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  Jokers Wild

  Call Me

  Three Nights

  Stripped Bare

  Something, Borrowed, Something Blue

  Head Over Heels: A Cinderella Story

  What if the man of your dreams is also the one of your nightmares?

  Sleight of Hand

  © 2008 Katrina Strauss

  Edwin Matthews just wants to get some sleep. Traveling by steam train with his family, the melancholic nineteen year old is plagued by restless nights and recurring dreams of a fiery disaster. When a mysterious magician comes aboard, the troubled insomniac’s trip takes an interesting turn.

  Tall, dark, and incredibly handsome, the flamboyant Sir Marco Satori offers to cure what ails Edwin. Spurred by equal parts curiosity, desperation, and attraction, Edwin agrees to the experiment. Suddenly he finds his quiet journey turned into a wild ride of life, love, sex, death..and a few strange things in between.

  He also finds himself claimed—in more ways than one—while a promise of “eternity” may be more than Edwin bargains for.

  Warning: This book contains violence, dubious consent, masturbation, anal penetration, light D/s, frock coats, cravats, questionable Victorian parlor tricks, and hot sex between beautiful men on a fast-moving train.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Sleight of Hand:

  Edwin sat in the center of the tufted fainting couch, spine straight and hands folded primly in his lap. Satori rummaged through the bar selection, tracing a finger across the bottles rattling gently together in time to the clack of the train wheels. Edwin stole a glance at the older man’s backside. Satori had removed his coat, revealing his svelte frame of slightly broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist. A strip of white silk shirt showed between the hem of his waistcoat and his tightly fitted trousers, the waistband hanging unfashionably yet enticingly low on the hipbone.

  Tearing his eyes away before they drifted lower, Edwin scanned the coach’s interior and was affected by the same vague sense of disorientation he’d experienced upon entering the carriage. The space was furnished with the usual trappings of a gentleman’s parlor, adorned in sumptuous velvets, silks, brocades and leather, in varying hues of black and red trimmed in ebony wood, the floor checkered with black and white tiles—nothing too out of the ordinary, if perhaps a bit ornate.

  What lent the private saloon such an unusual quality was that the dimensions seemed off. At first, the space had appeared a touch wider than it should have been. Now, as Edwin shook his head and blinked, the width seemed proportionate but the floor appeared to have been stretched a few feet longer. He considered that the checkerboard pattern created an optical illusion—at least that was the only logical explanation for Edwin’s skewed spatial perspective.

  His gaze focused back on the bar, a curiosity unto itself. The requisite bottles of brandy and rum and such were interspersed with various sizes, shapes and colors of bottles, jars and crockery, appearing to serve more as a pharmacopeia than a place to shelve liquor.

  “Ah, here we are,” Satori announced. He stepped from behind the curved, polished counter with a small blob-neck bottle in hand. On first appearance Edwin thought the glass to be black, but as the illusionist passed through the window light, Edwin noted it to be dark olive amber.

  Satori levered the wire bail stopper from the neck, releasing the pressure of the contents with a soft pop, followed by the tell-tale hiss of effervescence. He passed the bottle to Edwin, the brush of fingers sending another surge of current down Edwin’s arm, charging him to the very core. Clearing his throat, Edwin wafted the opened neck under his nose. The liquid bore no scent, the fizzy substance greeting him only with a light kiss of moisture across his upper lip.

  “Mineral water,” Edwin observed, one eyebrow lifted in question.

  “Lithia water, to be precise.” Satori took a seat in the wingback chair directly across from Edwin. “Bottled at a secret source for which the location may not be divulged. Widely touted as a hangover cure, although users have reported other benefits.”

  “Such as?” Skeptical, Edwin held the near-opaque glass up to the light. He thought back to the acrid tincture of black hellebore he’d been prescribed daily at the hospital, the one which had left him doubled over for the next hour while his gut clenched in painful spasm. After his discharge, he’d read up on the herb and learned it to be toxic. He’d concluded that the alienists were no worse than charlatans peddling snake oil.

  “A calming of the mind,” Satori replied, “a soothing of the nerves.” He crossed one leg over the other and propped an elbow on the chair arm. Two fingers denting his brow, he nodded. “Drink.”

