feet.

The Scot swung a glance at Maddy as the pair lurched out, no doubt to gauge her reaction to what they'd just witnessed. She shrugged. One of her best friends and across-the-hall neighbor was a popular girl, and scenes like this took place constantly where she lived. Turn any corner and find a different vice on display.

At twenty-one years of age, Maddy had seen it all.

As soon as they were alone, he closed the door and retrieved a chair to wedge against it. Where was her alarm? Where was her well-developed sense of self-preservation in a place like this? The room was dominated by a massive bed—twelve foot square at least—draped in glaring scarlet silk; no one could hear her scream back here, and they would ignore it even if they could, thinking a prostitute was giving a good show.

Yet, for some reason, she sensed this man wouldn't hurt her, and she possessed unfailing and proven instincts with men—a priceless gift to have in La Marais.

In any case, if things played out badly, this wouldn't be the first time she'd kindly introduced her knee to a man's groin and her fist to his Adam's apple. He would be shocked at how dirty and fiercely this dainty mademoiselle could fight.

When he returned from securing the door, he stood before her, far too close to be polite. She had to crane her head up to face him. "As I told you before, sir, I'm not one of these women. I don't belong back here, nor should you be . . . collecting me as you did."

"And as I told you before, had you been a courtesan, I would no' have collected you at all. I know you're a lady. What I doona know is why you're at this masquerade."

I'm trying to forget that soon I'll have to return to hell. . . .

She shook herself and answered, "I'm here with my friends. We're out for adventure." At least the others were. She planned to pick pockets once the punch was flowing freely.

"And by 'adventure' you mean affair." His tone seemed to grow irritated. "A bored young wife looking for a bedmate?"

"Not at all. We're merely here to be scandalized so we'll have something to write in our little diaries." As if she could afford either the diary or the time to write.

"Is that why you allowed me to lead you back here? Because you thought I'd make good diary fodder?"

"I allowed you because it would have been fruitless to resist," she replied. "I've seen intent like yours before. Would anything have stopped you from taking me to one of these rooms?"

"No' a thing in the world," he said, catching her eyes.

"Precisely. So I figured instead of being hauled over your shoulder and carried, I might as well follow you to a quiet spot so I could explain to you that I am not interested in this."

He stalked closer to her, forcing her back to a narrow table along the silk-papered wall. "My intent was no' only to get you alone, lass. And it has no' waned."

* * *

Her demeanor was surprisingly composed, her brilliant blue eyes calmly measuring behind her mask, as if a six-and-a-half-foot-tall Highlander accosting her in a darkened room made for sex was commonplace.

Up close, Ethan could see that she was probably no more than twenty, but she was possessed of herself—and even more impossibly lovely than he'd believed when she'd passed him on the street outside.

"And what is your intent?" she asked. Her breaths might have shallowed at his undisguised attention, especially when his gaze dropped to flicker over her breasts. She was slim, too much so for his customary taste, but her small breasts were expertly displayed, her cleavage plump above her tight bodice. He wanted to rip off his mask and rub his face against that creamy flesh.

"My intent is to"—have a woman beneath me for the first time in three years —"kiss you."

"You'll have to get your kisses"—she stressed the word as if she doubted that was all he wanted—"from one of the hundreds of courtesans out there."

"Doona want them." When his gaze had met hers in the crowd and her pink lips had parted, Ethan had been stunned to find himself swiftly growing hard as stone. Now as he leaned his face in closer to her hair—a mass of white-blonde curls, swept up to bare her neck—he smelled her light flowery scent and shot harder, his shaft straining hotly against his trousers. He savored the rare feeling, wanting to groan at the unexpected pleasure. "I followed you in here from the street."

"Why?" Her tone was straightforward, and he silently thanked her for not being coquettish.

"I saw you outside under a streetlight. I liked the way you smiled."

"And you just happened to have this with you?" She reached up, brushing her fingertips along the edge of his mask, but he caught her wrist, lowering it before releasing her.

"I liberated it from a passing patron when I saw you enter." The drop of his mask fluttered above his upper lip, and he'd quickly determined that no one could discern the extent of his scarred visage when courtesans had sought his attention. When they'd hindered his progress, he'd been tempted to lift his mask to frighten them away.

"Truly?" Her lips slid into that mysterious half grin, and the need to see the rest of her face burned in him. "So the entire time I saw you searching the crowd, you were looking for me?" Her accent was unusual—English upper class mixed with a tinge of French.

"Aye, for you," he said. "You were watching me from your vantage?"

"Raptly," she said, again straightforward, again surprising him.

The idea of her noticing him gave him an odd sense of gratification. "You're no' from London, are you?" When she shook her head, he asked, "Why are you here?"

"Do you want the truth or an answer fit for a masquerade?"

"Truth."

"I've come to England to search for a rich husband," she said.

"No' unusual," he replied. "At least you have the ballocks to admit it."

"I have a proposal waiting in the wings at home," she said, then frowned. "Though I had hoped not to fall back on that one."

"How is your hunt going?"

"Not as well as I'd hoped," she said. "A few discountable proposals."

"Discountable? Why?"

"Whenever I ask them to qualify themselves, they back off."

"Is that so?" he asked, and when she nodded solemnly, he felt a completely unfamiliar tug at his lips. "And how would a man qualify himself to you?"

"A token that would actually be dear to him, like an expensive ring or a pair of matched bays, or something along those lines."

"You've given this a lot of thought."

"I think of nothing else," she murmured so softly that he scarcely heard her. Then she added, "I did almost secure one. A truly good man." Her blonde brows drew together as she was clearly musing about him. "There might still be the slimmest hope with that one."

For the first time in his life and at the age of thirty-three, Ethan felt the unmistakable heat of jealousy.

What the bloody hell is wrong with me? "Then should you no' be working tonight on securing him?" he asked, his voice colder.

She blinked up at him. "Oh. Well, the man I mentioned went out for the evening. I'm his sister's houseguest, so I'm accompanying her tonight."

That generation of Weylands had only one male—Quin. Ethan ground his teeth. Quin had always been a favorite with the ladies.

She sighed. "Ça ne fait rien. It doesn't matter." Her voice was growing a bit slurred.

"No, it does no'." The hell she'd be securing Quin. Ethan would have to see her around London continually as their paths crossed—and if tonight was any indication, he'd have to continually cuckold Quin. "Forget him. He's no' here and I am."

She tilted her head. "Take off your mask."

"That defeats the purpose of a masquerade, does it no'?" If he removed it, she would stop looking up at him with a growing curiosity glinting in her eyes and stare up in horror. "I can enjoy you just as well with our masks on."

"And what makes you think I'd allow you to ‘enjoy' me?" A flirtatious note had eased into her voice, so subtly he might have missed it. Not coquettish—but amused, intrigued.

She was playing, enjoying herself, but she had no idea what she toyed with. "I've a sense for these things." He brushed the backs of his fingers below the sapphire silk of her mask, down her cheek, and she allowed it. "Tonight you're aching for a man."

At that, she glanced away. "You might be right, Scot," she said casually, then faced him once more. Her voice a purr, she asked, "But are you the man I await . . . where I ache?"

He felt on the verge of grinning. Ach, he liked this excitement. This bandying. He liked that she flirted with him, even knowing she didn't plan to go farther. Why hadn't a man like himself been attending masquerades every bloody week?

"I am that man." He took her by her tiny waist and lifted her onto the table along the wall.

"Scot, put me down!" she cried, but he could tell she was excited, well past intrigued now. "Why did you do that?"

"I want to be face-to-face with you when I kiss you for the first time."

Finally, his words drew a small gasp from her lips. "Are you always so arrogant?"

"Aye, always." He wedged his hips between her legs.

"You need to let me down," she said, even as she hesitantly ran her fingertip over his arm—as if she'd struggled not to but hadn't been able to help herself. "I've no time or use for handsome rakes with smooth words."

His lips did curl then, pulling on the tight skin of his face, forcing him to recall that he didn't smile—and that he was no longer handsome. "How do you know what I look like? This mask covers most of my face."

"You have a powerful body and a seductive smile. Gorgeous eyes," she said in a provocative voice that made his shaft throb. "You said you've a sense for certain things, well, I appreciate handsome men. An aficionada, if you will. There's a reason I spied you out tonight."

"Is that so?" When she nodded, he said, "Tell me your name."

"That defeats the purpose of a masquerade, does it not?" she answered, repeating his words. She placed her gloved hand on his chest and let it rest there, as if she couldn't decide if she should push him away or clutch his shirt and draw him to her. He caught her hand, rucking the glove up to bare her wrist, then placed a kiss on her satiny skin there.

She shivered, tugging her hand back until he released it. "Look at you, Scot. You're a practiced seducer, if I've ever seen one."

"Practiced?" For the last decade, his flirtations hadn't been practiced—they'd been nonexistent. And before that, he'd never needed to seduce.

Impulse had made him kiss her hand.

So where did the sodding impulse come from?

"Yes, practiced. That kiss to the wrist is a perfect communication. The brush of your lips demonstrates that you'd be gentle and sensual in bed. The firm hold on my hand as you placed it indicates that you'd be masterful at the same time."

Gentle? He thought back. Had he ever been gentle? Right now, he recognized he had no desire to be so with her. He wanted to press his hips against her, rubbing his erection at the juncture of her thighs. He hadn't been this hard in years, and he wanted to proudly show her how fierce his reaction was to her.

