Read An Excerpt
LICENSE TO THRILL
General Romantic Suspense, Romantic Suspense
She stole his breath away.
Mason lay sprawled on the floor, struggling to suck in air. Charlee’s lean, hard body flung atop his, her firm round breasts squashed flat against his shoulder blades, her warm, sweet breath fanned his cheek.
His ears rang and the silky strands of her long, jet-black hair, combined with the pungent odor of gunpowder, tickled his nose. Disoriented both by lack of oxygen and her compelling feminine scent, he simply gasped.
What in the hell had just happened?
Charlee had slammed into him like a defensive lineman sacking a quarterback at the very same instant he’d heard a car backfiring. Why in the hell had she head-butted him into next week?
The muffled sound of a car engine—was it the same one that had backfired?—revved, followed by the high-pitched squeal of tires peeling out.
“Mason? Are you all right?” Charlee sounded distant and far away, even though her head hovered just above his.
He pried open the eye that wasn’t shoved into the carpet and blinked at the gentle slope of her nose.
“Are you hit?”
“Hee, hee, hee,” he wheezed.
“You’ve just had the wind knocked out of you,” she diagnosed and scrambled off his back. She stood over him, one hand on her gun, the other on her hip. “You’ll be all right.”
Mason finally caught his breath and looked up. Broken glass clung to her hair and clothes. He frowned, still trying to piece together what had just occurred.
She held out a hand and hauled him to his feet, power-gripping like a captain of industry. His gaze shifted from the shattered window and the glass shards spilt across Maybelline’s desk, to the opposite wall where a bullet hole dug into the Sheetrock.
The truth hit him like an anvil.
That was no backfiring car.
“Someone shot at me.”
She bent at the waist and flipped her hair to shake out the glass. The slow toss shouldn’t have been sensual, but the manner in which she raked her fingers through the glossy strands, tousling it first one way and then the next, captured his caveman instincts.
And the way her shirt inched up, exposing a narrow expanse of her bare back and a glimpse of purple thong panties peeking just above the waistband of her jeans sent a sharp spike of pure physical longing straight through him.
Mason blinked and shook his head. What in the hell was the matter with him?
“That’s why you were hollering at me to move,” he said, turning to eye the window to keep his gaze off the provocative Charlee. “You spotted the gunman.”
“Ding, ding, ding. Very good, Sherlock.”
"I could have been killed.”
“You saved my life.” Rattled and yet desperate to hide his creeping apprehension in the face of Charlee’s composure, Mason shoved a hand through his hair and determinedly ignored the nervous sweat plastering his shirt to his shoulder blades.