  Deciding he had nothing to lose—and at the point where he would gladly welcome being poisoned—Edwin took a tentative sip. The bubbles fizzed pleasantly against his lips, while a scant taste of metal lingered on his tongue. Head tilted back, he continued drinking, allowing the cool beverage to trickle down his throat. Pausing to lick his lips, Edwin hazarded a glance at his would-be shaman and found the other man watching him intently. Despite the cool drink, Edwin felt the unwanted flush creep back up his neck. He shifted in his seat, and realized the bottle had gone dry.

  Satori rose. “Very good. Let’s get started, shall we, before we enter the tunnel.”

  As he took the bottle, their bare fingers brushed, jolting Edwin’s senses once again. Attempting to cover his reaction, he cupped his fist to his mouth with a feigned cough.

  His ploy failed. “My dear boy, this simply won’t do.” Satori set the bottle aside on the end table. “If the hypnosis is to be a success, you must relax.”

  Satori nudged between his knees and thumbed Edwin’s chin. Edwin had long grown accustomed to the closeness necessitated during a physical exam and had learned to tolerate the trained, analytical touch of the medical practitioner. However, Satori was no licensed physician, and his approach came off as decidedly more intimate. Discomfited, Edwin began to shut his eyes, but instead found himself captivated by the mage’s searing gaze.

  He flinched at the sensation of Satori unpinning his tie. His pulse raced at the whisper of crisp silk being slid from around his collar.

  “There, doesn’t that feel better?” Satori asked.

  “Yes,” Edwin conceded with a mumble, his neck free of the starched fabric.

  Satori opened the first few buttons of Edwin’s shirt. Edwin swallowed, his heart pounding now. The magician cupped his face in both hands and rolled his head from side to side, tracing the pads of his thumbs across Edwin’s cheekbones. He massaged the pressure points behind Edwin’s ears. Examining the throat nodes, his touch lingered at Edwin’s throbbing jugular.

  “There’s no need to be nervous, Master Edwin. Lie back and make yourself comfortable.”

  Cradling Edwin’s head in one hand, he eased Edwin sideways. Following Satori’s lead, Edwin lay back against the headrest. Peering up, he watched the magician take his place behind the high rounded corner that graced one end of the sofa. Satori smiled downward, his ebony mane framing his face, and began to massage Edwin’s temples

  In this town, danger moves to a steamy Latin beat.

  Mexican Heat

  © 2009 Laura Baumbach and Josh Lanyon

  Crimes & Cocktails, book 1

  SFPD detective Gabriel Sandalini might as well have put a gun to his own head. One red-hot sexual encounter in a bar’s back room has put two years of deep undercover work in jeopardy—two years of danger and deception as he worked his way into crime boss Ricco Botelli’s inner circle. Gabriel can’t afford emotional entanglements. Hell, he can’t afford emotions. But that was before he had a name to pin on that anonymous one-off—Miguel Ortega.

  Miguel Ortega doesn’t trust anyone, but tough, street-smart Gabriel brings out the conquistador in his Spanish blood. But distractions are nothing short of deadly right now, not with his boss’s impending marriage to Botelli’s sister, which will ensure peace—and massive drug profits—for both fa
milies.

  On a trip to Mexico to set up drug supply lines, a violent confrontation proves they’ve got each other’s backs—to a degree.

  Then one savage act changes everything, testing not only their fragile bond, but Gabriel’s will to live.

  Warning: Combination of Italian stallion and Spanish conquistador could cause spontaneous combustion. Read with icy cold margaritas on hand for emergencies.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Mexican Heat:

  Mesmerized, body swaying slightly to the throb of the music emanating through the floor and walls, his own sexual need tight and hot in his belly, Gabriel reached out to brush a fingertip over the surface of the nearer painting as though trying to touch the indescribable, seductive emotions on the canvas, emotions he craved but had yet to acknowledge even within himself.

  He was leaning closer to get a look at the signature in the bottom corner of the canvas when a scuffing sound jerked him back to reality too late. Beguiled by the exotic sights, the primal beat, and his own personal demons, Gabriel never heard the man behind him until he was seized and pinned face down over the broad oak desk.