"I've met a lot of your kind," she said. "Know that I'm invulnerable."

"I take that as a challenge, aingeal. I'm going to be inside you tonight, and I'll remind you of your words when I have your legs wrapped 'round my waist."

"Oh, Scot, that won't happen." She shook her head, and a few glossy curls tumbled free, bouncing over her shoulder.

"You're obviously no innocent." Which was peculiar, since he knew she was upper class. She must indeed be a jaded thrill seeker like Jane Weyland and her crowd. "Why no' spend a night with me?"

"You don't think I'm untouched? Why?"

"You looked like you could have yawned at the scene we found in here. No' many innocents would be unfazed by the sight of a prostitute giving a man a below job."

"Well, whether I am or not is incidental. The fact remains that I'm here to find a husband—not a lover. And I've no time for dalliances."

"Make time. If you're in London to find a husband, seems like you might no' be so disdainful to an unmarried man like myself." He didn't have time for this. Tomorrow he would leave town to hunt Grey, and for the first time, the call of a kill like that wasn't as strong as the call of a woman.

She laughed then, a seductively sultry laugh that made him yearn to kiss her. "You are so unreachable, you're not even a remote candidate."

He tensed. "Based on what little you know of me?"

All humor gone, she said, "I know enough to suspect that you would use me and never look back. And I'm not condemning, just stating a fact." Her guileless blue eyes were suddenly inscrutable. "I think we have a lot in common, you and I."

* * *

"In common? Then you're achin' for us to tup, too."

Maddy grinned then. She simply couldn't help it. "And just like that, you disarm me." There was something about his rough—markedly rough—around-the-edges demeanor that appealed to her. Who was she fooling? Everything about him appealed to her, from his rumbling brogue to his muscular body, to his strange fixation with her.

"I want to do more than disarm you."

Her smile faded. The Scot wasn't giving up, and she regretted leading him on. She was behaving foolishly, like a normal girl of twenty-one might, when she didn't have that luxury. Ever practical Maddy felt herself closing down, the barbs sharpening, the walls going up. "My friends have probably begun to look for me by now. I need to get back to them."

His brows drew together. "You're truly . . . leaving?" He sounded baffled, as if he had no idea what to do with this.

She tilted her head. "And you're truly not used to being turned down?"

"I'm no' used to being in a position to be."

"You never pursue women?" she said in a doubtful tone.

"Never."

"So I was the lucky first?" Normally she would roll her eyes at comments like these and take them for what they were—verbal attempts to get into her skirts. But there was something about the way he said them, as if they were significant to him, as if they were not only truths but new and unwelcome ones.

And that he blamed her for them.

"Aye." He exhaled. "You are the first."

"It's a shame that on your first sally you're going to fail."

His dark eyes narrowed. "And you call me arrogant? What makes you think you can dismiss me?"

"Because you are the one who sought me out."

"And I dinna do it in vain." He placed his hands against the wall on either side of her head, then leaned in as if to kiss her. "I'm taking you from here tonight."

Though she was dying to know what his lips would feel like, she pushed against his chest, striving to ignore how rigid and big the muscles there were. "Not a chance of that, Scot. There's no chance in hell I'll leave with you . . ." She trailed off as he drew in closer. He's going to kiss me right now! Her breaths shallowed, and her eyelids nearly fluttered closed in pleasure at his clean scent and the heat emanating from his body.

She licked her bottom lip, and he noticed, giving her a wicked grin just as he was about to reach her. She couldn't stifle a soft whimper—

Whistles rent the air.

She froze. "Are those police whistles?" she whispered, her lips inches from his.

"Aye," he murmured, "I'd wager you'd like to leave with me now."

The entire building quaked as the crowd began to flee. She felt the vibrations through the table under her bottom, and the fog of desire cleared in a rush. Self-preservation, Maddy!

"Must go now!" Ducking out from under him, she hopped down, then dragged the chair from the door. Just as she was about to dash off, he grabbed her skirt and yanked. "Let me free!" she demanded over her shoulder.

"Can you no' hear the chaos outside?" he snapped. "You doona stand a chance of getting past the police, but you'll likely be trampled."

She turned to him. "But my friends are out there!"

"They'll be safe. Two acquaintances of mine came here tonight and already had their eyes on the women you were with. They'll see them home."

"But—"

"Both of those men are capable—and a thousand times more honorable than I am." He met her eyes. "Worry only for yourself, lass."

Nibbling her bottom lip, she said, "Earlier, I saw a back way out." Wary by nature and out of habit, she always traced an escape route from any building she entered. When she and the others had first arrived, Maddy had surveyed a back hall where she'd seen a couple donning jackets before entering. They hadn't returned. "Could you help me get out?"

"I seem to recall that you'd never leave with me." He leaned back against the wall and drew a knee up, still holding her skirt. "‘No' a chance in hell' to be exact." He smirked, then immediately stopped as if even a cold smile was unwelcome. She'd seen people do that when they had missing teeth, but his were white and straight and perfect. Perfect like everything else about him. Except for his arrogance.

"Then release me."

"I'll see you clear of this place . . . for the kiss I almost stole."

She had an insistent need to kiss him and, of course, her well-developed sense of preservation—these were not at cross-purposes, yet now was not the time. With a long-suffering sigh, she said, "If I must. But only after you get me to safety."

He showed no alarm about what was happening outside. "A kiss now, or more later. What would one kiss hurt?"

"What would it help?" When he remained unmoved, she said, "Oh, fine." She crossed to him, then reached her hands up to his neck. Tugging him down, she briefly pressed her lips to the corner of his.

When he stood fully once more, he said, "Ah, aingeal, that was sweet, no doubt of it. But it was no' quite what I had in mind." He cupped his palm over her nape. "I'm demanding a deep kiss. Until you're panting."

"Panting?" she murmured, gazing up at him. "Truly?" How . . . titillating.

With his other hand, he cradled her face and brushed his thumb across her bottom lip. "It'll be easier just tae show you . . . ."

About the Author

Kresley Cole has a Master's degree in English from the University of Florida and a lifelong interest in nautical literature and sailing. You can visit her website at www.kresleycole.com.

Rating:

With power and passion Kresley Cole completes her MacCarrick Brothers trilogy with a bang. You'll be held fast in Cole's grip and utterly satisfied with every aspect of her story. -- Romantic Times Magazine, 4 1/2 STARS TOP PICK!

Kresley Cole My Faverite Love Novel Hightlander : If You Desire

If You Desire (The MacCarrick Brothers, Book 2)

Editorial Reviews

Review
If You Desire is a sizzling, sensual and satisfying treasure that will keep you reading well into the night. -- Fresh Fiction

It's impossible to resist these heroes and their stories. Savor every moment of another passionate tale from a queen of adventure romance. -- Romantic Times Magazine, 4 1/2 STARS TOP PICK!

Suspense, action, and high drama are wrapped around the sizzling romance in If You Desire, making it a highly entertaining read. -- Romance Reviews Today--Perfect ten

How much temptation can a Highlander resist?

He tried to run …

In his youth, Hugh MacCarrick foolishly fell in love with a beautiful English lass who delighted in teasing him with her flirtatious ways. Yet he knew he could never marry her because he was a second son with no prospects, shadowed by an accursed family legacy. To avoid temptation, Hugh left home and trained as an assassin.

She tried to forget him …

Jane Weyland was devastated when the Highlander she believed would marry her abandoned her instead. Years later, when Hugh MacCarrick is summoned to protect her from her father’s enemies, her heartache has turned to fury—but her desire for him has not waned.

Will passion overwhelm them?

In hiding, Jane torments Hugh with seductive play. He struggles to resist her because of deadly secrets that could endanger her further. But Hugh is no longer a gentle young man—and toying with the fever-pitched desires of a hardened warrior will either get Jane burned … or enflame a love that never died.

Rating:

4 1/2 STARS Top Pick!

Kresley Cole The Immortals After Dark Series: Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night (The Immortals After Dark, Book 3)

noreply@blogger.com (alisapp) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 20:40:00 +0000

Kresley Cole The Immortals After Dark Series: Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night (The Immortals After Dark, Book 3)

Book 3 in the bestselling Immortals After Dark series

~ Available November 2007 ~

A brutal Highland werewolf. An exquisite young witch.
Immortal enemies … forbidden temptations.

Her breathless kiss haunts him.

Bowen MacRieve of the Lykae clan was nearly destroyed when he lost the one woman meant for him. The ruthless warrior grew even colder, never taking another to his bed—until a smoldering encounter with his enemy, Mariketa the Awaited, reawakens his darkest desires. When sinister forces unite against her, the Highlander finds himself using all his strength and skill to keep her alive.

His slow, hot touch is irresistible.

Temporarily stripped of her powers, Mari is forced to take refuge with her sworn adversary. It’s rumored that no one can tempt Bowen’s hardened heart, but soon passion burns between them. Though a future together is impossible, she fears he has no intention of letting her go.

No deed is too wicked for her seduction.

If they defeat the evil that surrounds them, can Mari deny Bowen when he demands her body and soul—or will she risk everything for her fierce protector?

Read an Excerpt

Prologue

Tomb of the Incubi, Guatemala
Day 3 of the Talisman's Hie
Prize: Four gold sacrificial headdresses, each worth seven points.

