February_2015_Impulse_Teasers

Laura Simcox concludes her fun, flirty Various States of Undress series with a presidential daughter, a hot baseball player, and a tale of love at the ballgame.

“Uh. Hi.”

Georgia splayed her hand over the front of her wet blouse and stared. The impossibly tanned guy standing just inside the doorway—wearing a tight T-shirt, jeans, and a smile—was as still as a statue. A statue with fathomless, unblinking chocolate brown eyes. She let her gaze drop from his face to his broad chest. “Oh. Hello. I was expecting someone else.”

He didn’t comment, but when she lifted her gaze again, past his wide shoulders and carved chin, she watched his smile turn into a grin, revealing way-too-sexy brackets at the corners of his mouth. He walked down the steps and onto the platform where she stood. He had to be at least 6’3”, and testosterone poured off him like heat waves on the field below. She shouldn’t stare at him, right? Damn. Her gaze flicked from him to the glass wall but moved right back again.

“Scared of heights?” he asked. His voice was a slow, deep Southern drawl. Sexy deep. “Maybe you oughta sit down.”

“No, thanks. I was just . . . looking for something.”

Looking for something? Like what—a tryst with a stranger in the press box? Her face heated, and she clutched the water bottle, the plastic making a snapping sound under her fingers. “So . . . how did you get past my agents?”

He smiled again. “They know who I am.”

“And you are?”

“Brett Knox.”

His name sounded familiar. “Okay. I’m Georgia Fulton. It’s nice to meet you,” she said, putting down her water.

He shook her hand briefly. “You, too. But I just came up here to let you know that I’m declining the interview. Too busy.”

Georgia felt herself nodding in agreement, even as she realized exactly who Brett Knox was. He was the star catcher—and right in front of her, shooting her down before she’d even had a chance to ask. Such a typical jock.

“I’m busy, too, which is why I’d like to set up a time that’s convenient for both of us,” she said, even though she hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. But she couldn’t very well walk into the news station without accomplishing what she’d been tasked with—pinning him down. Georgia was a team player. So was Brett, literally.

“I don’t want to disappoint my boss, and I’m betting you feel the same way about yours,” she continued.

“Sure. I sign autographs, pose for photos, visit Little League teams. Like I said, I’m busy.”

“That’s nice.” She nodded. “I’m flattered that you found the time to come all the way up to the press box and tell me, in person, that you don’t have time for an interview. Thanks.”

He smiled a little. “You’re welcome.” Then he stretched, his broad chest expanding with the movement. He flexed his long fingers, braced a hand high on the post, and grinned at her again. Her heart flipped down into her stomach. Oh, no.

“I get it, you know. I’ve posed for photos and signed autographs, too. I’ve visited hospitals and ribbon cutting ceremonies, and I know it makes people happy. But public appearances can be draining, and it takes time away from work. Right?”

“Right.” He gave her a curious look. “We have that in common, though it’s not exactly the same. I may be semi-famous in Memphis, but I don’t have paparazzi following me around, and I like it that way. You interviewing me would turn into a big hassle.”

“I won’t take much of your time. Just think of me as another reporter.” She ventured a warm, inviting smile, and Brett’s dark eyes widened. “The paparazzi don’t follow me like they do my sisters. I’m the boring one.”

“Really?” He folded his arms across his lean middle, and his gaze traveled slowly over her face.

She felt her heart speed up. “Yes, really.”

“I beg to differ.”

Before she could respond, he gave her another devastating smile and jogged up the steps. It was the best view she’d had all day. When Brett disappeared, she collapsed back against the post. He was right, of course. She wasn’t just another reporter; she was the president’s brainy daughter—who secretly lusted after athletes. And she’d just met a hell of an athlete.

Talk about a hot mess.

An Excerpt from

MAKE IT LAST

A Bowler University Novel

by Megan Erickson

The last installment in Megan Erickson’s daringly sexy Bowler University series finds Cam Ruiz back in his hometown of Paradise, where he comes face-to-face with the only girl he ever loved.

