Lexxie Couper's Blog, page 23

The Entire (Unedited) First Chapter of Misplaced Cowboy

I gave you the first chapter of Muscle for Hire last week, one of my upcoming Samhain releases, so today I thought I’d give you the first chapter of Misplaced Cowboy, one of my upcoming Ellora’s Cave releases (and the second book in the Foreign Affairs series I’m co-writing with Mari Carr. Squee! How cool is that??)

It’s totally untouched by my editor (the fabulous Kelli Collins) so please excuse all mistakes and typos. I promise they won’t be there in the published version. Honest *grin*

***

Chapter One

New York

 

Dylan Sullivan gazed up at the Empire State Building towering a thousand feet above him and thought, Bugger. I’m lost.

He considered going with the tried and true “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto” but seeing as he’d never been to the U.S. before now, let alone Kansas, and he didn’t have a little yappy dog prancing around his feet, he decided it was both clichéd and inappropriate.

Dylan’s chest squeezed tight. His dog—Mutt—was on the other side of the world, probably curled up asleep in the back of Dylan’s pickup on the cattle station he and his brother ran. Either that or causing havoc with the wild kangaroos that kept seeking out water around the main house. The fact Mutt was not at his side, a place the dog spent pretty much every minute of the day when Dylan was working, just drove home the point even further that Dylan was out of his comfort zone. Way out.

An Australian stockman had no place being in America. None at all. Especially one who didn’t own anything to wear except faded blue jeans, worn dress boots, and flannel shirts.

Reaching up, Dylan removed his hat—a thoroughly beat-up, well-worn Akrubra—and dragged his fingers through his hair. Fair dinkum, even his hat was a give away he was a fish out of water.

What the bloody hell had he been thinking flying to America?

What had you been thinking? You’d been thinking about Annie. About finally meeting her face to face. About seeing if she smelt as good as you think she does. About finding out if her lips were as soft as they looked…

Yeah, that’s what he’d been thinking. Of course, when he’d touched down at JFK International Airport, Annie had been a no-show. Which left Dylan, well…screwed.

Turning away from the Empire State Building, he surveyed the mass of people swarming around him. It had seemed like a good idea at the time to leave the airport. Annie hadn’t arrived but that didn’t mean she’d stood him up. After a few months of talking on the net, he figured her to be a pretty decent woman. Not the kind to leave a man in the lurch after agreeing to this cross-global meeting. Hell, she’d been all for the challenge of a city girl and a country boy facing off and he’d told her what flight he was coming in on in his last email. But the moment he’d debarked the plane, things had started going wrong.

He didn’t believe in omens, not like Aunt Joyce back home who wouldn’t leave her home if she saw a row of ducks break formation, but when he’d gone to collect his luggage—one solitary duffle bag—and found it missing, he should have suspected things weren’t going as planned.

After two hours of waiting for Annie, of standing in a busy airport surrounded by people who all looked like they were in a major rush, some who gave him curious sideward glances, some who passed whispers after casting him in head-to-toe glances, he’d decided to brave the unknown world beyond the glass doors and seek her out. He had her address. Perhaps there was something wrong? A problem preventing her getting to the airport?

A traffic jamb had brought the cab to a problem however before he could make it to Annie’s apartment. Determined not to wait in the stuffy vehicle, he’d elected to walk the rest of the way.

He hadn’t expected a doorman who wouldn’t let him pass. Why would he? He’d spent his entire life on Farpoint Creek cattle station, a place half the size of Texas and roughly a thousand kilometers from Australia’s closest high-rise apartment complex.

The man, a round and somewhat squishy bloke decked out in a burgundy suit complete with gold buttons and matching cap, stood in Dylan’s path, staring up at him with unwavering determination. “I’m sorry, sir.” He shook his head, his American accent only serving to highlight how disconnected Dylan felt from everything he knew. “But Ms Prince is not in residence and I cannot let you pass.”

Dylan frowned, his exhausted brain telling him he’d missed something really important in the man’s statement. “Sorry? What did you say?”

The man straightened a little more. “Ms. Prince is not home.”

Dylan let out a ragged sigh. He removed his hat, raked his fingers through his hair and returned the damn thing to his head. Not home? Maybe she was at the airport waiting for him after all? Was it possible they’d just crossed paths? “Do you know when she will be back?”

If possible, the doorman snapped his spine straighter. Dylan wondered for a jet-lagged second if the bloke thought he was going to throw a crocodile or something at him. “I cannot divulge that information, sir. Now, if you will please step away from the door?”

There was a threat in the words. Even in his tired state, Dylan could hear it. Or a promise: Walk away from the door before I call the authorities.

Dylan walked away from the door. It wasn’t in his nature to back down, but he’d come to New York to meet Annie Prince, the woman he’d been…flirting…with for three months on the net, not start an International conflict between Australia and the US.

Crossing to the side of the building’s double glass doors, he leaned his back against the cool marble stonewall. He’d wait it out. Wherever Annie was, she’d come back, find him there—the unmistakable Aussie stockman in a sea of suave New Yorkers—laugh at his obvious fish-out-of-waterness and then they’d go inside and see if they had the same chemistry in the flesh that they did online.

A lifetime on Farpoint Creek had, if nothing else, taught him patience.

Forty-five minutes later the doorman stormed over to him, squishy face set in a menacing glare. “Listen, buddy—”

Dylan stuck out his hand. “Dylan Sullivan.”

