He hesitated, and she barely kept from laughing outright. Was it possible? Did he have trouble shaping his mouth around the word whore?

  A dirty cop with morals. Now she’d seen everything.

  Forcing her features into a mask of terrified sincerity, she shook her head until her hair swung. “Nyet! I say nothing.”

  His face shuttered, and she slowly took in a deep breath. Did he believe her? If not, she could end up very dead, very quick. There’d been girls who vanished before.

  Lies spoken about their whereabouts.

  Distraction. She could do distraction.

  She stepped into him. Closed the distance between them, slid her hands up his chest. A part of her mind fragmented at finding him hot to the touch, even through his T-shirt. His muscles leapt under her palms; his heart slammed against her hand.

  He wasn’t as unaffected by her as he wanted to be.

  And rightfully so; her role demanded she dress the part. Her too-thin T-shirt was white, her bra sweetheart pink and clearly obvious beneath it. It left two inches of her waist bare, hugged tight by low-rise jeans.

  She looked edible. Fresh.

  She looked like every other Russian girl off the boat who had ever been forced into prostitution.

  And she knew how to act the part.

  Rising up on her tip-toes, she hooked her fingers into the collar of his shirt and said in her accented English, “You will not hurt Katya?”

  His jaw shifted. His body all but vibrated against hers. Most men would have had her on her back by now.

  Was he shy?

  She flicked her tongue against the column of his throat. He sucked in a breath. “Katya will not hurt you,” she murmured. She nuzzled the skin behind his ear, and his head moved. A fraction of an inch. Reluctant as hell, but there.

  “Katya will make you feel nice,” she whispered, just before she sank her teeth into the sensitive skin of his earlobe.

  The sound he made was guttural, leashed taut.

  So he had the same button as all the other men after all. The same weakness that would buy her the time to figure out what to do with a dirty cop.

  She smiled against his skin.

  A smile that faded as he once more caught her shoulders, wrenching her away. His eyes blazed in stormy black and brown; a wild intensity that ratcheted tension through her as he stared into her own.

  Her heart leapt into her throat. “I—”

  “They’ll know if I don’t,” he muttered hoarsely, but more as if he spoke to himself than to her. Without warning, he pulled her hard against him. Caught her face between his palms and tipped her face up with impatient fingers.

  Katya gasped.

  He covered the sound with his lips, pulled the air from her lungs on a low, angry noise that did nothing to dull the sudden heat flushing her chest. Her stomach, and lower.

  His lips were warm, firm against hers. Demanding. He didn’t coax, he didn’t wait; Katya had long since learned never to expect it. He tilted her face up, thumbs at the corners of her mouth, and swept his tongue inside to taste her.

  Her breath shuddered. The sensation seemed to light a fire in him; he dragged his tongue across hers. Teased it, coaxed it to follow back into his own mouth. The world simmered around her, danced wildly as if caught in a heat wave.

  His eyelashes were black, she realized. The skin across his high cheekbones was taut, flushed with control and arousal and his body against hers was rock solid and—Oh, God.

  For one moment, Katya forgot about her situation. She forgot about the other girls she was so desperately trying to protect; forgot about their jailer somewhere in the small house.

  She forgot about the plans to escape this hellhole and the police who had turned her away.

  There was only Nigel Ferris; dirty cop with a mouth to die for.

  She closed her eyes. His hands left her face and she fisted her fingers in his shirt, hauling him closer. Begging him wordlessly to continue feasting from her lips. Tasting her soul. He groaned again. His arms came around her, dragged her off the floor. Wild, wanton, she wrapped her legs around his hips and tangled her fingers into his short, wavy hair.

  He sank his teeth into her lower lip and she arched. The thick length of his erection ground against the front of her jeans and her skin caught fire. Gasping for breath, she could only moan helplessly as he held her as easily as if she were made of feathers, ground himself against her, devoured her identity and her willpower with a bruising kiss that would be sure to leave her lips swollen when he was done.

  Arousal filled her so hard, so shockingly hot and fast, that she reeled.