Cam sighed, feeling the weight of responsibility pressing down on his shoulders. But if he didn’t help his mom, who would?

He jingled his keys in his pocket and turned to walk toward his truck. It was nice of Max and Lea to visit him on their road trip. College had been some of the best years of his life. Great friends, fun parties, hot girls.

But now it felt like a small blip, like a week vacation instead of three and a half years. And now he was right back where he started.

As he walked by the alley beside the restaurant, something flickered out of the corner of his eye.

He turned and spotted her legs first. One foot bent at the knee and braced on the brick wall, the other flat on the ground. Her head was bent, a curtain of hair blocking her face. But he knew those legs. He knew those hands. And he knew that hair, a light brown that held just a glint of strawberry in the sun. He knew by the end of August it’d be lighter and redder and she’d laugh about that time she put lemon juice in it. It’d backfired and turned her hair orange.

The light flickered again but it was something weird and artificial, not like the menthols she had smoked. Back when he knew her.

As she lowered her hand down to her side, he caught sight of the small white cylinder. It was an electronic cigarette. She’d quit.

She raised her head then, like she knew someone watched her, and he wanted to keep walking, avoid this awkward moment. Avoid those eyes he didn’t think he’d ever see again and never thought he’d wanted to see again. But now that his eyes locked on her hazel eyes—the ones he knew began as green on the outside of her iris and darkened to brown by the time they met her pupil—he couldn’t look away. His boots wouldn’t move.

The small cigarette fell to the ground with a soft click and she straightened, both her feet on the ground.

And that was when he noticed the wedge shoes. And the black apron. What was she doing here?

“Camilo.”

Other than his mom, she was the only one who used his full name. He’d heard her say it while laughing. He’d her moan it while he was inside her. He’d heard her sigh it with an eye roll when he made a bad joke. But he’d never heard it the way she said it now, with a little bit of fear and anxiety and . . . longing? He took a deep breath to steady his voice. “Tatum.”

He hadn’t spoken her name since that night Trevor called him and told him what she did. The night the future that he’d set out for himself and for her completely changed course.

She’d lost some weight in the four years since he’d last seen her. He’d always loved her curves. She had it all—thighs, ass and tits in abundance. Naked, she was a fucking vision.

Damn it, he wasn’t going there.

But now her face looked thinner, her clothes hung a little loose and he didn’t like this look as much. Not that she probably gave a fuck about his opinion anymore.

She still had her gorgeous hair, pinned up halfway with a bump in front, and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and on her cheekbones. And she still wore her makeup exactly the same—thickly mascaraed eyelashes, heavy eyeliner that stretched to a point on the outside of her eyes, like a modern-day Audrey Hepburn.

She was still beautiful. And she still took his breath away.

And his heart felt like it was breaking all over again.

And he hated her even more for that.

Her eyes were wide. “What are you doing here?”

Something in him bristled at that. Maybe it was because he didn’t feel like he belonged here. But then, she didn’t either. She never did. They never did.

But there was no longer a they.

An Excerpt from

HERO BY NIGHT

Book Three: Independence Falls

by Sara Jane Stone

Travel back to Independence Falls in Sara Jane Stone’s next thrilling read. Armed with a golden retriever and a concealed weapons permit, Lena Clark is fighting for normal. She served her country, but the experience left her afraid to be touched and estranged from her career-military family. Staying in Independence Falls, and finding a job, seems like the first step to reclaiming her life and preparing for the upcoming medal ceremony—until the town playboy stumbles into her bed . . .

Sometimes beauty knocked a man on his ass, leaving him damn near desperate for a taste, a touch, and hopefully a round or two between the sheets—or tied up in them. The knockout blonde with the large golden retriever at her feet took the word “beautiful” to a new level.

Chad Summers stared at her, unable to look away or dim the smile on his face. He usually masked his interest better, stopping short of looking like he was begging for it before learning a woman’s name. But this mysterious beauty had special written all over her.

She stared at him, her gaze open and wanting. For a heartbeat. Then she turned away, her back to the party as she stared out at Eric Moore’s pond.

Her hair flowed in long waves down her back. One look left him wishing he could wrap his hand around her shiny locks and pull. His gaze traveled over her back, taking in the outline of gentle curves beneath her flowing, and oh-so-feminine, floor-length dress. The thought of the beauty’s long skirt decorating her waist propelled him into motion. Chad headed in her direction, moving away from the easy, quiet conversation about God-knew-what on the patio.

The blonde, a mysterious stranger in a sea of familiar faces, might be the spark this party needed. He was a few feet away when the dog abandoned his post at her side and cut Chad off. Either the golden retriever was protecting his owner, or the animal was in cahoots with the familiar voice calling his name.

“Chad Summers!”

The blonde turned at the sound, looking first at him, her blue eyes widening as if surprised at how close he stood, and then at her dog. From the other direction, a familiar face with short black hair—Susan maybe?—marched toward him.

Without a word, Maybe Susan stopped by his side and raised her glass. With a dog in front of him, trees to one side, and an angry woman on his other, there was no escape.

“Hi there.” He left off her name just in case he’d guessed wrong, but offered a warm, inviting smile. Most women fell for that grin, but if Maybe Susan had at one time—and seeing her up close, she looked very familiar, though he could swear he’d never slept with her—she wasn’t falling for it today.

She poured the cool beer over his head, her mouth set in a firm line. “That was for my sister. Susan Lewis? You spent the night with her six months ago and never called.”

Chad nodded, silently grateful he hadn’t addressed the pissed-off woman by her sister’s name. “My apologies, ma’am.”

“You’re a dog,” Susan’s sister announced. The animal at his feet stepped forward as if affronted by the comparison.

“For the past six months, my little sister has talked about you, saving every article about your family’s company,” the angry woman continued.

Whoa . . . Yes, he’d taken Susan Lewis out once and they’d ended the night back at his place, but he could have sworn they were on the same page. Hell, he’d heard her say the words, I’m not looking for anything serious, and he’d believed her. It was one freaking night. He didn’t think he needed signed documents that spelled out his intentions and hers.

“She’s practically built a shrine to you,” she added, waving her empty beer cup. “Susan was ready to plan your wedding.”

“Again, I’m sorry, but it sounds like there was a miscommunication.” Chad withdrew a bandana from his back pocket, one that had belonged to his father, and wiped his brow. “But wedding bells are not in my future. At least not anytime soon.”

The angry sister shook her head, spun on her heels, and marched off.

Chad turned to the blonde and offered a grin. She looked curious, but not ready to run for the hills. “I guess I made one helluva first impression.”

“Hmm.” She glanced down at her dog as if seeking comfort in the fact that he stood between them.

“I’m Chad Summers.” He held out his hand—the one part of his body not covered in beer.

“You’re Katie’s brother.” She glanced briefly at his extended hand, but didn’t take it.

He lowered his arm, still smiling. “Guilty.”

“Lena.” She nodded to the dog. “That’s Hero.”

“Nice to meet you both.” He looked up the hill. Country music drifted down from the house. Someone had finally added some life to the party. Couples moved to the beat on the blue stone patio, laughing and drinking under the clear Oregon night sky. In the corner, Liam Trulane tossed logs into a fire pit.

“After I dry off,” Chad said, turning back to the blonde, “how about a dance?”

“No.”

An Excerpt from

MAYHEM

by Jamie Shaw

A straitlaced college freshman is drawn to a sexy and charismatic rock star in this fabulous debut New Adult novel for fans of Jamie McGuire and Jay Crownover!

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” I tug at the black hem of the stretchy nylon skirt my best friend squeezed me into, but unless I want to show the top of my panties instead of the skin of my thighs, there’s nothing I can do. After casting yet another uneasy glance at the long line of people stretched behind me on the sidewalk, I shift my eyes back to the sun-warmed fabric pinched between my fingers and grumble, “The least you could’ve done was let me wear some leggings.”

I look like Dee’s closet drank too much and threw up on me. She somehow talked me into wearing this mini-skirt—which skintight doesn’t even begin to describe—and a hot-pink top that shows more cleavage than should be legal. The front of it drapes all the way down to just above my navel, and the bottom exposes a pale sliver of skin between the hem of the shirt and the top of my skirt. The fabric matches my killer hot-pink heels.

Literally, killer. Because I know I’m going to fall on my face and die.

I’m fiddling with the skirt again when one of the guys near us in line leans in close, a jackass smile on his lips. “I think you look hot.”

“I have a boyfriend,” I counter, but Dee just scoffs at me.

“She means thank you,” she shoots back, chastising me with her tone until the guy flashes us another arrogant smile—he’s stuffed into an appallingly snug graphic-print tee that might as well say “douche bag” in its shiny metallic lettering, and even Dee can’t help but make a face before we both turn away.

She and I are the first ones in line for the show tonight, standing by the doors to Mayhem under the red-orange glow of a setting summer sun. She’s been looking forward to this night for weeks, but I was more excited about it before my boyfriend of three years had to back out.

“Brady is a jerk,” she says, and all I can do is sigh because I wish those two could just get along. Deandra and I have been best friends since preschool, but Brady and I have been dating since my sophomore year of high school and living together for the past two months. “He should be here to appreciate how gorgeous you look tonight, but nooo, it’s always work first with him.”

“He moved all the way here to be with me, Dee. Cut him some slack, all right?”

She grumbles her frustration until she catches me touching my eyelids for the zillionth time tonight. Yanking my fingers away, she orders, “Stop messing with it. You’ll smear.”

I stare down at my shadowy fingertips and rub them together. “Tell me the truth,” I say, flicking the clumped powder away. “Do I look like a clown?”

“You look smoking hot!” she assures me with a smile.

I finally feel like I’m beginning to loosen up when a guy walks right past us like he’s going to cut in line. In dark shades and a baggy black knit cap that droops in the back, he flicks a cigarette to the ground, and my eyes narrow on him.

Dee and I have been waiting for way too long to let some self-entitled jerk cut in front of us, so when he knocks on the door to the club, I force myself to speak up.

“They’re not letting people in yet,” I say, hoping he takes the hint. Even with my skyscraper heels, I feel dwarfed standing next to him. He has to be at least six-foot-two, maybe taller.

He turns his head toward me and lowers his shades, smirking like something’s funny. His wrist is covered with string bracelets and rubber bracelets and a thick leather cuff, and three of his fingernails on each hand are painted black. But his eyes are what steal the words from my lips—a greenish shade of light gray. They’re stunning.

When the door opens, he turns back to it and locks hands with the bouncer.

“You’re late,” the bouncer says, and the guy in the shades laughs and slips inside. Once he disappears, Dee pushes my shoulders.

“Oh my GOD! Do you know who you were just talking to?!”

I shake my head.

“That was Adam EVEREST! He’s the lead singer of the band we’re here to see!”

An Excerpt from

SINFUL REWARDS 1

A Billionaires and Bikers Novella

by Cynthia Sax

Belinda “Bee” Carter is a good girl; at least, that’s what she tells herself. And a good girl deserves a nice guy—just like the gorgeous and moody billionaire Nicolas Rainer. Or so she thinks, until she takes a look through her telescope and sees a naked, tattooed man on the balcony across the courtyard. He has been watching her, and that makes him all the more enticing. But when a mysterious and anonymous text message dares her to do something bad, she must decide if she is really the good girl she has always claimed to be, or if she’s willing to risk everything for her secret fantasy of being watched.

An Avon Red Impulse Novella

I’d told Cyndi I’d never use it, that it was an instrument purchased by perverts to spy on their neighbors. She’d laughed and called me a prude, not knowing that I was one of those perverts, that I secretly yearned to watch and be watched, to care and be cared for.

If I’m cautious, and I’m always cautious, she’ll never realize I used her telescope this morning. I swing the tube toward the bench and adjust the knob, bringing the mysterious object into focus.

It’s a phone. Nicolas’s phone. I bounce on the balls of my feet. This is a sign, another declaration from fate that we belong together. I’ll return Nicolas’s much-needed device to him. As a thank you, he’ll invite me to dinner. We’ll talk. He’ll realize how perfect I am for him, fall in love with me, marry me.

Cyndi will find a fiancé also—everyone loves her—and we’ll have a double wedding, as sisters of the heart often do. It’ll be the first wedding my family has had in generations.

Everyone will watch us as we walk down the aisle. I’ll wear a strapless white Vera Wang mermaid gown with organza and lace details, crystal and pearl embroidery accents, the bodice fitted, and the skirt hemmed for my shorter height. My hair will be swept up. My shoes—

Voices murmur outside the condo’s door, the sound piercing my delightful daydream. I swing the telescope upward, not wanting to be caught using it. The snippets of conversation drift away.

I don’t relax. If the telescope isn’t positioned in the same way as it was last night, Cyndi will realize I’ve been using it. She’ll tease me about being a fellow pervert, sharing the story, embellished for dramatic effect, with her stern, serious dad—or, worse, with Angel, that snobby friend of hers.

I’ll die. It’ll be worse than being the butt of jokes in high school because that ridicule was about my clothes and this will center on the part of my soul I’ve always kept hidden. It’ll also be the truth, and I won’t be able to deny it. I am a pervert.

I have to return the telescope to its original position. This is the only acceptable solution. I tap the metal tube.

Last night, my man-crazy roommate was giggling over the new guy in three-eleven north. The previous occupant was a gray-haired, bowtie-wearing tax auditor, his luxurious accommodations supplied by Nicolas. The most exciting thing he ever did was drink his tea on the balcony.

According to Cyndi, the new occupant is a delicious piece of man candy—tattooed, buff, and head-to-toe lickable. He was completing armcurls outside, and she enthusiastically counted his reps, oohing and aahing over his bulging biceps, calling to me to take a look.

I resisted that temptation, focusing on making macaroni and cheese for the two of us, the recipe snagged from the diner my mom works in. After we scarfed down dinner, Cyndi licking her plate clean, she left for the club and hasn’t returned.

Three-eleven north is the mirror condo to ours. I straighten the telescope. That position looks about right, but then, the imitation UGGs I bought in my second year of college looked about right also. The first time I wore the boots in the rain, the sheepskin fell apart, leaving me barefoot in Economics 201.

Unwilling to risk Cyndi’s friendship on “about right,” I gaze through the eyepiece. The view consists of rippling golden planes, almost like . . .

Tanned skin pulled over defined abs.

I blink. It can’t be. I take another look. A perfect pearl of perspiration clings to a puckered scar. The drop elongates more and more, stretching, snapping. It trickles downward, navigating the swells and valleys of a man’s honed torso.

No. I straighten. This is wrong. I shouldn’t watch our sexy neighbor as he stands on his balcony. If anyone catches me . . .

Parts 1 – 7 available now!

An Excerpt from

FORBIDDEN

An Under the Skin Novel

by Charlotte Stein

Killian is on the verge of making his final vows for the priesthood when he saves Dorothy from a puritanical and oppressive home. The attraction between them is swift and undeniable, but every touch, every glance, every moment of connection between them is completely forbidden . . .

An Avon Red Impulse Novel

We get out of the car at this swanky-looking place called Marriott, with a big promise next to the door about all-day breakfasts and internet and other stuff I’ve never had in my whole life, all these nice cars in the parking lot gleaming in the dimming light and a dozen windows lit up like some Christmas card, and then it just happens. My excitement suddenly bursts out of my chest, and before I can haul it back in, it runs right down the length of my arm, all the way to my hand.

Which grabs hold of his, so tight it could never be mistaken for anything else.

Course I want it to be mistaken for anything else, as soon as he looks at me. His eyes snap to my face like I poked him in the ribs with a rattler snake, and just in case I’m in any doubt, he glances down at the thing I’m doing. He sees me touching him as though he’s not nearly a priest and I’m not under his care, and instead we’re just two people having some kind of happy honeymoon.

In a second we’re going inside to have all the sex.

That’s what it seems like—like a sex thing.

I can’t even explain it away as just being friendly, because somehow it doesn’t feel friendly at all. My palm has been laced with electricity, and it just shot ten thousand volts into him. His whole body has gone tense, and so my body goes tense, but the worst part about it is:

For some ungodly reason he doesn’t take his hand away.

Maybe he thinks if he does it will look bad, like admitting to a guilty thing that neither of us has done. Or at least that he hasn’t done. He didn’t ask to have his hand grabbed. His hand is totally innocent in all of this. My hand is the evil one. It keeps right on grasping him even after I tell it to stop. I don’t even care if it makes me look worse—just let go, I think at it.

But the hand refuses.

It still has him in its evil clutches when we go inside the motel. My fingers are starting to sweat, and the guy behind the counter is noticing, yet I can’t seem to do a single thing about it. Could be we have to spend the rest of our lives like this, out of sheer terror at drawing any attention to the thing I have done.

Unless he’s just carrying on because he thinks I’m scared of this place. Maybe he thinks I need comfort, in which case all of this might be okay. I am just a girl with her friendly, good-looking priest, getting a motel room in a real honest and platonic way so I can wash my lank hair and secretly watch television about spaceships.

Nothing is going to happen—a fact that I communicate to the counter guy with my eyes. I don’t know why I’m doing it, however. He doesn’t know Killian is a priest. He has no clue that I’m some beat-up kid who needs help and protection rather than sordid hand-holding. He probably thinks we’re married, just like I thought before, and the only thing that makes that idea kind of off is how I look in comparison.

I could pass for a stripe of beige paint next to him. In here his black hair is like someone took a slice out of the night sky. His cheekbones are so big and manly I could bludgeon the counter guy with them, and I’m liable to do it. He keeps staring, even after Killian says “two rooms please.” He’s still staring as we go down the carpeted hallway, to the point where I have to ask.

“Why was he looking like that?” I whisper as Killian fits a key that is not really a key but a gosh darn credit card into a room door. So of course I’m looking at that when he answers me, and not at his face.

But I wish I had been. I wish I’d seen his expression when he spoke, because when he did he said the single most startling thing I ever heard in my whole life.

“He was looking because you’re lovely.”

An Excerpt from

HER HIGHLAND FLING

A Novella

by Jennifer McQuiston

When his little Scottish town is in desperate straits, William MacKenzie decides to resurrect the Highland Games in an effort to take advantage of the new tourism boom and invites a London newspaper to report on the events. He’s prepared to show off for the sake of the town, but the one thing William never expects is for this intrepid reporter to be a she . . .

William scowled. Moraig’s future was at stake. The town’s economy was hardly prospering, and its weathered residents couldn’t depend on fishing and gossip to sustain them forever. They needed a new direction, and as the Earl of Kilmartie’s heir, he felt obligated to sort out a solution. He’d spent months organizing the upcoming Highland Games. It was a calculated risk that, if properly orchestrated, would ensure the betterment of every life in town. It had seemed a brilliant opportunity to reach those very tourists they were aiming to attract.

But with the sweat now pooling in places best left unmentioned and the minutes ticking slowly by, that brilliance was beginning to tarnish.

William peered down the road that led into town, imagining he could see a cloud of dust implying the arrival of the afternoon coach. The very late afternoon coach. But all he saw was the delicate shimmer of heat reflecting the nature of the devilishly hot day.

“Bugger it all,” he muttered. “How late can a coach be? There’s only one route from Inverness.” He plucked at the damp collar of his shirt, wondering where the coachman could be. “Mr. Jeffers knew the importance of being on time today. We need to make a ripping first impression on this reporter.”

James’s gaze dropped once more to William’s bare legs. “Oh, I don’t think there’s any doubt of it.” He leaned against the posthouse wall and crossed his arms. “If I might ask the question . . . why turn it into such a circus? Why these Games instead of, say, a well-placed rumor of a beastie living in Loch Moraig? You’ve got the entire town in an uproar preparing for it.”

William could allow that James was perhaps a bit distracted by his pretty wife and new baby—and understandably so. But given that his brother was raising his bairns here, shouldn’t he want to ensure Moraig’s future success more than anyone?

James looked up suddenly, shading his eyes with a hand. “Well, best get those knees polished to a shine. There’s your coach now. Half hour late, as per usual.”

With a near-groan of relief, William stood at attention on the posthouse steps as the mail coach roared up in a choking cloud of dust and hot wind.

A half hour off schedule. Perhaps it wasn’t the tragedy he’d feared. They could skip the initial stroll down Main Street he’d planned and head straight to the inn. He could point out some of the pertinent sights later, when he showed the man the competition field that had been prepared on the east side of town.

“And dinna tell the reporter I’m the heir,” William warned as an afterthought. “We want him to think of Moraig as a charming and rustic retreat from London.” If the town was to have a future, it needed to be seen as a welcome escape from titles and peers and such, and he did not want this turning into a circus where he stood at the center of the ring.

As the coach groaned to a stop, James clapped William on the shoulder with mock sympathy. “Don’t worry. With those bare legs, I suspect your reporter will have enough to write about without nosing about the details of your inheritance.”

The coachman secured the reins and jumped down from his perch. A smile of amusement broke across Mr. Jeffers’s broad features. “Wore the plaid today, did we?”

Bloody hell. Not Jeffers, too.

“You’re late.” William scowled. “Were there any problems fetching the chap from Inverness?” He was anxious to greet the reporter, get the man properly situated in the Blue Gander, and then go home to change into something less . . . Scottish. And God knew he could also use a pint or three, though preferably ones not raised at his expense.

Mr. Jeffers pushed the brim of his hat up an inch and scratched his head. “Well, see, here’s the thing. I dinna exactly fetch a chap, as it were.”

This time William couldn’t suppress the growl that erupted from his throat. “Mr. Jeffers, don’t tell me you left him there!” It would be a nightmare if he had. The entire thing was carefully orchestrated, down to a reservation for the best room the Blue Gander had to offer. The goal had been to install the reporter safely in Moraig and give him a taste of the town’s charms before the Games commenced on Saturday.

“Well, I . . . that is . . .” Mr. Jeffers’s gaze swung between them, and he finally shrugged. “Well, I suppose you’ll see well enough for yourself.”

He turned the handle, then swung the coach door open.

A gloved hand clasped Mr. Jeffers’s palm, and then a high, elegant boot flashed into sight.

“What in the blazes—” William started to say, only to choke on his surprise as a blonde head dipped into view. A body soon followed, stepping down in a froth of blue skirts. She dropped Jeffers’s hand and looked around with bright interest.

“Your chap’s a lass,” explained a bemused Mr. Jeffers.

“A lass?” echoed William stupidly.

And not only a lass . . . a very pretty lass.

She smiled at them, and it was like the sun cresting over the hills that rimmed Loch Moraig, warming all who were fortunate enough to fall in its path. He was suddenly and inexplicably consumed by the desire to recite poetry to the sound of twittering birds. That alone might have been manageable, but as her eyes met his, he was also consumed by an unfortunate jolt of lustful awareness that left no inch of him unscathed—and there were quite a few inches to cover.

“Miss Penelope Tolbertson,” she said, extending her gloved hand as though she were a man. “R-reporter for the London Times.”

He stared at her hand, unsure of whether to shake it or kiss it. Her manners might be bold, but her voice was like butter, flowing over his body until it didn’t know which end was up. His tongue seemed wrapped in cotton, muffling even the merest hope of a proper greeting.

The reporter was female?

And not only female . . . a veritable goddess, with eyes the color of a fair Highland sky?

He raised his eyes to meet hers, giving himself up to the sense of falling.

Or perhaps more aptly put, a sense of flailing.

“W-welcome to Moraig, Miss Tolbertson.”