The doorman blinked. Jerked his glare—now a slightly confused glower—to Dylan’s extended hand, and then back up to Dylan’s face. “Err…Tommy. Tommy Taberknackle.”

Dylan gave Tommy a smile and a nod. “G’day, Tommy.”

The doorman blinked again, his hand slipping into Dylan’s.  “I…you shouldn’t be…that is, Ms Prince isn’t…”

A naked, entwined couple moving behind Tommy caught Dylan’s attention.

He frowned, watching the utterly erotic sculpture of a man and a woman making out jiggle across the footpath. Or rather, jiggling in the slim arms of someone he couldn’t quite see. The sculpture stopped on the side of the road. The arms joggled it some more, as a leather-clad and finely boned knee came up to balance it precariously before one of the slim arms waved about in the air. A husky female voice called out, “Taxi!” a fraction of a second before the utterly erotic sculpture tumbled sideways.

Dylan leapt forward. He snared the sculpture—bronze? Was it bronze?—just as it fell from the unseen, husky-voiced woman’s arms.

She spun to face him, a gasp escaping her full lips, black sunglasses hiding her eyes, and then let out a hiccupping laugh as Dylan held up the sculpture for her to see. “Don’t worry, love.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “I got it.”

Those full lips of hers curled into a smile. “Thank you,” she said, her accent subtle and—to Dylan’s ears—very very sexy. She reached out to take the sculpture back but he shook his head.

“It’s alright.” He repositioned the artwork in his arms, definitely bronze judging by its weight and surface temperature and smiled some more. “I’ll keep a hold of it until you get a taxi.”

“Thank you.”

He nodded. “Welcome.” Damn, she was pretty. Even with the sunglasses hiding her eyes he couldn’t help but notice. The kind of pretty that came with a finely structured face, thick black hair that fell about her shoulders in an unruly mass of waves and a turned-up nose just made for dropping a kiss on.

“Are you Australian?”

Dylan grinned. “The hat doesn’t give it away?”

She laughed, the sound warm and relaxed and thoroughly…stimulating. A tight heavy pressure pulled at his groin, making things down there a tad tight. “The hat may have helped. But I have to admit, it was mainly the accent.”

Dylan did his best to ignore the completely unexpected physical reaction to her laugh. “Bugger. I was hoping I’d blend right in around here.”

The woman’s lips twitched. Dylan got the distinct impression her sunglasses-hidden gaze was taking him in from head to toe. “I think,” she leaned forward, like she was sharing a secret, “the chance of you blending in anywhere is fairly remote.”

Dylan’s cock jerked. He swallowed, his grip on her sculpture tightening. His sleep-deprived brain told him she’d just paid him a compliment. His red-blooded male hormones told him just as quickly what to do about that compliment. His common sense however, told him he’d flown halfway around the world to meet with Annie Prince and whoever the woman with the sexy voice, kissable lips, gorgeous mane of hair and all-together too concealing sunglasses was, she sure as hell wasn’t Annie.

He swallowed again, unable to think of a single bloody thing to say.

Fair dinkum, Sullivan. How ‘bout ‘Do you know Annie Prince?’?

Before he could open his mouth, the woman before him said, “So, what’s an Australian cowboy doing in New…”

Her question stopped dead. She stood motionless for a split second, her lips parted, and then pushed those dark sunglasses of hers up onto the top of her head and stared at Dylan with eyes the color of a cloudless summer’s day. “You’re Australian.”

Dylan frowned and nodded. Hadn’t they already established that?

Her blue gaze roamed over him from the tip of his hat, to his boots and back up to his face. “You’re a cowboy.”

“Stockman,” he said. “We’re called stockmen back home. Or graziers. But yeah, I guess over here you’d call me a—”

“Cowboy,” the woman said, an almost breathless quality to her voice. “You’re an Australian cowboy, the Australian cowboy. Although I have to say, Annie was right. There’s nothing boyish about you at all.”

Something hard and hot smashed into Dylan’s chest. “Annie? You know Annie Prince?”

“You’re her Aussie cowboy,” the woman continued, as if Dylan hadn’t said a thing, her gaze taking him all in, her eyebrows knitting in a slight frown. “And you’re here. You’re here and she’s…” Her stare returned to Dylan’s face, her teeth—white and even and perfect—catching her bottom lip.

Dylan’s heart beat faster. “She’s what?”

The woman let out a shaky laugh. “Oh shit, you’re here and Annie is in Australia.”

“She’s where?”

The question burst from Dylan a bit louder than he’d intended. He adjusted his grip on the lovers in his arms, fixing the woman before him with a dumbstruck stare. He knew it was dumbstruck by the way his mouth hung open. If he was back home he’d be catching flies by now. Of course, he wasn’t back home. He was bloody seventeen thousand kilometers away from home. He was on the other side of the bloody world to see a woman he’d met online and now he was being told that woman was back where he’d come from? Fuck a duck, his brother was going to laugh his arse off when he found out.

“She’s in Australia,” the woman not seventeen thousand kilometers away told him, an expression part worry, part mirth playing with her features. “She flew out the yesterday.”

“Why the bloody hell did she do that?”

Once again, Dylan’s voice was louder than he’d intended. Of course, nothing had gone as planned in the last twenty-four hours so why should his voice start toeing the line now?

The woman before him laughed, that deep, throaty laugh that played merry-hell with his senses. If he hadn’t been so gob-smacked by what she was telling him, he was pretty certain it’d play merry-hell with them some more. “She went to meet you.”