  It had been too long.

  Why? Why a cop? A bad cop, even?

  And then his hand crept under her shirt and she forgot that, too. Her world was suddenly comprised of the feel of his callused palm against her naked waist. Her ribs. And then hard and warm over the soft pink cup of her bra. She thrust herself into his hand, her fingers tight at the back of his neck.

  “Not a good idea,” he groaned against her mouth, each syllable a throaty curse. “Wait, stop, I—The hell!” He staggered, jarring Katya out of her reverie as somewhere beyond that door, girls screamed.

  Her eyes snapped open.

  “Shit!” Nigel dropped to his knees, still cradling Katya against his chest. “Get down!” He dropped her, and arousal flipped over to utter confusion, total fear. A raid! Were they being shot at? Was that—

  “The floor,” she gasped, struggling to push herself to her hands and knees. “It’s moving!”

  He didn’t say anything, flattening a hand on her back. Katya grunted gracelessly as he pushed her to her stomach, and yelped as he covered her body with his. She felt dwarfed. Smothered.

  Sick to her stomach.

  He pushed her head down, folded his arms over her. The house shook and trembled around them. Plaster cracked, dingy white dust sifting to the floor as it rolled. Her stomach pitched and yawned; one ear plugged abruptly, and vertigo slammed into every nerve still trying to find mental footing.

  Through the vee between his protective arm and the floor, she watched the mattress shimmy and vibrate its way to the other wall. Plaster fell in clumps, and she felt him tense over her. Heard him grit out something hard and painful.

  He was protecting her. The dirty cop, the man who’d bargained with a Russian pimp for an hour of sex, was protecting her.

  Katya’s hands fisted as the room shuddered.

  Who the hell was this man?

  And why did she suddenly feel that she’d seen this earthquake coming?

  About the Author

  * * *

  After writing happily-ever-afters for all of her friends in school, Karina Cooper eventually grew up (sort of), went to work in the real world (kind of), where she decided that making stuff up was way more fun (true!). She is the author of dark and sexy paranormal romance, steampunk urban fantasy, and writes across multiple genres with mad glee. One part glamour, one part dork and all imagination, Karina is also a gamer, an airship captain’s wife, and a steampunk fashionista. She lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest with a husband, a menagerie, a severe coffee habit, and a passel of adopted gamer geeks. Visit her at www.karinacooper.com, because she says so.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  Also by Karina Cooper

  Dark Mission Series

  Sacrifice the Wicked

  All Things Wicked

  No Rest for the Witches

  Lure of the Wicked

  Blood of the Wicked

  Before the Witches

  The St. Croix Chronicles

  Gilded

  Tarnished

  Give in to your impulses . . .

  Read on for a sneak peek at six brand-new

  e-book original tales of romance from Avon Books.

  Available now wherever e-books are sold.

  THE EARL IN MY BED

  A FORGOTTEN PRINCESSES VALENTINE NOVELLA

  By Sophie Jordan

  KISS ME

  AN AVON BOOKS VALENTINE’S DAY ANTHOLOGY

  By Codi Gary, Cheryl Harper, and Jaclyn Hatcher

  ADVENTURES WITH MAX AND LOUISE

  By Ellyn Oaksmith

  GET THERE

  By Megan Hart

  VAMPIRES GONE WILD

  SUPERNATURAL UNDERGROUND

  By Kerrelyn Sparks, Pamela Palmer, Amanda Arista, and Kim Falconer

  SAVED BY THE RANCHER

  BOOK ONE: THE HUNTED SERIES

  By Jennifer Ryan

  An Excerpt from

  The Earl in My Bed

  A FORGOTTEN PRINCESSES VALENTINE NOVELLA

  by Sophie Jordan

  From New York Times bestselling author Sophie Jordan comes a Forgotten Princesses Valentine novella. All her life, everyone assumed Paget Ellsworth was intended for one man. Little did they realize she was destined for another . . .

  She could delay no longer.