"Stalking me, Mr. MacRieve?" Mariketa the Awaited asked the Lykae behind her without turning around. In the dark of a corridor leading to a burial chamber, Bowen MacRieve had been following her silently. But she'd felt him staring at her—just as she had at the Talisman's Hie assembly three nights ago.

"No' likely, witch." How could such a rumbling Scots' bur sound so menacing? "I only stalk what I want to catch."

Mari did turn to cast him a look at that, even knowing he couldn't see her face under the deep hood of the cloak she always wore. But by the light of her lantern hanging over her shoulder, she could see his, and used the cover to disguise her long, appreciative look.

She inwardly sighed. Lykae males were notoriously good-looking, and the few she'd seen had lived up to their reputation, but this one was heart-poundingly sexy.

He had black hair, stick straight and thick, reaching to the collar of his obviously expensive shirt. His body—which she'd found herself thinking about frequently over the past three days—was sublime. He stood a good bit over six feet tall and though the corridor was wide enough for two normal people to pass, his broad shoulders and big rangy build filled the space.

But even with all his many attractions, his eyes were what made him so unique. They were the color of rich, warm amber, and yet there was a kind of sinister light to them, which she liked.

She was a little sinister too.

"Look your fill?" he asked, his tone scathing. Yes, he was sexy, but unfortunately his dislike of witches was well known.

"I'm done with you," she answered and meant it. She didn't have time to pine after brusque werewolf warriors if she planned to be the first of her kind ever to win the Hie. With an inward shrug, she continued on toward yet another burial chamber. This was the tenth she'd investigated over the hours she and several other competitors had been down deep inside this never-ending tomb.

She might have surprised him with her curt dismissal because a moment passed before he followed her. The only sounds in the echoing space were his heavy footfalls that he no longer bothered to muffle. The silence between them was grueling.

"Who opened this tomb?" he finally asked, trailing far too closely behind her.

"The three elven hunters and a couple of rage demons." Those two factions were expected to be among the top competitors in the Hie. The hunters, two males and a female, were deadly archers with lightning quick speed, and the male demons were physically powerful—second in strength only to the Lykae.

The stone portcullis sealing the tomb had weighed tons, and opening it had taken all of them cooperating—with the two demons lifting it and the hunters shoving a massive boulder under it to prop it open.

"And they just let you walk in after their effort?"

She stopped and faced him again. "What should they have done, Mr. MacRieve?" The others had not only allowed her to enter. Though she barely knew any of them, they had wanted to work together since there were four prizes. So they'd all split up to cover the dozens of chambers in this tomb and vowed to the Lore to alert the others of a find.

MacRieve's smile was a cruel twist of his lips. "I know exactly what I would have done."

Without hesitation, she said, "I know exactly how I would have retaliated." He seemed surprised that she didn't fear him, but the truth was that she didn't spook easily, and she was well aware of how vicious the Hie competitors could be as they raced around the world for prizes. Though killing was against the rules—at least until the final round—any other trickery or violence was encouraged.

This ruthlessness of the Hie was why she had been sent by the House of Witches to compete, even though she was only twenty-three—and even though she hailed from the shady New Orleans coven, the slacker Animal House of witches.

But Mari was not above trickery, and unlike many witches, she would not hesitate to use magick to harm another if they deserved it—and if she could manage it with her volatile powers.

MacRieve closed in until all six and half feet of seething werewolf male loomed over her. He was at least a foot taller than she was and hundreds of times stronger, but she forced herself to stand her ground.

"Watch your step, little witch. You doona wish to anger one such as me."

The grand prize for the Hie was Thrane's Key, which allowed its possessor to go back in time. For a tool like that, she knew he was ready to take her out of the contest. So she had to convince him that it was impossible for him to do so.

"Likewise, you shouldn't anger me." Her voice was steady as she looked up at him. "Remember that I could turn your blood to acid as an afterthought," she said, baldly lying.

"Aye, I've heard rumors of your power." He narrowed his eyes. "Curious though, that you dinna open the tomb with one flick of your finger."

Yes, she could have lifted the portcullis—with concentration, luck, and the absence of a hang-over. Oh, and if she were in mortal danger.

Unfortunately, her magick was adrenaline-based, making it as infinite as it was uncontrollable.

"You think I should use magick like mine to open a tomb?" Mari asked in a scoffing tone. Mistress of bluffing, working it here. "That'd be like calling you in to lift a feather."

He tilted his head, sizing her up. After what seemed like an hour, he began walking again.

Mari gave an inward sigh of relief. If anyone in the Lore found out how vulnerable she really was, she'd be doomed. She knew this, but no matter how hard she worked, whenever she manifested and unleashed significant power, things ended up exploding.

As her befuddled mentor Aelianna explained, "Horses have powerful legs—but that doesn't mean they're talented ballerinas." Aelianna trained with Mari daily to control the destructive nature of her spells because she believed the subtle magicks invoked the most fear in their enemies.

And the House of Witches brokered in fear.

Plus it was difficult to get insurance when Mari kept blowing up the witches' houses… .

The corridor finally ended at a broad, high wall, covered in carvings of ghoulish faces and animals. She lifted her lantern high and the reliefs seemed to move in shadow. They'd apparently been put there to guard a small tunnel opening near the floor, which itself was made out like a gaping mouth with fangs dropping down.

She waved the Lykae forward. "Age before beauty, Mr. MacRieve." She sized him up again, then studied the small opening, which couldn't be more than three feet square. "If you think you can fit."

He stood motionless, clearly not about to be directed. "Only humans call me Mr. MacRieve."

She shrugged. "I'm not a human." Her mother was a fey druidess, and her late father had been a warlock of questionable repute. So Mari was a fey witch or a "weylock" as her buddies teased. "So would you like me to call you Bowen, Bowen?"

He ignored her comment. "You in the tunnel first."

"Don't you think it'd be unbecoming for me to be on my hands and knees in front of you? Besides, you don't need my lantern to see in the dark, and if you go first, you'll be sure to lose me and get to the prize first."

"I doona like anything, or anyone, at my back." He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a shoulder against a snarling visage on the stone wall. She'd never seen a Lykae turn into their towering werewolf form, but knew from those who had that he could be as frightening as any monster real or imagined. "And you'll have your cloak on," he continued, "so I will no' be able to see anything about you that might be … unbecoming."

"Twisting my words? I'll have you know that I am criminally cute—"

"Then why hide behind a cloak?"

"I'm not hiding." In fact, that was precisely what she was doing. "And I like to wear it." She hated it.

Even before her birth, she'd been predicted to be the Awaited One, the most powerful born to the House of Witches in centuries—but four years ago, it was also predicted that a male from the Lore would recognize her as his own and claim her. He would lock her away, guarding her with a ferocity that no magicks could defeat, thus robbing the House of her powers.

Ever since the prediction, she'd been forced to cover herself every single time she set foot outside of her home. Needless to say, the robust dating life of her late teens had taken a hit.

She sported the cloak, and as a backup she also hid behind a magickal glamour that disguised her looks, the tone of her voice, and her scent. If a male like Bowen did see her, he would perceive a brunette with blue eyes—when in fact she was a redhead with gray eyes—and he would have difficulty recalling anything that was the same, like her features, her figure, or the length of her hair. The glamour was so second nature that she hardly thought about it anymore.

Even with all these precautions, it followed that unattached males in the Lore were to be avoided at all costs. Yet Mari had heard at the assembly—a gossip fest if she'd ever seen one—that Bowen had already found his mate and lost her more than a century ago.

Mari had felt sympathy for him. A Lykae's entire existence centered around his mate, and in his long immortal life, he would only get one—just one chance in an eternity to find happiness. It could be argued that Bowen was actually safe for her to be around since she wasn't his mate. Though "safe" was not how she'd describe him otherwise.

When she saw he wasn't budging, she muttered, "Fine. Beauty before age." She unlooped her lantern strap and climbed in. The space was tighter than she'd imagined, but she didn't have time to rethink her decision because he climbed in directly after her. Resigned, she exhaled and held her lantern up to light her way.

The stone was cool and moist and she was glad for her cloak—until she caught her knee on it and the tie around her neck yanked her head down. When it happened again, she shimmied, working the material back so that it flowed behind her as she made progress forward. There. Better.

Five seconds later: "MacRieve, you're on my cloak. Let up—"

Before she could even react, he reached between her knees and then up against her chest to slice the tie at her neck with one claw. Her eyes went wide and she dropped her light to grab fistfuls of cloth, but he jerked the cloak out of her grasp.

"Give it back!"

"It was slowing you—and therefore me—down."

She gritted her teeth, struggling to control her temper. "If you had gone first—"

"I dinna. If you want it, why no' use magick to take it from me?"

Did he suspect how volatile her power was? Was he sussing out her weaknesses? "You really do not want me to do that."

"You really must no' want your cloak back. Come then, witchling, just take it from me."

Glamour or not, she had grown used to the physical security of the garment. And when she realized she wasn't getting it back from him without magick, Mari just stifled the urge to rub her bared arms. Suddenly she became very aware of how high her hiking shorts were on her thighs and how her tank top was riding up, about to reveal the mark on her lower back.

She steeled herself and made her tone nonchalant. "Keep the cloak." Though she knew he was ogling her, she forced herself to put one knee in front of the other. "It'll be worth money one day."

After a few moments, he said, "Doona fret, witch. You're no' so unbecoming from my angle. Bit scrawny where it counts, but no' too bad."