 

 

Monet Carmichael knew she shouldn’t be laughing. Nor smiling. The poor cowboy in front of her truly looked like the definition of confusion. But oh boy, what a beautiful definition it was. Okay, not so much that he was confused, but just the way he looked in general. His strong lips and chiseled bone structure, the perfect growth of honey-brown stubble on his jaw and chin, the hat…she’d bet the price of the sculpture he was holding there wasn’t another hat like it in New York and the sculpture he was holding was worth over eight thousand dollars. Every inch of him screamed man. Virile, sexy man. Growing up a dyed-in-the-wool New Yorker meant he was her first, in-the-flesh cowboy and what a cowboy.

Stockman, Monnie. He’s a stockman.

She caught her bottom lip with her teeth again, the junction of her thighs doing a funky little twisty thing she enjoyed very much.

Man was correct. A beautiful man. A goddamn gorgeous, sexy man. Complete with a goddamn gorgeous body his faded jeans and well-worn flannel shirt couldn’t hide at all.

If it wasn’t for the fact he’d flown from Australia to meet her best friend, Monet could quite happily stand still for ever and take him all in.

Preferably in her studio. Naked. Him naked. Her ready to capture his utterly male perfection in clay. Maybe her naked as well. It was her preferred state when she worked with clay after all. Both of them naked. And—

She caught the wildly inappropriate thought before it could form a wildly inappropriate image in her wildly visual mind.

Just.

“Let me get this straight,” the Australian cowboy said, his light green stare doing all sorts of wickedness to Monet’s resolve. Even his eyelashes were perfect. She could imagine drawing each one in charcoal. Imagine even better the way they would feel against her lips as she—

“Annie Prince flew to meet me in Australia yesterday, despite the fact I flew to the US to meet her?”

Once again, Monet caught her lip with her teeth. She nodded. “You sent her an IM with flight details. Well, some flight details. The day, the airline, the arrival time. Although you were wrong by an hour on that one. Her flight didn’t touch down in Sydney until—”

“Wait wait wait.” The cowboy’s confused frown grew deeper, his Australian accent turning the word into a drawling song Monet found quite enjoyable to listen to. “I IM’d her about a Qantas flight to New York. The one I was thinking of getting. And then the next day I emailed her the actual details of the flight I’d booked a seat on.”

Monet blinked. Annie hadn’t said anything about the email. In fact, Monet had been sitting right beside her best friend when she’d bought her airline ticket to Australia, a Qantas flight touching down in Sydney on the day her online Aussie cowboy…friend…had told her. Surely Annie would have known he was flying over to her? How could they get their wires crossed so badly if she hadn’t?

She opened her mouth—to say what to the man she didn’t know—damn, what was his name? Annie had said it enough times over the last few months, but Monet shut her mouth again when the doorman of her building suddenly appeared at the cowboy’s side.

“Everything okay, Ms Carmichael?” Tommy’s gaze flicked back and forth between the Australian and Monet. “Mr. Sullivan’s not giving you—”

Dylan Sullivan!

The cowboy’s name popped into Monet’s head, along with an image of a clean-shaven man without a hat smiling somewhat nervously into a camera.

Monet shook her head, unable to take her gaze from Dylan’s still troubled face. “Everything’s fine, Tommy,” she assured him, even as she compared the beautiful hat-wearing male before her, his stubble as sexy as his accent, his accent as mesmerizing as his eyes, with the clean-cut man in the photo on Annie’s laptop. He looked nothing like that man. Nothing.

“Are you sure?”

She flicked Dylan a quick look, her pulse beating far to fast for her peace of mind. “I’m sure.”

“Cause he was asking about Ms Prince—”

“It’s okay, Tommy.” She cut him off with a smile. “I know Dylan. We were just going to catch a cab to the gallery.”

Dylan blinked.

“Oh.” Tommy nodded. “In that case…” He stepped one foot into the curb and let out a sharp whistle.

Before anyone could say a thing a taxi pulled to a quick halt on the road beside them.

Monet gave her doorman another smile. “Thanks, Tommy.” She opened the back passenger door of the cab and extended an arm towards its grimy interior. “After you, Mr. Sullivan.”

The brim of his hat cast his eyes in shadow, and for a brief moment Monet thought he was going to refuse. And then he grinned, a loose, lopsided grin that got the junction of her thighs all twisted. Again. “I take it the lovers sit between us?”

She nodded. “The lovers do.”

“It’s probably better you better climb in first then, love.”

Her pulse fluttered. Love. Who would have thought she’d get so flustered over such an almost antiquated term. She had a strictly no-pet name policy with all her previous lovers: no babes, or hons, or sweethearts allowed. But the term love coming from Dylan’s lips.

Wait a minute, Monnie. He’s not your lover. He’s potentially Annie’s. So what the hell are you doing contemplating what he calls you?

The thought was unnerving. The whole situation was unnerving. Annie on the other side of the world. Dylan here in New York. Her own reaction to the man.

She dove into the cab before Dylan Sullivan, her best friend’s would-be Aussie cowboy, could see the flush painting her cheeks pink. Or the unexpected desire no doubt shining in her eyes.

Oh boy, this was…inconvenient.

***

So? What did you think? You can find the entire first chapter (edited and perfect) of Misplaced Princess, the first book in the Foreign Affairs series right here at the International Heat blog. Yay! Oh, and you can pre-order Misplaced Princess (which releases the 20th of this month) at Ellora’s Cave, Amazon, Barnes and Noble and just about every other ebook reseller.

