Waking Up to You Overexposed - By Leslie Kelly Page 0,159
grasped the other man’s hand again in a brothers-of-the-field handshake, then watched the group head to their table.
He could have been one of them. Hell, he and Joel even looked like they were in the same line of work since they were both dressed in black from head to toe. Old habits sure died hard.
But he didn’t regret it. He hadn’t been lying when he said he liked what he was doing. A lot. Maybe not forever, but for now, working with Izzie doing something nobody had ever expected either of them to do was suiting him just fine.
“What time you got, Bernie?” he asked the bouncer, who stood nearby, on constant, vigilant guard.
“Eight-twenty,” the other man said.
Hmm...about forty minutes before the Crimson Rose’s first performance of the night.
Forty minutes. That might be enough time to tell the woman again how crazy he was about her. And how very glad he was that she’d stayed in Chicago with him.
When he got downstairs, walked into her dressing room and caught her standing behind her screen wearing nothing but her G-string, however, he reconsidered that idea.
Forty minutes wasn’t going to be enough. Not nearly.
“Hey, lover.” She smiled at him in the mirror.
He smiled back. “Hey, Cookie.”
Never taking his eyes off her beautiful face, Nick reached behind him and closed the door, flipping the lock to keep the world out. And to shut them in the wild and sultry one he thrived on with the woman he loved more than life.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt of Lying in Bed by Jo Leigh
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1
SPECIAL AGENT RYAN VAIL tossed the brochure on the bed. The amazingly comfortable-looking bed, which was a far cry from most of the rat holes he’d been stuck with on various FBI stings and stakeouts. The Color Canyon Resort and Spa was a decadent oasis in the middle of the Las Vegas desert built for people with cash to spend and a yen for excitement and being pampered.
Ryan settled against the headboard, the puffy comforter billowing around him. Straight ahead was a forty-two-inch flat-screen TV. There was a wing chair, a leather love seat, an extravagantly stocked minibar and, if he turned his head to the right, beyond the private patio was a view of a nice little courtyard with a pool and spa pool all in the shadow of the Spring Mountains. It might be February in the rest of the world, but in the Vegas desert it was a balmy seventy-two degrees with copious sunshine on the docket for the rest of the week.
He grinned, pulled out his cell phone and went right to speed dial text.
You’re gonna die when you see the bathtub.
He hit Send, adjusted the pillow behind him and checked out his work stuff. Another email update on Delilah Bridges, one of the cotherapists in charge of this barbecue. Four people ran the Intimate At Last retreat weekends, all suspects in a major blackmail scheme. Unfortunately for them, they’d unwittingly targeted a friend of James Leonard, the Deputy Director of the FBI.
Ryan’s phone rang, and he knew it was his partner without even looking. “Jeannie Foster. How’s my favorite witness for the State?”
“Shut up, you bastard,” she said, her voice echoey, as if she were speaking in a vast hall. Or a toilet stall.
Of course, he’d taken a picture of the big-enough-for-a-party whirlpool tub, which he promptly sent her. A moment later, the mother of two cursed him with her usual flair.
“I hate court. I hate lawyers. I hate judges. And don’t even get me started on juries. Get me the hell out of here, Ryan.”
“It should be over soon, right?”
“Probably around the time of the next ice age. Jesus, they love to hear themselves talk.”
“In a few hours you’ll forget all about them. This place is something else. If I’m going to be forced to sleep with you, I’m glad it’s in this beauty of a bed. Which is actually more comfortable than mine at home.”