Yep, ogling. Many adjectives could be used to describe her ass, but scrawny was not among them. He's just making these comments and brushing up against you to unnerve you. Knowing that didn't make his efforts less effective! "Scrawny where it counts, MacRieve? Funny, I'd heard the same about you."

He gave a kind of humorless half-chuckle and finally followed. "No' likely. Maybe you're just too young to have heard the rumors about Lykae males. Tender wee ears and such."

No, she'd heard. And over the last couple of days, she had wondered about that rumor and if it applied to him.

How long was this damned tunnel—

"Still, lass," he grated. Her eyes widened again when she felt his hot palm laying flat against the back of her thigh. "There's a scorpion tangled up in all that hair of yours."

"Get your hand off of me, MacRieve! You think I can't see what you're doing? I've been scanning every inch of this tunnel—I would have seen a scorpion." When she started again, he squeezed her leg. His thumb claw pressed against her skin, high on her inner thigh, sending an unexpected shot of pleasure through her. She had to stifle a shiver.

It was only after she felt a whisper of touch over her hair that she got her wits again. "Like I'm supposed to believe there's a scorpion and it just happens to be in the tunnel we're crawling in and then in my hair? Any other B movie props you'd like to reference? Is there a mummy's hand tangled up in there? I'm really surprised you didn't go with ‘classic tarantula.'"

His arm shot out between her legs—again—jostling against the front of her body as he tossed something in front of her. Something with mass. She held her lantern farther forward—

The sight of a scorpion as big as her hand had her scrambling back … wedging herself firmly against MacRieve—in a very awkward position to be in with anyone, but especially with a werewolf.

He stiffened all around her. Every inch of him. She felt his arms bulging over her shoulders and his chiseled abs taut over her back.

His growing erection strained thick against her backside. So the rumors about werewolf males are true, she thought dazedly. Exhibit A is quite insistent.

"Move forward," he grated the words. He was breathing heavily right over her ear.

"No way. Kind of between a scorpion and a hard place here." She bit her lip, wishing one of her friends had heard her say that.

He eased back from her. "I killed the scorpion," he said between breaths. "You can pass, just doona let it touch you."

"Why do you care?" She frowned to find herself feeling chilled without him over her.

"Doona. A sting will slow you down. And I'm behind you, remember?"

"Like I'm going to forget that anytime soon." Then his callous words sunk in. "Hey, werewolf, aren't you supposed to gnaw on your prey or play with it with shuffling paws or something? Want me to save it for you?"

"I could put it back where I found it, witch."

"I could turn you into a toad." Maybe an exploded toad.

Without warning, he fingered the small, black tattoo on her lower back. "What does this script mean?"

She did gasp then, as much from the shock of his touch there as from her visceral reaction to it. She wanted to arch up to his hand and couldn't understand why. She snapped, "Are you done groping me?"

"Canna say. Tell me what the marking means."

Mari had no idea. She'd had it ever since she could remember. All she knew was that her mother used to write out that mysterious lettering in all of her correspondence. Or, at least her mother had before she'd abandoned Mari in New Orleans to go on her two hundred year long druid sabbatical—

He tapped her there, impatiently awaiting an answer.

"It means drunk and lost a bet. Now, keep your hands to yourself unless you want to be an amphibian." When the opening appeared ahead, she crawled heedlessly for it and scrambled out with her lantern swinging wildly. She'd taken only three steps into the new chamber before he'd caught her wrist, spinning her around.

As his gaze raked over her, he reached forward and pulled a lock of her long hair over her shoulder. He seemed unaware that he was slowly rubbing his thumb over the curl. "No' a damn thing's wrong with you," he murmured. "But you look a little fey. Explains the name."

"How can I resist these suave compliments?" He was right about the name though. Many of the fey had names beginning in Mari or Kari.

She gave his light hold on her hair a pointed look, and he dropped it like it was hot, then scowled at her as if she were to blame.

"Right now you're working your spells, are you no'?" He actually leaned in to scent her.

"No, not at all. Believe me, you'd know."

As if he hadn't heard her, he continued, "Aye, you are." His expression was growing more savage by the second. "Just as you were born to do."

But for some reason she wasn't afraid. She was … excited. As much as she could ever remember being. He must have seen something in her eyes that he didn't like, because he abruptly turned from her.

As he surveyed their surroundings, she studied him. That night at the assembly, he'd fought a vampire in a bloody, violent brawl, and never had Mari seen anything so beautiful as the way he'd moved. The fight had been broken up, but Mari could have watched him for hours—

When MacRieve visibly tensed, she followed his gaze. There, toward the back wall was a sarcophagus, the first she'd seen.

They both raced forward, colliding right before it.

With a growl he grabbed her arms to toss her away, his gaze already back on the crypt, but then he did a double take, frowning at her. He faced her fully as his grip eased on her. "You actually think to play with me?" His hands skimmed down her arms, then rested on her hips.

She exhaled a shaky breath. "Why do you assume I'm working spells?" She might have the requisite adrenaline flowing, but doubted she could focus it. Especially since she could feel the heat of his rough hands through the material of her shorts.

"For one hundred and eighty years I've no' touched another." He leaned in closer to her. "Have never even given a woman a second look. And it was easy to do so. But now I canna seem to keep my hands off a slip of a witch," he rasped at her ear. "A witch who has me feeling like I'll die if I doona find out what it'd be like to kiss her." He drew back, his face a mask of rage. "O' course it's a goddamned spell."

He wanted to kiss her now? Why now? He'd been faithful to his dead mate all this time? The idea softened something inside her—even as alarm trickled in.

What if she was working a spell? Aelianna had once advised Mari to be careful what she wished for. When Mari had nodded at the old truism, Aelianna had added, "No. Really. Be careful. We don't know the extent of your powers and many witches can effect their desires with a mere thought."

Did Mari want to kiss Bowen MacRieve so badly that she was enthralling him?

When he lifted her onto the sarcophagus and wedged his hips between her legs, she suspected she might be. She swallowed. "I take it you plan to find out what it'd be like?"

The battle raging inside him was clear on his face. "Stop this, Mariketa." The way he rasped her name with his accent made her melt. He removed his hands from her, but when he rested them on each side of her hips, his claws dug into the stone. "Can you no' ken why I'm in this contest? I seek her again and wish to be true."

He wanted his mate back. Of course. He wanted to use Thrane's Key to go back in time and prevent her death. Mari suddenly resented the woman who'd engendered such loyalty in this warrior for so many years. "I'm not … or I don't mean to be doing anything … to you," Mari whispered, but the way she was reacting to his scent, his mesmerizing eyes, and his hard body between her legs belied the words.

There was an aura about him that was staggering to her, making it difficult to think. It wasn't mere male heat and sensuality. It was raw sexuality, animalistic in its intensity—and she was starving for it.

Ah, gods, she did want him to kiss her. Wanted it with everything that she was and willed him to do so.

He cupped her nape hard, staring down at her. He seemed desperate to recognize something in her, and when he clearly didn't find it, his hand on her began to shake. "Damn you, witch, I doona want another."

She suddenly knew two things: he was about to kiss her so fiercely she would never be the same again.

And he would hate himself for it afterwards and despise her forever… .

REVIEW

"Leave it to the awe-inspiring Cole to dish up a combustible mix of sorcery and passion. One for the keeper shelf!" —Romantic Times Magazine (Four and a half Stars; HOT)

"Kresley Cole … effortlessly delivers heart wringing romance, likeable heroines, hot heroes and hotter sex … set against an original and exciting paranormal mythology that keeps the both the story and the reader speeding along from one high point to another." —Love Vampires

Review
Leave it to the awe-inspiring Cole to dish up a combustible mix of sorcery and passion. One for the keeper shelf! -- Romantic Times Magazine, 4 1/2 Stars, HOT

Product Description
Her breathless kiss haunts him...

Bowen MacRieve of the Lykae clan was nearly destroyed when he lost the one woman meant for him. The ruthless warrior grew even colder, never taking another to his bed -- until a smoldering encounter with his enemy, Mariketa the Awaited, reawakens his darkest desires. When sinister forces unite against her, the Highlander finds himself using all his strength and skill to keep her alive.

His slow, hot touch is irresistible...

Temporarily stripped of her powers, Mari is forced to take refuge with her sworn adversary. It's rumored that no one can tempt Bowen's hardened heart, but soon passion burns between them. Though a future together is impossible, she fears he has no intention of letting her go.

No deed is too wicked for her seduction...

If they defeat the evil that surrounds them, can Mari deny Bowen when he demands her body and soul -- or will she risk everything for her fierce protector?

About the Author
Previously a competitive athlete and coach, Kresley Cole is fast becoming one of the hottest names in historical and paranormal romance. She has a master's degree in English from the University of Florida, and spent much of her time in the research library there, gathering background material for her books. She is the author of the MacCarrick Brothers trilogy, which begins with If You Dare and includes the forthcoming If You Desire and If You Deceive. Her other award-winning novels include No Rest for the Wicked, A Hunger Like No Other, The Captain of All Pleasures, and The Price of Pleasure. Her short fiction is featured in the bestselling anthology Playing Easy to Get.

About the Author

Kresley Cole has a Master's degree in English from the University of Florida and a lifelong interest in nautical literature and sailing. You can visit her website at www.kresleycole.com.

Rating:

Leave it to the awe-inspiring Cole to dish up a combustible mix of sorcery and passion. One for the keeper shelf! -- Romantic Times Magazine, 4 1/2 Stars, HOT

Kresley Cole The Immortals After Dark Series: No Rest for the Wicked (The Immortals After Dark, Book 2)

noreply@blogger.com (alisapp) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 20:28:00 +0000

Kresley Cole The Immortals After Dark Series: No Rest for the Wicked (The Immortals After Dark, Book 2)

A vampire soldier weary of life…

Centuries ago, Sebastian Wroth was turned into a vampire—a nightmare in his mind—against his will. Burdened with hatred and alone for ages, he sees little reason to live. Until an exquisite, fey creature comes to kill him, inadvertently saving him instead.

A Valkyrie assassin dispatched to destroy him…

When Kaderin the Cold Hearted lost her two beloved sisters to a vampire attack long ago, a benevolent force deadened her sorrow—accidentally extinguishing all of her emotions. Yet whenever she encounters Sebastian, her feelings—particularly lust—emerge multiplied. For the first time, she’s unable to complete a kill.

Become competitors in a legendary hunt…

The prize of the month-long contest is powerful enough to change history, and Kaderin will do anything to win it for her sisters. Wanting only to win her, forever, Sebastian competes as well, taking every opportunity--as they travel to ancient tombs and through catacombs, seeking relics around the world--to use her new feelings to seduce her. But when forced to choose between the vampire she's falling for and reuniting her family, how can Kaderin live without either?

Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

Castle Gornyi, Russia
Present Day

For the second time in her life, Kaderin the Coldhearted hesitated to kill a vampire.

In the last instant of a silent, lethal swing, she stayed her sword an inch above the neck of her prey--because she'd found him holding his head in his hands.

She saw his big body tense. As a vampire, he could easily trace away, disappearing. Instead, he raised his face to gaze at her with dark gray eyes, the color of a storm about to be unleashed. Surprisingly, they were clear of the red that marked a vampire's bloodlust, which meant he had never drunk a being to death. Yet.

He beseeched with those eyes, and she realized he hungered for an end. He wanted the death blow she'd come to his decrepit castle to deliver.

She'd stalked him soundlessly, primed for battle with a vicious predator. Kaderin had been in Scotland with other Valkyrie when they'd received the call about a "vampire haunting a castle and terrorizing a village in Russia." She had gladly volunteered to destroy the leech. She was her Valkyrie coven's most prolific killer, her life given over to ridding the earth of vampires.

In Scotland, before this call to Russia, she'd killed three.

So why was she hesitating now? Why was she even now easing her sword back? He would be merely one among thousands of her kills, his fangs collected and strung together with the others she'd taken.

The last time she'd stayed her hand had resulted in a tragedy so great her heart had been broken forever by it.

In a deep, gravelly voice, the vampire asked, "Why do you wait?" He seemed startled by the sound of his own words.

I don't know why. Unfamiliar physical sensations wracked her. Her stomach knotted. As though a band had tightened around her chest, her lungs were desperate for breath. I can't comprehend why.

The wind blew outside, sliding over the mountain, making this high room in the vampire's darkened lair groan. Unseen gaps in the walls allowed in the chill morning breeze. As he stood, rising to his full, towering height, her blade caught the wavering light from a cluster of candles and reflected on him.

His grave face was lean with harsh planes, and other females would consider it handsome. His black shirt was threadbare and unbuttoned, displaying much of his chest and sculpted torso, and his worn jeans were slung low at his narrow waist. The wind tugged at the tail of his shirt and stirred his thick black hair. Very handsome. But then, the vampires I kill often are.

His gaze focused on the tip of her sword. Then, as if the threat of her weapon were forgotten, he studied her face, his eyes lingering on each of her features. His blatant appreciation unsettled her, and she clutched the hilt tightly, something she never did.

Honed to masterly sharpness with her diamond file, her sword cut through bone and muscle with little effort. It swung perfectly from her loose wrist as though it were an extension of her arm. She'd never needed to hold it tightly.

Take his head. One less vampire. The species checked in the tiniest way.

"What is your name?" His speech was clipped like an aristocrat's, but held a familiar accent. Estonian. Though Estonia bordered Russia to the west and its inhabitants were considered a Nordic breed of Russian, she recognized the difference and wondered what he was doing away from his own country.

She tilted her head. "Why do you want to know?"

"I would like to know the name of the woman who will deliver me from this."

He wanted to die. After all she'd suffered from his kind, the last thing she wanted to do was oblige the vampire in any way. "You assume I'll deliver your death blow?"

"Will you not?" His lips curled at the corners, but it was a sad smile.

Another tightening on the sword. She would. Of course, she would. Killing was her only purpose in life. She didn't care if his eyes weren't red with bloodlust. Ultimately, he would drink to kill, and he would turn.

They always did.

He stepped around a stack of hard-bound books--some of the hundreds of texts throughout the room with titles imprinted in Russian and, yes, Estonian--and leaned his massive frame against the crumbling wall. He truly wasn't going to raise a hand in defense.

"Before you do, speak again. Your voice is beautiful. As beautiful as your stunning face."

She swallowed, startled to feel her cheeks heating. "Who do you align with . . .?" She trailed off when he closed his eyes as though listening to her were bliss. "The Forbearers?"

That got him to open his eyes. They were full of anger. "I align with no one. Especially not them."

"But you were once human, weren't you?" The Forbearers were an army, or order, of turned humans. They refused to take blood straight from the flesh because they believed that act caused bloodlust. By forbearing, they hoped to avoid becoming like crazed Horde vampires. The Valkyrie remained unoptimistic about their chances.

"Yes, but I've no interest in that order. And you? You're no human either, are you?"

She ignored his question. "Why do you linger here in this castle?" she asked. "The villagers live in terror of you."

"I won this holding on the battlefield and rightly own it, so I stay. And I've never harmed them." He turned away and murmured, "I wish that I did not frighten them."

Kaderin needed to get this killing over with. In just three days, she was to compete in the Talisman's Hie, which was basically a deadly, immortal version of The Amazing Race. Besides hunting vampires, the Hie was the only thing she lived for, and she needed to confirm transportation and secure supplies. And yet she found herself saying, "They told me you live here alone."

He faced her and gave a sharp nod. She sensed that he was embarrassed by this fact, as if he felt lacking that he didn't have a family here.

"How long?"

He hiked his broad shoulders, pretending nonchalance. "A few centuries."

To live solitary for all that time? "The people in the valley sent for me," she said, as if she had to explain herself. The inhabitants of the remote village belonged to the Lore--a population of immortals and "mythical" creatures kept secret from humans. Many of them still worshipped the Valkyrie and provided tributes, but that wasn't what made Kaderin travel to such an isolated place.

The chance to kill even a single vampire had drawn her. "They beseeched me to destroy you."

"Then I await your leisure."

"Why not kill yourself, if that's what you want?" she asked.

"It's . . . complicated. But you save me from that end. I know you're a skilled warrior--"

"How do you know what I am?"

He gave a nod at her sword. "I used to be a warrior, too, and your remarkable weapon speaks much."

The one thing she felt pride in--the one thing in her life that she had left and couldn't bear to lose--and he'd noted its excellence.

He strode closer to her and lowered his voice. "Strike your blow, creature. Know that no misfortune could come to you for killing one such as me. There is no reason to wait."

As if this were a matter of conscience! It wasn't. It couldn't be. She had no conscience. No real feelings, no raw emotions. She was coldhearted. After the tragedy, she'd prayed for oblivion, prayed for the sorrow and guilt to be numbed.

Some mysterious entity had answered her and made her heart like ash. Kaderin didn't suffer from sorrow, from lust, from anger, or from joy. Nothing got in the way of her killing.

She was a perfect killer. She had been for one thousand years, half of her interminable life.

"Did you hear that?" he asked. The eyes that had been pleading for an end now narrowed. "Are you alone?"

She quirked an eyebrow. "I do not require help from others. Especially not for a single vampire," she added, her tone growing absent. Oddly, her attention had dipped to his body once more--to low on his torso, past his navel to the dusky trail of hair leading down. She had a flash imagining of grazing the back of one of her sharp claws along it while his massive body clenched and shuddered in reaction.

Her thoughts were making her uneasy, making her want to wind her hair up into a knot and let the chill air cool her neck--

He cleared his throat. When she jerked her gaze to his face, he raised his eyebrows.

Caught ogling the prey! The indignity! What is wrong with me? She had no more sexual urges than the walking dead vampire before her. She shook herself, forcing herself to remember the last time she'd faltered.

On a battlefield, an age ago, she had spared and released another of this ilk, a young vampire soldier who had begged for his life.

Yet he had seemed to scorn her for her very mercy. Without delay, the soldier had found her two full-blood sisters fighting in the flatlands below them. Alerted by a shriek from another Valkyrie, Kaderin had sprinted, stumbling down a hill draped with bodies, living and dead. Just as she'd reached them, he'd cut her sisters down.

The younger, Rika, had been taken off guard, because of Kaderin's panicked approach. The vampire had smiled when Kaderin dropped to her knees.

He'd dispatched her sisters with a brutal efficiency Kaderin had since emulated. She'd like to say she started with him, but she'd kept him alive for a time.

So, why would she repeat the same mistake? She wouldn't. She would not ignore a lesson she had paid so dearly to learn.

The sooner I get this done, the sooner I can begin preparing for the Hie.

Squaring her shoulders, she steeled herself. It's all in the follow-through. Kaderin could see the swing, knew the angle she would take so that his head would remain on his neck until he fell. It was cleaner that way. Which was important.

She'd packed her suitcase lightly.

As a young man, Sebastian Wroth had desired so many things from life, and having grown up wealthy among a large and supportive family, he had expected them as his due.

He'd wanted his own family, a home, laughter around a hearth. More dearly than all the rest, he'd longed for a wife, a woman to be his alone. He'd been ashamed to admit to this female that he'd managed none of those things.

Now all Sebastian wanted was to gaze at the fascinating creature just a little longer.

At first, he'd thought her an angel come to set him free. She looked it. Her long, curling hair was so blond it appeared almost white in the candlelight. Her eyes were fringed with thick black lashes and were dark like coffee, a striking contrast to her fair hair and wine-red lips. Her skin was flawless, light golden perfection, and her features were delicate and finely wrought.

She was so exquisite, and yet she carried a killer's weapon. Her sword was double-edged, with a ricasso, an unsharpened area on the blade just above the guard. A skilled user would loop a finger over the guard for better control. She confidently carried a sword not made for defense, not made for battle.

The creature carried steel forged to deliver quick, silent deaths.

Fascinating. An angel of death.

He'd considered it an undeserved blessing that hers would be the last face he would behold on this earth.

Yes, he'd thought her divine—until her smoldering gaze had strayed lower, and he'd recognized she was very much flesh and blood. He'd cursed his useless, deadened body. As a turned human, he had no respiration, no heartbeat, no sexual ability. He could not take her, even though he thought . . . he thought this beauty might actually receive him.

The loss of sexual pleasure had never bothered him before. His experience as a human had been limited—very limited—by war, by famine, by the need merely to survive, so he'd never felt that his turning had deprived him of much. Until now.

He'd never been attracted to small women, because he'd known if he did somehow manage to bed one, he'd dread hurting her. Yet with this one, the most ethereal and fragile female he'd ever seen, he found himself wondering what it would be like to carry her to his bed and gently undress her. His mind began to riot with imaginings of his big hands cupping and stroking her slight body.

His eyes dropped to her slender neck, and then to her high, full breasts pressing against her dark blouse. Now, this part of her was far from slight. He wished he could kiss her breasts, run his face against them. . . .

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked in a halting, baffled tone, taking a step back.

"Can I not admire you?" Amazingly, he took a step forward. Where was this coming from? He'd always been awkward and unsure around women. In the past, if he'd been caught staring like this, he'd have turned his face away, muttering apologies as he left the room. Perhaps he'd at last found freedom in imminent death.

Then again, he'd never stared, never hungered, as he did now for this slip of a woman with her lush breasts. "A dying man's last wish?"

"I know the ways a man looks at a woman." Her voice was sensual, a voice from dreams. It seemed to rub him from the inside. "You're not merely admiring me."

No, he was thinking at that moment that he wanted to rip open her shirt, pin her shoulders to the ground, and suck on her stiffened nipples till she came. Pin her shoulders hard and lick her--

"How dare you play with me, vampire!"

"What do you mean?" He met her gaze. Her eyes flicked over his face as though she were attempting to read his thoughts. Could she begin to guess the battle inside him? That in one instant the idea of being gentle was replaced with the impulse to cover her on the ground?

What is happening to me?

"I know you can't feel this . . . this . . ."—she made a small sound of frustration—"you can't feel what you are appearing to. It's impossible, unless—" She gasped. "Your eyes . . . they're turning black."

Black? His brothers' eyes had turned black with sharp emotion. He hadn't known his did as well. Was it because he'd never felt anything so sharply as his desire for this mysterious female?

He felt like he'd die if he didn't act on that desire—

A sudden explosion of sound made him swing his head around, his body tensing. "What was that?"

She took a quick glance around her, eyes alert. "What are you talking about?" she demanded.

"You do not hear that?" Another shaking like that, and the castle would collapse. He had to get her away, even into the morning daylight outside. The need to protect her had suddenly become critical, undeniable.

"No!" Her eyes went wide, her expression aghast. "It can't be!" She backed away from him, moving gingerly, as if he were a snake about to strike.

Another explosion. He traced to just in front of her, and her sword shot up in a blur. He snatched her wrist, but she struggled. Christ, she was strong, but he seemed to be stronger than usual himself, more powerful than he ever could have imagined. "I don't want to hurt you." He pried the weapon from her wrist and tossed it to his low bed. "Do not fight me. The roof is about to fall--"

"No . . . no!" She stared at his chest—at his heart—in horror. "I am not a . . . Bride."

Bride? His jaw slackened. He remembered his brothers explaining that when he found his Bride, his eternal wife, she would blood him. With his blooding, his body would come back to life . He'd always believed they'd lied to dull the bitter sting of what they'd made him.

Yet it was true. The sound he'd heard was the roar of his own heart beating for the first time since he'd been turned into a vampire. He rocked on his feet as he inhaled deeply, breathing at last after three hundred years.

His heartbeat grew stronger, faster, and his sudden erection was tight and throbbing, pulsing with each beat of his heart. Pleasure seemed to course through his veins. He'd found his Bride—the one woman he was meant to be with for eternity—in this hauntingly fine creature.

And his body had awakened for her.

"You know what is happening to me?" he asked.

She swallowed, backing away farther. "You're changing." Her blond brows drew together, and in a barely audible whisper, she added, "For . . . for me."

REVIEW

"Sizzling sex and high-stakes adventure are what's on tap in mega-talented Cole's sensational new paranormal release… one nonstop thrill ride. Brava!"--Jill Smith, Romantic Times Magazine

"What a fabulous story! I can hardly wait to get my hands on the next one in the series. This one has earned four and a half of Cupid's five arrows."--Elizabeth Darrach, Bella Online

"Oh, wow! Kresley Cole writes another spine-tingling, adventurous, and passionate romance… I recommend readers grab a copy of Kresley Cole's NO REST FOR THE WICKED today. It's a definite keeper."--Sinclair Reid, Romance Reviews Today

Editorial Reviews

Review
"Sizzling sex and high-stakes adventure are what's on tap in mega-talented Cole's sensational new paranormal release." -- Romantic Times Magazine, 4 1/2 Stars Top Pick!

Product Description

In this next installment in the Immortals After Dark Series, USA Today Bestselling author Kresley Cole delivers a scorching tale about a forbidding vampire who lives in the shadows and the beautiful assassin who hunts him there.

A soldier weary of life . . .

Centuries ago, Sebastian Wroth was turned into a vampire -- a nightmare in his mind -- against his will. Burdened with hatred and alone for ages, he sees little reason to live. Until an exquisite, fey creature comes to kill him, inadvertently saving him instead.

A Valkyrie assassin dispatched to destroy him . . .

When Kaderin the Cold Hearted lost her two beloved sisters to a vampire attack long ago, a benevolent force deadened her sorrow -- accidentally extinguishing all of her emotions. Yet whenever she encounters Sebastian, her feelings -- particularly lust -- emerge multiplied. For the first time, she's unable to complete a kill.

Become competitors in a legendary hunt.

The prize of the month-long contest is powerful enough to change history, and Kaderin will do anything to win it for her sisters. Wanting only to win her, forever, Sebastian competes as well, taking every opportunity -- as they travel to ancient tombs and through catacombs, seeking relics around the world -- to use her new feelings to seduce her. But when forced to choose between the vampire she's falling for and reuniting her family, how can Kaderin live without either?

About the Author
Previously a competitive athlete and coach, Kresley Cole is fast becoming one of the hottest names in historical and paranormal romance. She has a master's degree in English from the University of Florida, and spent much of her time in the research library there, gathering background material for her books. She is the author of the MacCarrick Brothers trilogy, which begins with If You Dare and includes the forthcoming If You Desire and If You Deceive. Her other award-winning novels include No Rest for the Wicked, A Hunger Like No Other, The Captain of All Pleasures, and The Price of Pleasure. Her short fiction is featured in the bestselling anthology Playing Easy to Get.

About the Author

Kresley Cole has a Master's degree in English from the University of Florida and a lifelong interest in nautical literature and sailing. You can visit her website at www.kresleycole.com.

Rating:

"Sizzling sex and high-stakes adventure are what's on tap in mega-talented Cole's sensational new paranormal release." -- Romantic Times Magazine, 4 1/2 Stars Top Pick!

Kresley Cole The Immortals After Dark Series:A Hunger Like No Other (The Immortals After Dark Series, Book 1)

noreply@blogger.com (alisapp) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 20:07:00 +0000

Kresley Cole The Immortals After Dark Series

A Hunger Like No Other (The Immortals After Dark Series, Book 1)

A novel by Kresley Cole
Awards Rita Awards

A mythic warrior who'll stop at nothing to possess her…

After enduring years of torture from the vampire Horde, Lachlain MacRieve, leader of the Lykae Clan, is enraged to find the predestined mate he's waited millennia for is a vampire. Or partly one. This Emmaline is a small, ethereal half Valkyrie/half vampire, who somehow begins to soothe the fury burning within him.

A vampire captured by her wildest fantasy...

Sheltered Emmaline Troy finally sets out to uncover the truth about her deceased parents--until a powerful Lykae claims her as his mate and forces her back to his ancestral Scottish castle. There, her fear of the Lykae--and their notorious dark desire--ebb as he begins a slow, wicked seduction to sate her own dark cravings.