The Winner of the Tim Tams, Vegemite and Travel Journal Is…

June M 

June M. says:
June 11, 2012 at 1:38 pm  (Edit)

June, you are the lucky winner of the Everything I Learnt About America contest. I’ll be sending you an email soon Yay!

Everyone else, thank you sooo much for everything you’ve taught me about the States. Honestly, I’m going to use all of it in an upcoming book so be ready for lots of dedicatioins to come.

Oh, and the countdown to Misplaced Princess has only just begun. Stay tuned here and on Mari Carr’s blog for more contests and chances to win more cool stuff (and I really mean cool stuff *grin*)

Thank you again. You’re all bloody wonderful

Everything I Learnt About America…

…I learnt from Mari Carr.

‘Tis true. Honest. Until Mari Carr and I decided to write a series of books together, I was 100% convinced Thanksgiving was something Hollywood invented so movies like Planes, Trains and Automobiles, Son in Law and Home for the Holidays could be made. Okay, 60% convinced.

Until Mari Carr and I decided to write the Foreign Affairs series, about a group of Aussies from the Outback and the city-slicker Americans they seduce, I was more than convinced the only beer in America was Miller (and I thought it was Millers. With an “s”).

Okay, so I wasn’t that clueless to the North American world, but Google can only help you out some of the time. And Meg Ryan, Tom Hanks, Sandra Bullock and the Men in Black aren’t entirely the font of New York City knowledge this little Aussie hoped they would be.

For starters, Google doesn’t tell me you could walk twenty New York blocks and not once bump into someone you know. If I was to believe Jerry Seinfeld, my heroine–Monet Carmichael–should be running into her friends any time she decided to go for a stroll. It was Mari who pointed out the chances of that happening are slim.

Mari also told me exactly where an Aussie cowboy would go to buy a suite in New York–and it isn’t the local Target down the road.

When I sent Mari the first draft of Book Two of the Foreign Affairs series, Misplaced Cowboy (which sees an Aussie stockman come to New York to meet with a woman he met online) it was full of these

XXXX

Everytime I came to a bit of information or detail about New York or America I was clueless about, I would write XXXX and continue on. Poor Mari had a lot of XXXXs to address.

What kind of beer is favoured in US bars (Miller Lite. No S)
Where someone in the US would buy clothes a cowboy would wear (Urban Outfitters)
The food ordered in a typical New York cafe (NB: it’s not fish and chips)
Whether Americans consider Vegemite a condiment or a spread (apparently it’s neither. “That funny black shit” is the answer Mari gave me)
How long it takes to walk four New York blocks (longer than ten minutes…which kinda sucks when you only want your character to be beside each other for that length of time)
What a New Yorker does to a car that almost hits them in the street (flipping off the bird, as opposed to hurling abuse at them)
and my all-time favourite…how big a Thanksgiving Day parade balloon is. The best way to show you how little I knew about Thanksgiving Day parade balloons is to cut and paste Mari’s email response to me when I asked if they were about twenty foot big:



ROTFLMAO Jesus no. They are hundreds of feet big. Like fucking HUGE.
Mari Carr

www.maricarr.com
New York Times Bestselling Author


Yes, it’s true. Everything important I know about America I learnt from Mari Carr…and my education is just beginning. There’s still another two books to write

Foreign Affairs, Book One

Annie Prince has impetuously flown halfway ’round the world to visit a sexy cowboy she met online—only to find herself stranded in Sydney. Seems she and Dylan crossed wires, and he’s on his way to New York. His twin, Hunter, saves the day and whisks her back to the family cattle station. Hunter’s as easy on the eyes as Dylan, and even easier to talk to. Annie might have flown to Oz to meet one brother, but soon sparks are flying with the other.

Hunter considered Dylan a dumb arse for jetting off to America for some stranger—until he met Annie. Turns out the New Yorker is a smart, funny, hard-working jillaroo…and hotter than the Aussie desert. Hunter’s not normally one to poach his brother’s women, but he can’t keep his hands, lips, tongue and other body parts off this sexy city girl.

When raging lust leads to emotional attachment, where does that leave Annie and Hunter when her vacation comes to an end—or when Dylan finds out?

****

To learn what Mari Carr learnt from me about Australia, check out her blog here. Suffice to say, I think Hugh Jackman taught her more than I did

You can pre-order Misplaced Princess from Amazon, Barnes and Noble and Ellora’s Cave already. Misplaced Princess will be available June 20. Misplaced Cowboy will be available end of August and on pre-sale soon.

CONTEST: Okay, here’s a simple one. Tell me in the comments below something Mari may not have told me about America. Something quirky and interesting. In 24 hours time I will draw a winner from all the comments here and that lucky person will not only get a really sexy bound travel journal, they will also get a packet of Tims Tams AND a small jar of Vegemite, just to really experience the Aussieness of the Foreign Affairs series.

To go into the draw TWICE, also tell me your favourite sentence of the Misplaced Princess excerpt you can find HERE 

Welcome Back to Bandicoot Cove

There’s a wedding taking place at Bandicoot Cove.

On the 4th of September, 2012.

SAVE THE DATE

Keep watching the blog for more info about this special event. If you can’t wait to find out more pop on over to the Bandicoot Cove site and look around.

