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Heated Rush

Thu, 19 Nov 2009 11:11:09 GMT

Given the choice between sticking flaming skewers up her nose and attending her own parents' thirty fifth anniversary party without a date, Annie Davis would, without hesitation, reach for the lighter fluid and a match. Instead, she was reaching for her checkbook. Wondering just how far she could go—how much she could spend—to ensure she avoided a fate worse than burned nostrils.
"Twenty five hundred, that's all I can swing," she murmured, reminding both herself, and her friend Tara, who sat beside her at an empty table near the back of the hotel ballroom. Twenty five hundred was about as much as she could stretch it and still make her bills, as well as eat next month.
Tara, who occasionally helped out at Baby Daze, Annie's successful day care center, had come only to this charity bachelor auction for moral support. Her aspiring actress's checkbook wouldn't allow room for a guy auctioned off in a Salvation Army parking lot, much less one at Chicago's glamorous Inter Continental Hotel.
If she were honest, Annie's couldn't bear the strain, either, and her savings account was strictly for emergencies only. Sheer desperation had driven her here tonight. Desperation caused by the thought of a weekend back home—sans a guy—being pitied and clucked over by all the women in her family, teased by all the men, especially her brothers, and set up by everyone else in her small hometown. Not to mention answering the inevitable questions about why she was alone when her entire family knew she'd been dating a nice, handsome man for the past several weeks.
Looking into her parents faces and admitting that nice, handsome man she'd been seeing had been a married jerk? She'd sooner add raw meat to those flaming skewers and call herself shish kebab. Wiping out her checking account seemed a small price to pay to avoid the agony. Maybe the savings, too.
No. Not a chance. Not unless Johnny Depp and Josh Duhamel both appeared on that stage, offering a weekend of pure carnal exploitation to the high bidder.
"Nobody has gone for less than three thousand so far," Tara reminded her. The petite brunette, usually bubbly and sassy, sounded uncharacteristically pessimistic. "Not even the wimpy looking blond dude who made a complete dork of himself doing that pretend striptease."
Annie cringed, wishing she had a bar of soap to wash away the mental image of the pale twenty some thing doing a white men can't dance bump and grind that had women near the front pretending to swoon. Ick. Bringing someone like that home to meet her ...

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Seducing a S.E.A.L.

Thu, 19 Nov 2009 11:11:09 GMT

He was much too young for her. Eight years too young, according to his military record.
Off limits for her.
And there was the fact that he worked for her. This was the U.S. Navy, not a daytime soap opera, so rank was huge.
Definitely off limits.
And she, a Naval Academy grad, knew better than to entertain such thoughts as her and him getting way cozier than regulations allowed. Especially given their current circumstances. The tragedy, the trauma, the grief she was supposed to be focusing on.
Absolutely forbidden.
But grief, so foreign to her relatively calm life, did strange things to her. Such as lust after inappropriate men.
It wouldn't have been quite so disturbing if she'd kept the fantasies on a purely sexual level. That would have been normal given that she was a woman with a healthy libido and he was nearly six feet of golden haired, bronze skinned, blue eyed perfection.
But no, when she let her mind wander into forbidden territory, the images were often cozy, domestic vignettes of her and Ensign Drew MacLeod frolicking on a beach or playing around while cooking, acting like a couple in a clichéd romantic comedy. Her fantasies were dangerously close to the kind that meant she was falling into something more than lust with the oblivious younger man. Because he'd never shown a sign of being aware of her as anything more than his boss. He'd always behaved respectfully and properly. As had she…in real life, if not in her mind.
Lieutenant Commander Kylie Thomas tore her gaze from the man she'd been daydreaming about regularly for the past year since he'd been transferred to her office—and dreaming of almost nonstop since their ordeal a week ago—then forced herself to focus on the therapist, Judith, who was leading their group counseling session.
"I'd like all of you to close your eyes and visualize yourselves in a peaceful place," Judith said. "Perhaps in a field of flowers, or on a mountaintop or in a comfortable chair by a fireplace. Find an image that soothes you, and go there…. Breathe deeply, in and out…in and out…"
Kylie had never been in therapy before, and already, five minutes into her first session, she hated it. How the hell would flowers or fireplaces help her accept her failure to perform in a critical moment? It couldn't. Nothing could except working her ass off to regain the confidence of her superiors.
Stifling a sigh, she closed her eyes. The first image that came to mind was that old bumper sticker that read Visualize Whirled Peas.
A giggle erupted ...