  As much as she hoped to put it off another day, another fortnight, Paget could wait no longer. As it was, the winter winds might freeze her to the bones if she did not return home soon. With a heavy breath, she took the final step that brought her to the crest of the hill overlooking the sprawling manor house that belonged to the Earl of Winningham. Exposed to the elements atop the rise, her wool dress whipped around her legs.

  Paget swallowed thickly. The earl himself was in residence. As he had been for the past month. He was all anyone discussed in the village. Every tongue wagged with his name. Speculation was ripe as to when he would surface. Whether he would attend Sunday service. Or even the annual Valentine’s Day fête. Everyone desperately craved a glimpse of him.

  Everyone except her.

  She released a heavy breath, blowing aside a pale strand of hair that dangled in her face. Every Sunday she sat in the first pew, eyes trained on Papa at the head of the church, hands folded neatly in her lap as she braced herself for the telltale titter among the congregation, signaling the earl’s long-anticipated arrival.

  Thus far it had not occurred.

  She fervently hoped he would not attend the baronet’s Valentine fête. The annual gathering had always been such a happy time. Memories of it were tangled up with her memories of Owen and Brand. Not Jamie. Never Jamie. He had never deigned to attend. He had looked down his aristocratic nose at such country gatherings. Only Owen and Brand had ever cared.

  She blinked back the hot press of tears at the memory of her friends. Both were gone from her. One dead. The other fighting in a war halfway around the world. They should be here. Either one of them. Both of them.

  An image of Jamie rose in her mind, that stiff walk of his with his hands clasped behind his back, his countenance dour, reflecting none of Brand’s warmth or Owen’s playfulness. He was the stiff, proper earl even when he had not been. Something dark twisted inside her heart. Perhaps he had known all along that the title would be his. Brand had always been weak and frail, after all.

  Shaking off her bitter thoughts, she adjusted her grip on the basket handle. The aroma of warm biscuits drifted up to her nose as she sucked in a breath and descended the hill.

  She wouldn’t be the first to call upon him. Her father had done so, of course. An obligatory visit. She usually accompanied him on his calls, but on that occasion she’d stayed behind, blaming an aching head. Sitting in the Winninghams’ opulent drawing room without either Brand or Owen . . . knowing Jamie was the new earl . . .

  She could not have borne it.

  She still could not stomach it, but her father had looked askance at her when she declared that she would not be calling upon the earl with the customary basket of homemade lemon biscuits that she presented everyone with for all noteworthy occasions—the birth of a new child, the announcement of a betrothal, the passing of a relation. The new earl returning home after years of war certainly warranted a basket of baked goods, and well her father knew it. Well she knew it.

  All was quiet in the morning light. Swans glided across the lake, faint ripples stretching out in ever-widening arcs. She eyed the manor’s wide double doors as she approached.

  The Earl of Winningham. Jamie was now the earl. This truth rattled around in her head as if looking for a place to settle. Dear, sweet Brand lay buried in the family cemetery on the other side of the sprawling manse. He’d never been long for this world. Never robust, never able to keep up and play with her or Owen. She and Owen had to backtrack for him constantly. For all that he had tried, Brand had always been more ghost than man.

  Now the title belonged to Jamie. Taciturn and aggravatingly proper James. Always looking down at Owen. Always making certain Owen never forgot he was a mere half-brother. Always looking down at her, a mere vicar’s daughter.

  Kiss Me

  AN AVON BOOKS VALENTINE’S DAY ANTHOLOGY

  by Codi Gary, Cheryl Harper, and Jaclyn Hatcher

  Pucker up on the most romantic day of the year with three debut contemporary authors and their tales of romance, seduction, and . . . Elvis?

  She’s got a hot new makeover . . . and a boss to seduce! For prim and proper Ryan Ashton, sexy has always been an elusive quality. But with a little help from a new friend, she just might snag the one man who can set her seductive side loose in Codi Gary’s The Trouble With Sexy.