The Entire (Unedited) First Chapter of Muscle for Hire

Muscle for Hire is the story of an ex-British SAS Commando whose life as the bodyguard of the world’s biggest rock star is coming to an end…and the American Martial Arts expert who knocks him off his feet. Some of who may recognise him…

Feel free to tell me what you think. I’d love the feedback

Chapter One

A wall of screaming, squealing, crying young women—and some not-so young women—threw themselves at Aslin Rhodes. He wasn’t the object of their frenzied affection. That was for Chris Huntley, star of hit sit-com Twice Too Many and soon-to-be released action blockbuster, Dead Even. No, Aslin just happened to find himself between Chris and the wall of screaming, squealing, crying young and not-so young women. Fifteen years working as a bodyguard for the world’s biggest rock star however, prepared Aslin for the insanity.

He planted his size fourteen booted feet firmly on the footpath and, arms spread, jaw bunched, muscles coiled, held back the frenzied horde. Just.

Movie star groupies were more maniacal than rock star groupies it seemed. At least those currently here trying to get their mits on Chris Huntley. And, Aslin discovered, more prone to biting.

“Oi!” He flinched as a set of teeth sank into his forearm, swinging his glare to a girl who looked no more than twelve snarling up at him from his near his elbow. “Watch it.”

“We’re trying to,” an elderly woman in a skin-tight Twice Too Many T-shirt snapped back, giving the teenager girl squashed between her and Aslin a shove. “But you’re in the road.”

Her fellow frenzied fans echoed her unhappiness with Aslin’s presence, most resorting to names and insults on his British nationality. He’d never heard the words “fucking Pom” uttered so often by so many women. If the situation wasn’t so surreal, he’d laugh.

“Seriously,” he called out, still holding back the wall of hormone-induced lust with sheer strength—and a wide arm span. “What’s the odds Chris Huntley is going to—”

A loud groan drowned out the rest of Aslin’s question as the women stopped pushing against him and fell back, their eyes swelling with tears, their expressions suicidal. “He’s gone,” the woman in the Twice Too Many T-shirt moaned. Another collective sob sounded from the horde as surly glares turned to Aslin.

Aslin did his own turning, shooting the space behind him where Chris Huntley and Nigel McQueen, Dead Even’s director had been sharing coffee. The harbour-side café was now empty of Hollywood type persons, the normal run-of-the-mill patrons left behind looking about themselves with bemused curiosity.

Aslin swung his attention back to the women, only to find them dispersing on the esplanade, most staring intently at their cameras and smartphones on which—no doubt—hundred of hastily snapped images of Chris sipping his latte were now stored.

He let out a chuckle and shook his head. He’d never get his head around the unhinged mentality of a frenzied fan. Fifteen years protecting Nick Blackthorne hadn’t enlightened him and he didn’t see this small job illuminating it either.

Maybe it’s time you went back into the service, boyo? HRH’s Defense Force would take you back in an instant.

A dull pressure settled on Aslin’s chest at the notion of returning to his post as a SAS Commando. He may not understand infatuated, borderline loopy fans much, but he understood his country’s need to be involved in the war in Afghanistan less.

There was a reasons he’d left the United Kingdom Special Forces to become professional muscle for a rock star: that surreal career made more sense than the orders constantly given to him during—

“Mr. Rhodes?”

A male voice called from behind Aslin and he turned, an instinctual tension coiling through his body. He didn’t like being caught unawares and it wasn’t something that happened often.

A non-descript blue Audi SUV sat parked beside the café’s al fresco area, the rear passenger door open.

Aslin narrowed his eyes. That the SUV was there in the first place told him it wasn’t as unimportant as it appeared. The whole area facing the harbour where he now stood was strictly an esplanade: no cars allowed. Added to the situation was the fact Aslin was at the café in the first place to meet the director of the film, and he suspected he knew who the owner of the voice was. There weren’t that many men with American accents capable of flouting the laws in Sydney at the moment.

A soft snort sounded at the back of Aslin’s throat and he began walking toward the waiting vehicle.

Looks like your career in the movies is just about to begin, boyo.

Stopping at the open door, he looked into the cabin. And rose his eyebrows at the sight of Chris Huntley smiling back at him.

“Nick told me you were good at keeping back the masses.” The actor’s smile turned into a grin. But I have to say, I’ve never seen just one man intimidate so many women all by himself.”

Aslin nodded an acknowledgement of the compliment.

Chris held out a hand as he shifted back deeper along the rear seat. “Nigel and I had planned to chat with you at the café, but well, as you no doubt saw, it got a little crowded.”

Aslin gave the actor a soft chuckle. “I saw.”

Chris laughed. “Nick also told me you weren’t one for a lot of wasted words. I see he’s right.” He waved his hand at the empty seat beside him. “Would you like to get in? I’ due back on set in an hour but I really wanted to chat first.”

Aslin studied the man looking up at him from the SUV’s interior. He was young, handsome and openly friendly. A target for all sorts of deluded and hysterical fans, especially given the sexual potency Aslin had noticed oozed from him when on screen. Since Nick’s retirement from singing and his emersion in family life, Aslin had found himself at a loss for things to do. There was only so much a bodyguard could do in a small rural town in the Australian highlands, particularly when the rock star he used to guard preferred nowadays to just hang out at home with his wife and son.

After a few months of watching Aslin attempt to find potential threats in the mums and dads at the soccer fields, in the local butcher who delivered their meat, and in the Murriundah Public School Parents and Citizen Association members who congregated at Nick’s home for their monthly meetings, Nick had finally rolled his eyes and told Aslin he had a job for him.

In Sydney.

For a friend.

On a film set.

Staring a big Hollywood actor.