  He struggled, but alcohol and shock at his own carelessness slowed his reactions. His arms were twisted behind his back, his wrists painfully bent.

  Belatedly, he remembered the semiautomatic pistol in the glove compartment of his SUV. He’d deliberately left his piece behind, expecting to be frisked entering the club; he hadn’t really anticipated trouble that night. But that was no excuse. He’d been foolhardy. He deserved to get popped just for being stupid.

  And the odds of that fate were good because he could feel the outline of the other man’s shoulder holster and gun pressing into his back. The good news was he hadn’t already pulled his weapon and blown Gabriel’s head off.

  In fact, now that Gabriel considered it, although the other man’s hold was effective, it wasn’t particularly…professional. It wasn’t even genuinely threatening though the full weight of his assailant had landed across his back, forcing the air from his lungs in an oof. The most immediate danger seemed to be to Gabriel’s dick, which was trapped between his hips and the rounded edge of the hard surface.

  Warm, tequila-laced breath danced across the cheek not rammed into the desktop. The scent of sandalwood soap and clean sweat teased his nose. Gabriel squirmed until the feel of a thick cock pressed against the back seam of his jeans froze him.

  This was…different.

  “Listen,” he got out. “The door was open, and I saw the paintings. I’m not trying to steal anything.”

  No response.

  Torn between the fear that he was really in trouble and the illicit thrill of being trapped and helpless in such a compromising position, Gabriel forced himself to remain still. When nothing further developed, he tried to turn his head to see his attacker, but a rough-velvet cheek landed on his own cleanly shaved one, immobilizing him.

  “Hey, asshole,” Gabriel managed. “You hear me?” He gave one angry heave, which the other suppressed without much effort.

  “Uh…something you want to say to me, asshole?” he inquired with an effort.

  A genuinely amused chuckle rumbled out of the chest pressed into Gabriel’s back and a low, honey-coated voice interrupted him just as he was getting started. There was a shift of hips and the thick rod riding the crease of Gabriel’s jeans slid over him in short, slow strokes. Rubbing his bristled jaw over Gabriel’s cheek, the man teased in a seductive growl, “Speaking of asses, pequeño asno elegante, I must say, yours is very fine.”

  That lean jaw moving against his own, those deep, smooth tones—that sexy trace of Spanish accent—vibrated through Gabriel’s whole body, tingling all the way down his spine to his tailbone.

  A tongue traced the edge of Gabriel’s ear. His cock jerked at the touch, desire rippling from his groin directly to his brain, flooding out common sense, reason—self-preservation—and Gabriel found himself pushing back, craving that increased contact. He closed his eyes, biting his lip, feeling the answering hard heat through their clothing—too much clothing.

  The man chuckled, a deep, slightly breathless laugh. “So you want to tell me what you’re doing in this private office, gringo? Besides offering up this pretty ass of yours?”

  The laugh, even more than the words, recalled Gabriel to himself and his situation. His eyes snapped open. What the hell was he doing?

  “I told you what I was doing. I was admiring the art collection. If you don’t want people in here, then don’t leave the fucking door open. It’s a public place. An open door is an invitation to enter.”

  Unimpressed by this speech, his captor said softly, breath warm against his ear, “Possibly. Or did you think I was in here? Were you following me? I think maybe you were, gringo.”

  Say what? Gabriel made another attempt to free himself, but he could buck and pitch all he liked; he was just wearing himself out. Expelling a frustrated breath, he made himself relax once more on the hard surface. His breath fogged the glossy wood beneath his cheek.

  “You’re out of your fucking head…”

  But of course he knew now. Only one man in Club Madrone that night had reason to think Gabriel might be looking for him. Well, two men counting Benny, but this powerful build and confident voice in no way belonged to that skinny, whiny weasel.

  Gabriel renewed his struggles, nearly levering himself up from the desk, before giving in to the greater weight and strength forcing him back down.

  Body tense, Gabriel waited, ready for whatever the next move was.

  And there it was: that honeybaked chuckle again. It drove Gabriel frantic.

  “Whatever you’re thinking, dickhead, forget it because I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. I don’t know who you are, and I wasn’t fucking following anyone.”

  The hard shaft against his ass pressed closer, and Gabriel involuntarily flexed his hips, rubbing himself over the desk edge and then back against the bulge snuggled into his crack. God. Please, please. Yes. Jesus, please some kind of release…

  Hot breath scalded his neck and cheek. The man said silkily in his accented English, “Madre mios. You, my ferocious little one, have a gutter mouth a demon would be proud of.”

  Little? Little?

  “Fuck. You.” Incensed, Gabriel tried to headbutt his captor, only to have a forearm bear threateningly down on the back of his neck. Face smooshed against the slick wood again, he found breathing increasingly difficult.

  He jerked as teeth nipped at his nape, the sharp sting startling a shudder out of him. The man gave a satisfied grunt.

  “I think”—there was a deliberate pause—“I’d prefer it the other way around.”

  Gabriel tried to remember exactly what he’d said, and hissed as he was unexpectedly hauled off the desk. Hands momentarily free, he lashed out, managing to land a couple of hard but largely ineffectual blows at the other’s head. A second later his arms were yanked behind his back, wrists pinioned by one large, capable hand.

  Christ, this guy’s strong. Gabriel felt a flicker of genuine alarm. Even if he really wanted free, he wasn’t sure he’d manage it. Once again he was manhandled over the desk.

  Fingers threaded his hair, caressing, curling through the long strands. “So soft,” the big man murmured. “Like a kitten.”

  “K-kitten? I remind you of a goddamned kitten?” Gabriel stuttered his indignation. He didn’t want tenderness, didn’t want caresses. He tossed his head, but the questing fingers merely clamped in his hair, demanding stillness.

  “Shhh.” And the guy said it gently, like he fully expected Gabriel to hush up now.

  And appallingly Gabriel felt a melting in his gut, a desire to shut up and do whatever this prick told him to do.

  The larger man deliberately shoved his hips against Gabriel.

  “D’you…mind…” he gasped.

  “I might,” he was informed mildly. “I might be quite sensitive. You might have seriously hurt my feelings.”


  Once again the sonofabitch was laughing at Gabriel. He ground out, “Yeah, right. Okay, asshole. Fun is fun. Now let me up. I’ve got things to do and places to go. Not that this hasn’t been a night to remember…”

  A breath of tequila huffed against the side of his face, tickling his ear. “Is that what you really want, little tiger? You do not like my attentions?”

  Gabriel shivered as the man plastered himself closer still, his stiff member rubbing up and down Gabriel’s ass. “You do not want my warmth against your body?”

  He shook his head, not trusting his voice.

  “We both know you’re lying, mi gatito parvulo.” A big hand slid between Gabriel’s legs to grope the hard bulge there. “You desire me, si?”

  “No, I don’t see,” Gabriel gritted. But, oh God, the feel of that big hand fondling him through the stiff denim of his jeans. It was all he could do not to beg.

  The exploring hand found his waistband and worked the button fly of his jeans. Before Gabriel could do more than grunt out a protest, his Levi’s were roughly dragged down. Cool air wafted over his bare cheeks as the jeans slid down his long strong legs to pool at his feet. He was left standing there in his jock strap.

  “Silk,” the big man murmured approvingly. “Yes. That is you. That is perfect.”

  Perfectly embarrassing, maybe.

  And the wisp of silk and elastic went with one swipe, freeing Gabriel’s swollen cock to jut up against the polished wood of the huge desk. He started to turn, then thought better of it, tensing at the clink of a belt buckle. This was followed by the slide of a zipper. Gabriel stood frozen, the blood pounding dizzily in his ears. His cock was already leaking in excitement.

  The big man said something soft in Spanish, something Gabriel couldn’t quite catch, but the velvet growl of words nuzzled into his hair set his heart tumbling.

  Long steely fingers wrapped around his shaft. The blunt, callused pad of a thumb slowly massaged the head, teasing the underside and tracing the creamy slit. Gabriel bit his tongue to keep from moaning, but as the edge of that thumb smeared the precome, a faint sound escaped him. His knees weak, he gratefully acknowledged the hard arm about his waist, only noticing then—distantly—that his hands were free. Good thing. He needed them to steady himself on the edge of the desk.