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Come Toy with Me

Thu, 19 Nov 2009 11:11:09 GMT

If you have plans for Christmas, cancel them."
Retired Colonel James McGuire fired the order at him the moment Dino Angelis strolled into the office on the top floor of the Merceri Bank Building. Dino took his time walking across the expanse of Oriental carpet as he studied the tall, gruff spoken man standing behind the carved oak desk.
Admiral Robert Maxwell, Dino's boss, had described his oldest and dearest friend accurately. James McGuire was a tall, lean man in his early sixties who despite his white hair appeared to be several years younger. McGuire had retired from the army two years previously and married his second wife, Gianna Merceri, who would one day inherit the Merceri banking fortune. Since then he'd worked as a VP for the New York City branch. Though he was wearing an impeccably tailored business suit, the colonel's bearing and tone of command marked him unmistakably as ex military.
"Much as I hate to ruin anyone's holiday, this job may take longer than either one of us would like," McGuire continued.
Dino sighed inwardly. Okay, so his hunch that he wouldn't make it home for Christmas had been right. Ninety percent of the time what his family referred to as his premonitions were extremely accurate. They'd saved his life on more than one occasion. But this would make three Christmases in a row he hadn't been with his family, and his cousin Theo was getting married on December 27th.
Not for the first time, Dino asked himself if there'd been some way of getting out of this assignment that he'd overlooked. But Admiral Maxwell owed Colonel McGuire a favor, and Dino owed his admiral, big time. For the last two years he'd worked in special operations under Maxwell's command. Three months ago, he'd been shot on one of his missions. A bullet had come within an inch of his spine. Recuperating in hospitals in Germany and later in D.C. had given him time to reevaluate how he wanted to spend the rest of his life. He'd joined the navy because he loved the sea. He'd wanted adventure and to see the world. Plus, he'd sensed it was what he was supposed to do. Now, he wanted a job that wouldn't isolate him so completely from his cousins, his uncle and his mother. He missed the closeness, the connectedness he always found with his family. Admiral Maxwell had not only understood his decision, but he'd worked hard to expedite Dino's discharge, and Dino liked to repay his debts.
So he had committed to do a job that he knew nothing about—except that it involved McGuire's family. Of course, Maxwell had used that information as part of the b ...

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Cruise Control

Thu, 19 Nov 2009 11:11:09 GMT

/b>

"ANNA JACKSON?"

Anna swiveled on her heel, turning toward the voice. The woman standing in front of her on the busy Sydney street was dressed in a neat navy suit, her hair perfectly coiffed, her face stretched into an expression of incredulity.

"It is you!"

Anna smiled. She still got a buzz out of people's reactions to the new her. Especially her old law colleagues.

"Hey, Mary. How are things?"

"You look so different!" Mary said, shaking her head. "I would have walked right past you. I mean, I nearly did."

"It was time for a change.You know how it is." Anna shrugged. Mary's hand strayed to her own sensible brown bob as she eyed Anna's new short and spiky platinum blond haircut. "I haven't seen you around for ages," Mary said, fishing for information.

"I quit," Anna said simply.

"Oh. Wow. I didn't hear. So which firm did you go to? I know Sullivan and Makepeace were looking for someone in corporate governance...."

"Actually, I've started up my own business," Anna said lightly. She glanced toward the gleaming black Mercedes sedan parked behind her. Mary followed her gaze, frowning as she took in the car's license plates: Lady Driver. "It's a luxury car service," Anna explained. "High end business, that kind of thing."

"You mean you've quit law?" Mary said. She sounded scandalized, as though Anna had just confessed to running a string of hookers.

"Yep."

Mary shook her head. "Why on earth would you do that? You're such a great lawyer, Anna. One of the best. God, I used to sweat buckets when I knew I was coming up against you."

Anna had gotten used to people not understanding why she'd tossed in her career, but she was surprised at the tug of pride she felt at the other woman's compliment. "Really?" It was hard not to feel flattered.

"Hell, yeah. Formidable — that's how my senior partner once described you," Mary said admiringly.

The buzz of pride faded. Formidable. Great. Just how she wanted to be remembered.

"I guess I decided that there was more to life than work," Anna said.

Mary opened her mouth to argue, but maybe she saw something inAnna's face because she shut it again without saying a word. The look she shot Anna was equal parts confusion and concern.

Anna knew what she was thinking — Mary simply couldn't understand how anyone could turn her back on a prestigious, lucrative career to become a glorified taxi driver. For a ...

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Lying in Bed

Thu, 19 Nov 2009 11:11:09 GMT

/b>

August 28, 2004

"Tell me the story..." he said.

We were lying in bed, making love. I pretended that I hadn't heard him and instead breathed in the sweet smell of his hair mixed with the rougher smell of his skin slicked with sweat. I licked the part of his salty neck that was pressed closest to my mouth. The tendons were hard ropes against my tongue.

I hoped this would distract him but it didn't and he asked again: "Tell me. Who is he?"

The words came from his mouth, but I heard them first between my legs, where they halted the faint and faraway sensations that I had been hoping would, like a tight bud, open and flower.

Until five words ago, it had been only sensations that had my attention. (You know how it feels, not like a pain that you can pinpoint but a breeze of stinging electric blue pleasure surging through you.) Now it was his question that I felt. So intrusive it repeated itself. If not actually, then in my mind. Drawing my thoughts where I did not want them to go.

I needed to focus, to keep my mind in the present, to stay and not slip backward. Focus, I told myself. On being here. Now.

I took in the half life of the room smothered in the dark. Listened to his short breaths. Panting. Like a dog overheated. To the silence of the 2:00 a.m. street below. Felt the smooth sheets, pillows crushed beneath me, warm skin sticking to mine, my own insides, holding him in, clenching around him as if this would keep me tethered and prevent me from sliding into the past.

This was what I craved: sensation to overwhelm me and keep me in the moment which made the present all that mattered — and by doing so, made us all that mattered. But it never came.

Until then, Kenneth had never questioned me about my past.

What had changed?

Five minutes before the call, we'd been sitting on the bed, not yet making love but, given the wine and the conversation and how many days it had been since we'd seen each other, it was clearly where we were headed. When I heard the phone ring, I'd glanced over and seen the old and familiar number on the Caller ID. Leaving, I picked up in the living room.

At that time of night, with Kenneth there, I normally would have let the machine answer, but I didn't want to guess at what the message might be. And I didn't want Kenneth to overhear it, no matter what it was.

We'd only talked for a minute or two at the most. On my end it was hushed, on his, it was loud. But surely Kenneth cou ...

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