“He needs an advisor on all things menacing and commando,” Nick had said to Aslin with a grin. “I can tell you’re bored out of your brain here, As. Get your arse to Sydney and be useful for a change, will you?”

And so here Aslin was now, ready to tell Hollywood—and an actor who so far hadn’t played a single action role—how to do it right. The things was, after fifteen years of being Nick’s bodyguard, Aslin almost felt…traitorous.

“Nigel said he’d meet us back on set, “ Chris went on, his attention fixed on Aslin’s face, as if storing away all sorts of little details. “He’s going to get his P.A. to arrange a trailer for you.” The actor shot a look at the empty seat at Aslin’s knees, an almost nervous tension pulling at his forehead. “If you’d rather meet us both back there…”

From the corner of his eye, Aslin caught movement and he straightened a little, enough to notice the woman in the Twice Too Many T-shirt taking photos of the SUV. She gave him a wide smile, her expression suddenly predatory and smug.

She’s worked out her pray is in the car. Time to get him gone.

As a rule, Aslin didn’t get into a vehicle he wasn’t driving himself, but with Ms Too-Tight-T-shirt hurrying towards him and the Audi’s open door, he knew now wasn’t the time to discuss the chauffeur situation.

Bending at the waist, he ducked through the opening and climbed into the SUV, slamming the door behind him.

“Hello Mr. Rhodes,” the same male voice that had called him earlier came from behind the driver’s wheel and Aslin looked into the rearview mirror to find a set of black Ray-Bans looking back at him. “Welcome aboard. I’m Jeff Coulten.”

Aslin took in the broad width of the man’s shoulders and the smooth strength in his neck. “Bodyguard?”

Jeff laughed. “Just driver.”

Beside Aslin, Chris let out his own chuckle. “I don’t have a bodyguard, Aslin. May I call you Aslin? Jeff is what’s left of my entourage.”

Aslin cocked an eyebrow. “What’s left of it?”

Chris reached up and snared his seat belt, buckling himself in. “I grew out of it.” He gave Aslin a wide smile. “Ready?”

Before Aslin got a change to ask for what, the thumping sounds of Linkin Park flooded the SUV’s cabin, a deep thrum vibrated into his body and the car took off, throwing Aslin back into his seat as Jeff drove them away from the café and passed the furiously photographing middle-aged fan.

Welcome to the movie world, boyo, Aslin thought, buckling himself in as quickly as he could. Remind yourself to kick Nick in the arse when you see him again.

Twently minutes later—with quite a few of those minutes spent reminding Jeff Australians drove on the left side of the road—Aslin swore he’d never get in a car with what was left of Chris Huntley’s entourage again. Not if the affable Jeff Coulten was driving, that was for certain. Thankfully, somewhat remarkably, they’d made it to the film set in one piece, Jeff leaving Chris and Aslin at the fenced perimeter before tearing away, wheels spitting gravel out in his wake.

Chris threw Aslin a sideward glance, no doubt seeing the disapproval on Aslin’s face. “He’s a great guy, honest,” he said as they began walking deeper into the area currently over-run with film crew. “And he’s been my friend for years.”

Aslin didn’t reply. Instead, as always, he took in every details of his surroundings, noting places where attacks could be made, objects that could be used as weapons, easy exit routes if needed. Dead Even was being filmed in part at the old Darlinghurst Gaol on Sydney’s harbour, the convict prison normally a favourite destination for tourists, now being used as “the secret base for a clandestine, international defense force network code name Last Line” according to Chris. The actor had filled Aslin in on the drive, outlining the basic plot, providing details of his character—a “brooding, foreboding commando who comes into conflict with his superiors unjust, dubious orders”—and generally chatting away as if he and Aslin were long-lost chums. There was a boyish charm to Chris that Aslin found hard to resist, the young American reminding him a lot of Nick’s teenage son. Young, eager and easy to laugh.

He could see why woman threw themselves at him. He could also see why Nick considered him a friend.

What he couldn’t see was Chris in the role of a commando, or, seeing as the actor was going to keep his American accent for the part, the “Last Line” equivalent of a Navy Seal. Which was what Aslin had to make him.

It was going to be a challenge.

A small tug on the corners of his mouth told Aslin he was smiling and he suppressed a chuckle. It was also going to be fun.

Nick Blackthorne’s arse was going to be saved from his boot after all.

Two hours later, Aslin once again considered the rock star’s butt overdue for a kick. Movei folk had an infuriating view of what a soldier of war was. They also had no clue—in Aslin’s opinion—what looked believable and what didn’t. He’d spent the last one-hundred and twenty minutes not just correcting one cliché after another from being captured on film, but trying to convince the director, Nigel McQueen that a SAS British Commando, even a retired one, really did know how to hold a Desert Eagle handgun. And how to throw a punch.

The bloke was a nice enough fellow, but he had a warped and wrong sense of what actually happened during close combat.

“Don’t worry, Aslin.” Chris slapped his back as they walked off set, completely unaware Aslin had broken arms and smashed jaws for lesser contact. “You’ll get used to Nigel. He’s stubborn I know, but he’s got a vision and he’s true to it. It’s why he’s won so many awards.” The actor laughed. “Having said that, I think what you did to the Second Unit stunt director illustrated his vision may be a bit off this time.”

Aslin raised a contemplative eyebrow. In his opinion the Second Unit stunt director was an idiot. What kind of so-called “expert” insisted it was impossible to down an opponent with a Harai Tsurikomi Ashi without signposting it? After a good ten minutes arguing with the man that it could be done, Aslin had decided it was easier to just show him.