  Stuck in a king-size suite with a sexy man . . . What more could a girl ask for? But for Julie Dillon, being snowed in at an Elvis-themed Memphis hotel with Luke Pearce can’t mean anything but trouble. Too close for comfort gets close enough to taste in Cheryl Harper’s Love Me Tender.

  Her best friend’s brother just shook up her Valentine’s Day. Katie Quinn just wanted to spend the day watching Jurassic Park and eating chocolate. She certainly had no intention of running into Logan Cross—or running for her life! Suddenly caught in the crosshairs of danger, Katie and Logan must get together to find a way out in Jaclyn Hatcher’s Love, Guns, and Heart-Shaped Chocolate.

  An Excerpt from

  Adventures with Max and Louise

  by Ellyn Oaksmith

  (Originally published under the title Knockers)

  Molly Gallagher does not like to be the center of attention, but before you can say “medical malpractice,” she wakes up from a routine procedure to find that her chart got switched with someone else’s, and now her A cup runneth over. Molly realized her new shape might change her life. She just never anticipated quite how much . . .

  I hold up my hand. “Whoa. Whoa. Hang on a second. Go back. Implants? You said implants.”

  “Yes, implants. Breast implants,” the nurse says briskly.

  I shake my head. “But I didn’t get implants. I had some scars repaired.” I wave my hand over the bandages as if this will clear things up.

  The nurse purses her lips, reads the chart again, following with her finger. “Yes, you did.” Tap, tap with her finger. “Exactly the kind you and the doctor discussed.”

  But I’m not listening. Lifting the sheets, I duck my head under the covers. The stitches strain. My chest radiates with pain, distant but hot. It’s too dark to see anything, so I throw back the sheets.

  Angeli stares at my chest, mouth gaping in shock. Looking down at the gentle swell under the bandages, I scream and grab my chest. Aching warmth shoots through me where my hands touch but also a new sensation: mounds of flesh, breasts. They feel huge, like mountains on a once-flat mesa. Everything becomes a surrealistic blur, like an old foreign film without subtitles. People in newspaper articles get messed up in surgery, not me.

  “I have breasts!” There is no way to describe how absolutely terrifying it is to wake up with an additional body part. Like Frankenstein; no, Frankenstein’s stripper. I have breast implants! My brain spins around wildly. Random thoughts flutter like cards in a hurricane. I remember a PBS documentary I once saw on exotic dancers. Each of them discussed their implants size and firmness like judges in the agricultural booth of a county fair.

  “Holy shit! He gave her implants!” Angeli’s hand flutters over her mouth. Her newfound professionalism withers in the face of catastrophe. “She didn’t come in here for implants,” she hisses at the nurse.

  She whispers in my ear. “You didn’t change your mind after I fainted, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t change my mind! It wasn’t even an option!” I yell.

  “You don’t have to scream!” Angeli shouts.

  “Yes, I do have to scream. I’m freaking out. I have breast implants! How could this happen?”

  The nose job girl and her mother happily perk up, heads swiveling back and forth between us, enjoying my predicament.

  “Of course it was an option,” the nurse says soothingly, as though I am a mental patient. She reminds me of Nurse Ratchet from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. “It says right here”—she picks up the chart, taps it with a fingernail—“350 cc’s saline implants: Glaxco-Smythe, which, by the way, are the best.” She lowers her voice to a confidential whisper. “That’s what I have, although now they say silicone is just as safe. I’m thinking of getting mine switched. They’re so much more realistic.” This last comment is delivered with a wink.

  “My flatness was realistic!” I spit the words out so hard, it strains my stitches. “I came in here to get rid of my scars, not get fake boobs.”

  The nurse winces. I realize, too late, I have insulted her. For a split second, I actually feel sorry—until she thrusts her chart under my nose.

  “There it is in black and white.” Each syllable gets a finger tap for emphasis. This nonsense has gone as far as she’s going to let it.

  I quickly scan the chart. “And you’d be right if my name were Christine McDaniel. But it’s not!” The chest ache becomes a throb. My heart races along with my mind. How in the hell could this have happened?