An all consuming desire...

Yet when an ancient evil from h

Acclaimed author Kresley Cole introduces a sizzling new series with this tale of a fierce werewolf and a bewitching vampire -- unlikely soul mates whose passion will test the boundaries of life and death.

A mythic warrior who'll stop at nothing to possess her . . .

After enduring years of torture from the vampire horde, Lachlain MacRieve, leader of the Lykae Clan, is enraged to find the predestined mate he's waited millennia for is a vampire. Or partly one. This Emmaline is a small, ethereal half Valkyrie/half vampire, who somehow begins to soothe the fury burning within him.

A vampire captured by her wildest fantasy . . .

Sheltered Emmaline Troy finally sets out to uncover the truth about her deceased parents -- until a powerful Lykae claims her as his mate and forces her back to his ancestral Scottish castle. There, her fear of the Lykae -- and their notorious dark desires -- ebbs as he begins a slow, wicked seduction to sate her own dark cravings.

An all-consuming desire . . .

Yet when an ancient evil from her past resurfaces, will their desire deepen into a love that can bring a proud warrior to his knees and turn a gentle beauty into the fighter she was born to be?

Includes an excerpt from Kresley Cole's next romance novel, No Rest for the Wicked.

er past resurfaces, will their desire deepen into a love that can bring a proud warrior to his knees and turn a gentle beauty into the fighter she was born to be...?

Read an Excerpt

In all of us, even in good men, there is a lawless wild-beast nature, which peers out in sleep.
Socrates (469-399 BCE)

— Prologue —

Sometimes the fire that licks the skin from his bones dies down.

It is his fire. In a recess of his mind still capable of rational thought, he believes this. His fire because he's fed it for centuries with his destroyed body and decaying mind.

Long ago—and who knows how much time has toiled past—the Vampire Horde trapped him in these catacombs deep beneath Paris. He stands chained against a rock, pinned at two places on each limb and once around his neck. Before him—an opening into hell that spews fire.

Here he waits and suffers, offered to a column of fire that may weaken but is never-ending—never-ending, just like his life. His existence is to burn to death repeatedly, only to have his dogged immortality revive him again.

Detailed fantasies of retribution have gotten him this far; nursing the rage in his heart is all he has.

Until her.

Over the centuries, he has sometimes heard uncanny new things in the streets above, occasionally smelled Paris changing seasons. But now he has scented her, his mate, the one woman made for him alone.

The one woman he'd searched for without cease for a thousand years—up until the day of his capture.

The flames have ebbed. At this moment, she lingers somewhere above. It is enough. One arm strains against its bonds until the thick metal cuts into his skin. Blood drips, then pours. Every muscle in his weakened body works in concert, striving to do what he's never been able to for an eternity before. For her, he can do this. He must … . His yell turns to a choking cough as he rips two bonds free.

He doesn't have time to disbelieve what he's accomplished. She is so close, he can almost feel her. Need her. Another arm wrenches free.

With both hands he clenches the metal biting into his neck, vaguely remembering the day the thick, long pin was hammered into place. He knows its two ends are embedded at least three feet down. His strength is waning, but nothing will stop him when she's so close. In a rush of rock and dust, the metal comes loose, the recoil making him fling it across the cavernous space.

He yanks at the bond wrapped tight around his thigh. He wrests it and the one at his ankle free, then begins on the last two holding his other leg. Already envisioning his escape, not even glancing down, he pulls. Nothing. Brows drawn in confusion, he tries again. Straining, groaning with desperation. Nothing.

Her scent is fading—there is no time. He pitilessly regards his trapped leg. Imagining how he can bury himself in her and forget the pain, he reaches above his knee with shaking hands. Yearning for that oblivion within her, he attempts to crack the bone. His weakness ensures that this takes half a dozen tries.

His claws slice his skin and muscle, but the nerve running the length of his femur is taut as a piano wire. When he even nears it, unimaginable pain stabs up its length and explodes in his upper body, making his vision go black.

Too weak. Bleeding too freely. The fire will build again soon. The vampires return periodically. Will he lose her just when he's found her?

"Never," he grates. He surrenders himself to the beast inside him, the beast that will take its freedom with its teeth, drink water from the gutters and scavenge refuse to survive. He sees the frenzied amputation as though watching a misery from a distance.

Crawling from his torture, abandoning his leg, he pulls himself through the shadows of the dank catacombs until he spies a passageway. Ever watchful for his enemies, he creeps through the bones littering the floor to reach it. He has no idea how far it is to escape, but he finds his way—and the strength—by following her scent. He regrets the pain he will give her. She will be so connected to him, she'll feel his suffering and horror as her own.

It can't be helped. He is escaping. Doing his part. Can she save him from his memories when his skin still burns?

He finally inches his way to the surface, then into a darkened alley. But her scent has faltered.

Fate has given her to him when he needs her most, and God help him—and this city—if he can't find her. His brutality had been legendary, and he will unleash it without measure for her.

He fights to sit up against a wall. Clawing tracks into the brick street, he struggles to calm his ragged breaths so he can scent her once more.

Need her. Bury myself in her. Waited so long … .

Her scent is gone.

His eyes go wet and he shudders violently at the loss. An anguished roar makes the city tremble.

Chapter 1

One week later …

On an island in the Seine, against the nighttime backdrop of an ageless cathedral, the denizens of Paris came out to play. Emmaline Troy wound around fire-eaters, pick-pockets, and chanteurs de rue. She meandered through the tribes of black-clad Goths who swarmed Notre Dame like it was the Gothic mother ship calling them home. And still she attracted attention.

The human males she passed turned their heads slowly to regard her, frowns in place, sensing something, but unsure. Probably some genetic memory from long ago that signaled her as their wildest fantasy or their darkest nightmare.

Emma was neither.

She was a co-ed—a recent Tulane grad—alone in Paris and hungry. Weary from another failed search for blood, she sank onto a rustic bench beneath a chestnut tree, eyes riveted to a waitress drawing espresso at a café. If only blood poured so easily, Emma thought. Yes, if it came warm and rich from a bottomless tap, then her stomach wouldn't be clenched in hunger at the mere idea.

Starving in Paris. And friendless. Was there ever such a predicament?

Couples strolling hand in hand along the gravel walk seemed to mock her loneliness. Was it just her, or did lovers look more adoringly at each other in this city? Especially in the springtime. Die, bastards.

She sighed. It wasn't their fault that they were bastards who should die.

She'd been spurred to enter this fray by the prospect of her echoing hotel room and the idea that she might find another blood pusher in the City of Light. Her former hookup had gone south—literally—fleeing Paris for Ibiza. He'd given little explanation for abandoning his job, saying only that with the "arrival of the risen king," some "serious epic shit" was brewing in "gay Paree." Whatever that meant.

As a vampire, she was a member of the Lore, that stratum of beings who'd convinced humans they existed only in imagination. Yet though the Lore was thick here, Emma had been unable to Title her pusher. Any creatures she could scout out to ask fled her solely because she was a vampire. They scurried without knowing that she wasn't even a full-blooded one, nor that Emma was a wuss who'd never bitten another living being. As her fierce adoptive aunts loved to tell everyone, "Emma cries her pink tears if she dusts a moth's wings."

Emma had accomplished nothing during this trip that she'd insisted on taking. Her quest to uncover information about her deceased parents—her Valkyrie mother and her unknown vampire father—was a failure. A failure that would culminate in a call to her aunts to get them to retrieve her. Because she couldn't feed herself. Pitiful. She sighed. She'd be razzed about this for another seventy years—

She heard a crash, and before she even had time to feel bad for the waitress getting docked, another crash and then another followed. She tilted her head in curiosity—just as a table umbrella across the walk shot fifteen feet up to be batted high in the sky, fluttering all the way to the Seine. A cruise boat honked and Gallic curses erupted.

Half-lit by the walk's torchlights, a towering man turned over café tables, artists' easels, and book stands selling century-old pornography. Tourists screamed and fled in the wake of destruction. Emma shot to her feet with a gasp, looping her satchel over her shoulder.

He was cutting a path directly to her, his black trench coat trailing behind him. His size and his unnaturally fluid movements made her wonder if he could possibly be human. His hair was thick and long, concealing half his face, and several days' growth of beard shadowed his jaw.

He pointed a shaking hand at her. "You," he growled.

She jerked glances over both of her shoulders looking for the you he was addressing. Her. Holy shite, this madman had settled on her.

He turned his palm up and beckoned her to come to him—as if he was confident she would.

"Uh, I-I don't know you," she squeaked, trying to back up, but her legs immediately met the bench.

He continued stalking her, ignoring the tables between them, tossing them aside like toys instead of varying his direct pursuit of her. Furious intent burned in his pale blue eyes. She could sense his rage more sharply as he neared, unsettling her, because her kind were considered the predators in the night—never the prey. And because, at heart, she was a coward.

"Come." He bit out the word as though with difficulty and motioned for her again.

Eyes wide, she shook her head, then leapt backward over the bench, twisting in the air. She landed facing away from him and began speeding down the quay. She was weak, more than two days without blood, but terror made her quick as she crossed the Archevêché Bridge to exit the island.

Three … four blocks covered. She chanced a look behind her. Didn't see him. Had she lost him—? Sudden glaring music from her purse made her cry out.

Who in the hell had programmed the Crazy Frog ring tone into her cell phone? Her eyes narrowed. Aunt Regin. The world's most immature immortal, who looked like a siren and behaved like a frat pledge.

Cell phones in their coven were for dire emergency only. Ringers would disturb their hunting in the back alleys of New Orleans, and even a vibration would be enough to trigger a twitching ear in a low creature.

She flipped it open. Speak of the devil: Regin the Radiant.

"Little busy right now," Emma snapped, taking another peek over her shoulder.

"Drop your things. Don't take time to pack. Annika wants you at the executive airport immediately. You're in danger."

"Duh."

Click. That wasn't a warning—that was narration.

She'd ask the details once she was on the plane. As if she'd needed a reason to return home. Just the mention of danger and she would scamper back to her coven, to her Valkyrie aunts who would kill anything that threatened her and keep malice at bay.

As she tried to remember her way to the airport where she'd landed, the rain started to fall, warm and light at first—April lovers still laughing as they ran under awnings—but swiftly turning to pounding cold. She came to a crowded avenue, feeling safer as she wound through traffic. She dodged cars with their wipers and horns going full-force. She didn't see her pursuer.

With only the satchel slung around her neck, she traveled quickly, miles passing beneath her feet before she spied an open park and then the airfield just beyond it. She could see the diffused air around the jet engines as they warmed, could see the shades on every window already drawn tight. Almost there.

Emma convinced herself she'd lost him, because she was fast. She was also adept at convincing herself of things that might not be—good at pretending. She could pretend she took classes at night by choice, and that blushing didn't make her thirsty—

A vicious growl sounded. Her eyes widened, but she didn't turn back, just sprinted across the field. She felt claws sink into her ankle a second before she was dragged to the muddy ground and thrown onto her back. A hand covered her mouth, though she'd been trained not to scream.

"Never run from one such as me." Her attacker didn't sound human. "You will no' get away. And we like it." His voice was guttural like a beast's, breaking, yet his accent was … Scottish?

As she peered up at him through the rain, he examined her with eyes that were golden in color one moment, then flickering that eerie blue the next. No, not human.

Up close, she could see his features were even, masculine. A strong chin and jaw complemented the chiseled planes. He was beautiful, so much so that she thought he had to be a fallen angel. Possible. How could she rule out anything?

The hand that had been covering her mouth roughly grasped her chin. He narrowed his eyes, focusing on her lips—on her barely noticeable fangs. "No," he choked out. "No' possible… ." He yanked her head side to side, running his face down her neck, smelling her, then growled in fury, "Goddamn you." When his eyes turned blue sharply, she cried out, her breath seeming to leave her body. "Can you trace?" he grated as though speech was difficult. "Answer me!"

She shook her head, uncomprehending. Tracing was how vampires teleported, disappearing and reappearing in thin air. Then he knows I'm a vampire?

"Can you?"

"N-no." She'd never been strong or skilled enough. "Please." She blinked against the rain, pleading with her eyes. "You have the wrong woman."

"Think I'd know you. Make sure, if you insist." He raised a hand—to touch her? Strike her? She fought, hissing desperately.

A callused palm grasped the back of her neck, his other hand clenching her wrists as he bent down to her neck. Her body jerked from the feel of his tongue against her skin. His mouth was hot in the chill, wet air, making her shudder until her muscles knotted. He groaned while kissing her, his hand squeezing her wrists hard. Below her skirt, drops of rain tracked down her thighs, shocking her with cold.

"Don't do this! Please …" When her last word ended with a whimper, he seemed to come out of a trance, his brows drawing together as his eyes met hers, but he didn't release her hands.

He flicked his claw down her blouse and sliced it and the flimsy bra beneath open, then slowly brushed the halves past her breasts. She struggled, but it was useless against his strength. He studied her with a greedy gaze as rain splattered down, stinging her naked breasts. She was shivering uncontrollably.

His pain was so sharp it nauseated her. He could take her or he could tear open her unprotected belly and kill her … .

Instead he ripped open his own shirt, then placed his huge palms against her back to draw her to his chest. He groaned when their skin touched, and electricity seemed to flash through her. Lightning split the sky.

He rumbled foreign words against her ear. She felt they were... tender words—making her think she'd lost her mind. She went limp, her arms hanging while he shuddered against her, his lips so hot in the pouring rain as he ran them down her neck, across her face, even brushing them over her eyelids. There he knelt, clutching her; there she lay, boneless and dazed, as she watched the lightning slash above them.

His hand cradled the back of her head as he moved her to face him.

He seemed torn as he watched her with some fierce emotion—she'd never been looked at so … consumingly. Confusion overwhelmed her. Would he attack or let her go? Let me go...

A tear slipped down her face, warmth streaking down amidst the drops of rain.

The look disappeared. "Blood for tears?" he roared, clearly revolted by her pink tears. He turned away as if he couldn't stand to look upon her, then blindly swatted at her shirt to close it. "Take me to your home, vampire."

"I-I don't live here," she said in a strangled tone, staggered by what had just occurred, and by the fact that he knew what she was.

"Take me to where you stay," he ordered, finally facing her as he stood before her.

"No," she amazed herself by saying.

He, too, looked surprised. "Because you doona want me to stop? Good. I'll take you here on the grass on your hands and knees"—he lifted her easily until she was kneeling—"till well after the sun rises."

He must have seen her resignation because he hauled her to her feet and pushed at her to get her moving. "Who stays with you?"

My husband, she wanted to snap. The linebacker who's going to kick your ass. Yet she couldn't lie, even now, and never would have had the nerve to provoke him anyway. "I am alone."

"Your man lets you travel by yourself?" he asked over the downpour. His voice was beginning to sound human again. When she didn't answer, he said with a sneer, "You've a careless male for yourself. His loss."

She stumbled in a pothole and he gently steadied her, then seemed angry with himself that he'd helped her. But when he led them in front of a car a moment later, he threw her out of the way, leaping back at the sound of the horn. He swiped at the side of the car, claws crumpling the metal like tinfoil, sending it skidding. When it finally stopped, the engine block dropped to the street with a thud. The driver threw open the door, dived for the street, then darted away.

Mouth open in shock, she frantically scrambled backward, realizing her captor looked as though he'd... never seen a car.

He crossed to her, looming over her. In a low, deadly tone, he grated, "I only hope you run from me again."

REVIEW:

2007 RITA Award Winner

"Intense action, devilishly passionate sex, and fascinating characters … leads readers into an amazing and inventive alternate reality… Hot stuff!"--Romantic Times Magazine (Top Pick)

"Rich mythology, a fresh approach, and excellent writing make this vampire tale superb."--Fresh Fiction

"Not just another romantic read … it's a powerful experience!"--The Best Reviews

Editorial Reviews

Review
"Not just another romantic read . . . this is a powerful experience!" -- Reader to Reader Reviews

"Rich mythology, a fresh approach, and excellent writing make this unique vampire tale superb." -- Fresh Fiction

"Unquestionably an awe-inspiring romance!" -- The Best Reviews

. . . intense action, devilishly passionate sex and fascinating characters . . . hot stuff! -- Romantic Times Magazine, 4 1/2 STARS TOP PICK!

Review
"A unique romance -- it truly stands on its own!"-- Sherrilyn Kenyon, New York Times bestselling author

Product Description

A mythic warrior who'll stop at nothing to possess her . . .

After enduring years of torture from the vampire horde, Lachlain MacRieve, leader of the Lykae Clan, is enraged to find the predestined mate he's waited millennia for is a vampire. Or partly one. This Emmaline is a small, ethereal half Valkyrie/half vampire, who somehow begins to soothe the fury burning within him.

A vampire captured by her wildest fantasy . . .

Sheltered Emmaline Troy finally sets out to uncover the truth about her deceased parents -- until a powerful Lykae claims her as his mate and forces her back to his ancestral Scottish castle. There, her fear of the Lykae -- and their notorious dark desires -- ebbs as he begins a slow, wicked seduction to sate her own dark cravings.

An all-consuming desire . . .

Yet when an ancient evil from her past resurfaces, will their desire deepen into a love that can bring a proud warrior to his knees and turn a gentle beauty into the fighter she was born to be?

Includes an excerpt from Kresley Cole's next romance novel, No Rest for the Wicked.

About the Author
Previously a competitive athlete and coach, Kresley Cole is fast becoming one of the hottest names in historical and paranormal romance. She has a master's degree in English from the University of Florida, and spent much of her time in the research library there, gathering background material for her books. She is the author of the MacCarrick Brothers trilogy, which begins with If You Dare and includes the forthcoming If You Desire and If You Deceive. Her other award-winning novels include No Rest for the Wicked, A Hunger Like No Other, The Captain of All Pleasures, and The Price of Pleasure. Her short fiction is featured in the bestselling anthology Playing Easy to Get.

Rating:

. . intense action, devilishly passionate sex and fascinating characters . . . hot stuff! -- Romantic Times Magazine, 4 1/2 STARS TOP PICK!

The Best Sellers review by The New York Time 2009!

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The Best Sellers review by The New York Time 2009!

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Kresley Cole My Faverite Books Directory

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The MacCarrick Brothers Trilogy

The Sutherland Brothers Series

The Sutherland Brothers Series

The Immortals After Dark Series

The Immortals After Dark Series

Kresley Cole My Faverite Love Novel Hightlander :If You Deceive

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