The stunt director had stormed off the set after that. Well, limped off the set. After Aslin had let him up off the ground.

Beside him, Chris chuckled again. “What are the chances Nick knew you were going to stir up trouble when he suggested you come on board the film?”

Aslin didn’t stop his own laugh. “I suspect the odds are high.”

A shout from behind turned both men around, Aslin stepping slightly forward and in front of Chris without thought.

“Chris.” Nigel hurried toward them, his shaggy black hair flapping in the warm summer breeze. “You can’t take off now. We need to check the dailies.”

Chris slapped his forehead. “Ah fuck, that’s right.” He looked up at Aslin, an apologetic grimace pulling at his lips. “This’ll take a while. Sorry. Can you come to my trailer in an hour of so? I wanna get your take on my character’s motivation.”

Aslin gave him a brief nod. “Of course.”

“I like what you gave us today, Mr. Rhodes.” Nigel stuck out his hand, whiter-than-white teeth flashing from behind a wide smile as he shook Aslin’s hand with a firm grip. “I’m not sure Ricoo’s ever coming back on set, but I like what you gave us. I look forward to seeing what you give us tomorrow.”

And with that, the film director and the actor walked away, leaving Aslin alone.

He watched them go, unable to suppress a snort as the personal assistants for both men came scurrying from the wings, water bottles in hand, mobile phones offered, fruit baskets hanging from bent elbows.

And you thought the demands of a rock star indulgent.

At the thought of his boss, Aslin pulled his phone from his hip pocket and dialed Nick’s number.

“You missing me already, Uncle As?”

Aslin didn’t bother answering the chuckled jest. “Am I being interviewed for a job by Chris Huntley, Nick? Are you trying to get rid of me?”

On the other end of the phone, the man who was once the world’s biggest rock star and was now happy to be just a husband and dad laughed. “No, As. It’s not. But let’s be serious, mate, you can’t hang around Murriundah looking out for insane groupies that might come after me or Lauren or Josh. The day I announced my retirement, they started to move on to the next ‘new big thing’ and I couldn’t be happier. When was the last time you had to prevent a fan launching themselves at me? Chris on the other hand…”

Nick left the sentence unfinished.

Aslin’s gut clenched. Nick was correct. The groupies and fans had tapered off over the last few months, only the odd truly die-hard willing to make the long trip to the small town Nick now called home. When that happened, a state of the art security system kept Nick, Lauren and Josh safe from unwanted guests when they were at home, and the protective residents of Murriundah looked out for their famous neighbours when they were in public. Which left Aslin almost redundant. But if he wasn’t Nick Blackthorne’s bodyguard, what was he?

“Listen, As,” Nick went on, his voice relaxed and calm, and for one brief, stupid moment Aslin longed for the days when Nick was the wild rocker who had no fucking clue what he was doing from one second to the next. “Do what you’re there for—be the bad-arse Pommie commando and tell those Hollywood guys how to do it right. When you’re finished, then we’ll talk about what’s next, okay?”

Ending the call after promising to get Chris’s autograph from Josh’s latest girlfriend, Aslin wandered around the film set, charting everything he saw for later consideration. It was, he had to admit to himself, a bizarre experience. He’d grown up in the London slums, the middle child of five boys who all knew how to fight by the time they were eight. Aslin joined the British Army at the age of seventeen in a last ditch effort to avoid ending up like his older brothers—who were already serving time. His years as a SAS soldier, of existing as a vital member of a unit, followed by a his life as Nick’s bodyguard had given him little time to exist as an individual. Now here we was, alone, with a possibility before him he was eighty-five percent certain he didn’t want.

But if not a bodyguard to a celebrity, than what? What kind of career options did an ex-bodyguard, ex commando have?

And did Aslin want any of them?

Do you even know who you are now, boyo? Or are you just muscle for hire?

The question was unsettling. And without answer. At least, none presented itself in the time that lapsed as Aslin toured the film set.

Forty-five minutes later, part frustrated, part irritated, he made his way to the massive, ostentatious manor on wheels that was Chris Huntley’s trailer.

And stopped a few yards away when he noticed a tall, slim woman dressed in faded denim jeans and a snug black T-shirt trying to jimmy open the door.

Her back was to him, her long toned legs braced apart as she wriggled something thin and silver between the door and the frame near the lock. A thick ponytail the colour of spun wheat spilled from the back of her baseball cap, fanning over her shoulders and ribcage as she shifted her position, no doubt to put more weight behind her attempt to access Chris’s trailer.

For a quick second Aslin was struck by the physical perfection of her physique—of the latent strength in her firm limbs, of the confidence in her stance. And then the sheer gall of what she was doing, trying to break into Chris Huntley’s trailer, hit him and he moved. Fast.

Silent.

He snared her right wrist with one hand, spun her around to face him, face set in an intimidating glower…

…and ended up on his back in a blur of colour as she kicked his legs right out from under him.

Fuck.

A booted heel rammed under his chin, mashing into his flesh as the woman glared down at him, her fists loosely clenched at her face. “Want to explain what you’re—”

He didn’t let her finish. Twisting to his left, he slammed his forearm into the side of her calf, rolling to his feet and driving her back—butt first—against the trailer.

A second before she dropped into a crouch, escaping his pinning arm, and smashed a fist into his balls.

He staggered back a step. But only one. The pain was excruciating, agonizing, but he’d learnt to shut pain out a long time ago. Fixing his stare on the woman’s face, he whipped out his right hand, feigning an attempt to grab her arm even as he swooped his left foot against her right ankle.

And ended up on his arse, again, the wind knocked from him, when she spun off the ground in a tight circle and drove her heel into his chest.

What the hell?

The thought had barely formed in his head when two firm thighs slammed into his ribcage, right under his armpits, squeezing him with phenomenal, crushing strength as one fist balled in the front of his shirt and the other bunched behind her head. “Nice try, buddy.” A soft American accent turned the words to a mocking snarl. “But not good enough.” Brilliant blue eyes glared down at him, thick dark lashes framing their obvious anger. “Now tell me who the fuck you are and what the hell do you think you’re—”

“Holy shit, Rowan!” A male voice called out, and a distant part of Aslin’s mind recognised it as Chris Huntley. “What have you done to Nick Blackthorne’s bodyguard?”

The woman straddling Aslin didn’t move. Aslin could tell. Every muscle in his own body was tuned into hers. “What’s Nick Blackthorne’s bodyguard doing here?” the woman—Rowan—asked without lifting her pinning stare from Aslin’s face. “And why did he try to grab me?”

From the corner of Aslin’s eye, he saw feet come to a stop on the concrete beside his head but he didn’t tear his focus from the woman atop him. His nerve-endings sparked and fired. He’d been put on his back by a woman? How the hell did he get put on his back by a woman? Who the hell was she?

“I don’t know why he tried to grab you,” Chris laughed. “Did you piss him off?”

Blue eyes flickered, holding Aslin motionless. And then the woman was standing, in a move so fluid and quick he couldn’t stop the slither of appreciation threading through his disbelief.

“Funny, Huntley,” she was saying, stepping over him like he no longer mattered. “Now shut up and say hello to me. It’s been too long since we saw each other.”

From his place on the ground, Aslin watched her reach out and wrap her smooth, firmly toned arms around the actor, giving him a hug that was relaxed and warm. She kissed Chris’s cheek, a grin playing with the corners of her lips. Lips, Aslin couldn’t help but notice, were full and naturally pink.

“Ugh,” Chris laughed, stepping out of the woman’s hug. “Girl germs.”

The woman swiped at his jaw in a friendly punch, a shallow dimple creasing the smooth flesh of her cheek. “Shut up, you idiot.”

Chris laughed again, dropped a kiss on that very dimple, and then turned to Aslin. Aslin who was still lying shocked on the ground.

Aslin who’d just had his arse handed to him by a woman no taller than his chin.

“Aslin Rhodes,” Chris said, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “Allow me to introduce my sister, Rowan Hemsworth.”

What If Wednesday…Ned Stark’s Head Was Delicious

I told you Wednesday should always be about asking the most bizarre question and getting the most awesome answer. So today, I give you the answer to the question “what if I could eat Ned Stark’s impaled head?”

You can find out how to make this supreme example of Game of Thrones awesomeness right here (and if you make them, I wanna see the piccies *grin*)

Seven Ridiculous Questions (plus one) With…. Karina Cooper

[image error]I meet uber awesome Urban Fantasy/Paranormal romance author, Karina Cooper at the Romantic Times reader convention in Chicago this year when we were sitting beside each other during the Saturday book signing. The first thing I noticed about Karina was her utterly cool blue hair. How could she not be freaking fabulous with hair such a brilliant shade of electric blue? The second thing I noticed about Karina was how many star-struck fans she had coming up to her table for autographs. By the end of the four hours, I knew Karina was as cool and awesome and fabulous as her hair. Then, when I bumped into her at the airport the next day, and she continued to be cool and awesome and fabulous, I knew it wasn’t just her hair. It was all of her. That coolly awesome fabulousness is evident in her 7RQ answers, which were so excellent I included a spare.

If you don’t know of Karina’s work, I can’t recommend enough you start with Blood of the Wicked. I bought it at RT and couldn’t stop reading.

[image error]

1/ The Great Speedo Debate. Where do you stand? (i.e., are Speedos sexy or not?)

Speedos? Totally not sexy. Look, here’s my take on it: men are made of angles. By nature, they tend to be less attractive in the nude (to say nothing of the weirdness of testicles, hello, design flaw!) than the feminine, round form. This is why, by and large, I find men in suits, wearing jeans, or otherwise half-clothed far more attractive.

Speedos take away some of the mystique. My men better have mystique! At least until I do the undressing.

 

2/ You’re having an affair with an historical figure. Who is it and why?  

Veronica Franco, one of the more famous Venetian courtesans in Renaissance Italy. Gasp! A girl? Totally. Veronica was an accomplished writer (score), a feminist before it became a byword (score), a reputed beauty (score), and rather famed at her skills in the bedroom (score!). She’s an all-in-one package, and she’s the featured courtesan in the movie Dangerous Beauty—an amazing film you should watch, if you haven’t yet.

Veronica and I would be either the most amazing pay-to-play couple in the world, or the most destructive. But the way I figure it: whether you’re setting fire to the sheets or to the surroundings, it means nothing if you can’t connect on a deeper level. As a writer, a poet, a fiercely independent woman at a time when women were chattel, and shameless to boot, she’d be the kind of friend and affair that would make modern-day gossip rags run out of ink!

 

3/ They’re making a movie of your life. What’s the theme song?

99 Problems, specifically the Hugo version.

Click here to view the embedded video.

You may draw your own conclusions.

 

4/ If the 10th Doctor, Spock and Bruce Willis were in Saw, who would survive and why?

It depends. Does Bruce Willis have hair? