By the time Nick moved the squad car to the shoulder, and started up the chugging, shuddering VW bus to move it, too, he’d recovered from most of his surprise.

  Okay, maybe not most, but a lot. Some, at least. And then he stepped out of the ancient bus and turned around to look at Grace, leaning against a tree trunk on the riverbank, her dark curls blowing around her face and her eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, a sucker punch of shock hit him in the gut all over again.

  Grace Lamb was the last person he ever expected to see in Wrightsville apart from her obligatory Christmas visit to her dad. But here she was, live and in living color, the epitome of trouble on two legs.

  Two legs, he realized, that had somehow gotten a lot longer in the years since he’d seen her last. Long, slim legs in faded jeans, with ridiculous bright pink boots on her feet.

  He caught himself with a cough. Grace was his best friend Tommy’s little sister. She didn’t have…legs. Well, yeah, of course she had legs, but not…legs. Not like that, anyway. That had definitely changed sometime in the past couple of years.

  Running a stop sign and smacking into a police car, though, that was the Grace he had always known.

  “Impulsive” was her middle name. Along with “reckless,” “fearless,” and, well, “distracted by whatever shiny new thing came along.” Which wasn’t a single word, but whatever. It was still the truth.

  Grace had once set her backyard on fire when she tried to start the grill to make lunch for her father. Another time she’d decided to try ice fishing on the pond, only to sink into the water once she started cutting through the pond’s frozen skin. She’d tried to go blond, but she’d used household bleach on her dark curls, nearly choking herself on the fumes in the process.

  And that was all before she was eleven.

  The girl was a walking disaster and always had been. Except she wasn’t a girl anymore, and judging by the suitcases and boxes he could see through the VW’s windows, she planned to be back in town for a while. Which was just frigging weird, because the one thing that Grace had always been was restless, most of all to get out of Wrightsville.

  “Billy will be down any minute,” he said as he walked back to her.

  She tilted her head, looking up at him quizzically. “Billy?”

  “Down at the precinct,” Nick explained, settling his hips against the hood of the cruiser and crossing his arms over his chest. “I can’t write up my own report, since I was involved.”

  “There’s going to be a report?” She took off her sunglasses and turned horrified brown eyes on him. “It’s just a little fender bender! Hardly worth mentioning, really. I can pay for the damage and no one even has to know…” She trailed off when he stared her down, arms still folded over his chest, immovable.

  Leave it to Grace. Yeah, he’d taken care of the Great Microwave Disaster of 1988, and the time she’d lost the two Pomerians she was dog sitting, but this was a little different. It was an official police vehicle, not his own battered Jeep, and Grace, well…he shook his head. As far as he could tell, she had never really learned to anticipate consequences.

  Like wearing jeans that looked molded to her hips, and a white blouse that didn’t completely hide the outline of a lacy bra.

  Not that he was looking. Definitely not. He swallowed back a growl of arousal, and turned toward the VW, gesturing vaguely. “What is all that, Grace? What are you doing here?”

  He’d forgotten how blinding her smile could be, and it surprised him all over again. He was still blinking at the brilliance of it when she said, “Coming home, of course.”

  His eyebrows nearly shot off the top of his head. “You’re…moving back here? To Wrightsville?”

  “You don’t have to say it like I just announced I’m having an alien love child and going on the talk-show circuit.” She frowned, the light in her eyes turning to smoke the way it always did when she was mad at him. Boy, was that look familiar.

  “Doesn’t Robert work in New York?” he asked, glancing at the old bus again. And why on earth was Grace driving that thing? He didn’t know Robert well, or really at all, but he did know he wasn’t the vintage hippie chic type. “Commuting to Bucks County is an awful long trip.”

  “Robert won’t be commuting.” It was Grace’s turn to fold her arms in front of her, but Nick was surprised to realize she didn’t look upset. Instead, she was calm, almost peaceful. “Robert is moving to Chicago, to work for The Museum of Contemporary Art.”

  If his eyes widened any further, they’d probably roll out of his head, Nick realized with a start. “And you’re…?”

  “Not,” she said simply, and gave him another smile. The sun gleamed on her hair. “I’m starting over, Nick. I’m getting a divorce, and I’m going to figure out a career, and I’m going to do it right here in Wrightsville.”

  Just when he’d convinced himself Wrightsville was getting a little boring, Nick contemplated as he restrained a groan, Grace back in town, at loose ends, looking for work and maybe romance?

  They were all doomed.

  Some authors know that

  WHEN HE WAS BAD,

  he was better than ever.

  Check out the new anthology from

  Shelly Laurenston and Cynthia Eden,

  out this month from Brava.

  Here’s a sneak peek at Shelly’s story,

  “Miss Congeniality”…

  The doorbell rang and Irene didn’t move. She wasn’t expecting anyone, so she wouldn’t answer the door. She dealt with enough people during the day, so she’d be damned if her nights were filled with the idiots as well.

  The doorbell went off again, followed by knocking. Irene didn’t even flinch. In a few more minutes she would shut out everything but the work in front of her, a skill she’d developed over the years. Sometimes Jackie would literally have to shake her or punch her in the head to get her attention.

  But Irene hadn’t slipped into that “zone” yet and she could easily hear someone sniffing at her door. She looked up from her paperwork as Van Holtz snarled from the other side, “I know you’re in there, Conridge. I can smell you.”

  Eeew.

  “Go away,” she called back. “I’m busy.”

  The knocking turned to outright banging. “Open this goddamn door!”

  Annoyed but resigned the man wouldn’t leave, Irene put her paperwork on the couch and walked across the room. She pulled open the door and ignored the strange feeling in the pit of her stomach at seeing the man standing there in a dark gray sweater, jeans, and sneakers. She knew few men who made casual wear look anything but.

  “What?”

  She watched as his eyes moved over her, from the droopy sweatsocks on her feet, past the worn cotton shorts and the paint-splattered T-shirt that spoke of a horrid experience trying to paint the hallway the previous year, straight up to her hastily created ponytail. He swallowed and muttered, “Goddamnit,” before pushing his way into her house.

  “We need to talk,” he said by way of greeting.

  “Why?”

  He frowned. “What?”

  “I said why do we need to talk? As far as I’m concerned there’s nothing that needs to be said.”

  “I need to kiss you.”

  Now Irene frowned. “Why?”

  “Must you always ask why?”

  “When people come to me with things that don’t make sense…yes.”

  “Just let me kiss you and then I’ll leave.”

  “Do you know how many germs are in the human mouth? I’d be better off kissing an open sewer grate.”

  Why did she have to make this so difficult? He hated being here. Hated having to come here at all. Yet he had something to prove and goddamnit, he’d prove it or die trying.

  But how dare she look so goddamn cute! He’d never known this Irene Conridge existed. He’d only seen her in those boxy business suits or a gown that he’d bet money she never picked out for herself. On occasion he’d even seen her in jeans but, even then, she’d always looked pulled together and professional.

  Now she looked goddamn adorable and he almost hated her for it.

  “Twenty seconds of your time and I’m out of here for good. Twenty seconds and I won’t bother you ever again.”

  “Why?”

  Christ, again with the why.

  “I need to prove to the universe that my marking you means absolutely nothing.”

  “Oh, well, isn’t that nice,” she said with obvious sarcasm. “It’s nice to know you’re checking to make sure kissing me is as revolting as necessary.”

  “I’m not…I didn’t…” He growled. “Can we just do this, please?”

  “Twenty seconds and you’ll go away?”

  “Yes.”

  “Forever?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Fine. Just get it over with quickly. I have a lot of work to do. And the fact you’re breathing my air annoys me beyond reason.”

  Wanting this over as badly as she did, Van marched up to her, slipped his arm around her waist, and yanked her close against him. They stared at each other for a long moment and then he kissed her. Just like he had Athana earlier. Only Athana had been warm and willing in his arms. Not brittle and cold like a block of ice. Irene didn’t even open her mouth.

  Nope. Nothing, he thought with overwhelming relief. This had all been a horrible mistake. He could—and would—walk away from the honorable and brilliant Irene Conridge, PhD, and never look back. Van almost smiled.

  Until she moved slightly in his arms and her head tilted barely a centimeter to the left. Like a raging wind, lust swept through him. Overwhelming, all-consuming. He’d never felt anything like it. Suddenly he needed to taste her more than he needed to take his next breath. He dragged his tongue against her lips, coaxing her to open to him. To his eternal surprise she did, and he plunged deep inside. Her body jerked, her hand reaching up and clutching his shoulder. Probably moments from pushing him away. But he wouldn’t let her. Not if she felt even a modicum of what he was feeling. So he held her tighter, kissed her deeper, let her feel his steel-hard erection held back by his jeans against her stomach.

  The hand clutching his shoulder loosened a bit and then slid into his hair. Her other hand grabbed the back of his neck. And suddenly the cold, brittle block of ice in his arms turned into a raging inferno of lust. Her tongue tangled with his and she groaned into his mouth.

  Before Van realized it, he was walking her back toward her stairs. He didn’t stop kissing her, he wouldn’t. The last thing he wanted was for her to change her mind. He managed to get her to the upstairs hallway before she pulled her mouth away.

  “What are you doing?” she panted out.

  “Taking you to your bed.”

  “Forget it.” And Van, if he were a crying man, would be sobbing. Until uptight Irene Conridge added, “The wall. Use the wall.”

  Keep an eye out for Karen Kelley’s,

  THE BAD BOYS GUIDE

  TO THE GALAXY,

  coming next month from Brava…

  “Where’s your dress…” He waved a finger around. “Thingy…robe whatchamacallit?” He finally pointed toward her.

  She raised an eyebrow. He didn’t seem to notice the clean floor. Disappointment filled her. She’d hoped for more. Silly, she knew. After all, he was an earthman and she shouldn’t have cared what he thought.

  “My robe was getting dirty along the hem so I removed it.”

  Her gaze traveled slowly over him, noting the bulge below his waist. It was quite large. Odd. She mentally shook her head.

  “Your clothes are quite dirty. Once again, I’ve proven that I’m superior in my way of thinking,” she told him.

  “You’re naked.”

  She glanced down. “You’re very observant,” she said, using his earlier words. “Did you know there’s a slight breeze outside? It made my nipples tingle and felt quite pleasant. Not that I would be tempted to stay on earth because of a breeze.”

  “You…you…can’t…”

  She frowned, “There’s something wrong with your speech. Are you ill? If you’d like, I can retrieve my diagnostic tool and examine you.” He was sweating. Not good. She only hoped she didn’t catch what he had.

  “You can’t go around without clothes,” he sputtered. “And I’m not sick.”

  “Then what are you?”

  “Horny!” He marched to the other room, returning in a few minutes with her robe. “You can’t go around naked.”

  “Why not?” She slipped her arms into the robe and belted it.

  “It causes a certain reaction in men.”

  “What kind of a reaction?”

  What an interesting topic. She wanted to know more. Maybe they would be able to have a scientific conversation.

  Kia had only talked about battles and Mala had talked about exploration of other planets, but Sam was actually speaking about something to do with the body. It was a very stimulating discussion.

  He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m going to kill Nick,” he grumbled. “No one said anything about having to explain the birds and bees.”

  “And what’s so important about these birds and bees?”

  He drew in a deep breath. “When a man sees a naked woman, it causes certain reactions inside him.”

  “Like the bulge in your pants? It wasn’t there before.”

  “Ah, Lord.”

  “Did my nakedness do that?”

  “You’re very beautiful.”

  “But I’m not supposed to think so.”

  “No, we’re not talking about that right now.”

  She was so confused. Sam wasn’t making sense. “Then please explain what we are talking about.”

  “Sex,” he blurted. “When a man sees a beautiful and very sexy naked woman it causes him to think about having sex with her.”

  He looked relieved to finally have said so much. She thought about his words for a moment. A companion unit did not have these reactions unless buttons were pushed, and even then their response would be generic. This was very unusual. But also exciting that her nakedness would make him want to copulate. She felt quite powerful.

  And she was also horny now that she knew what the word meant. She untied her robe and opened it. “Then we will join.”

  He strangled and coughed again and jerked her robe closed. “No, it’s not done like that. Damnit, I’m not a companion unit to perform whenever you decide you need sex.”

  “But don’t you want sex?”

  “There are emotions that need to be involved. I’m not one of those guys who jump on top of a woman, gets his jollies and then goes his own way.”

  “You want me on top?” She’d never been on top but she thought she could manage.

  He firmly tied her robe, then raised her chin until her gaze met his.

  “When I make love with a woman, I want her to know damn well who she’s with, and there won’t be anything clinical about it.” He lowered his mouth to hers.

  He was touching her again. She should remind him that it was forbidden to touch a healer. But there was something about his lips against hers, the way he brushed his tongue over them, then delved inside that made her body ache, made her want to lean in closer, made her want to have sex other than just to relieve herself of stress.

  BRAVA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  850 Third Avenue

  New York, NY 10022

  Copyright © 2008 by Jill Shalvis

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Brava and the B logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 0-7582-3293-4

 

 

  Jill Shalvis, Superb and Sexy (Sky High Air, Book 3)

 

 

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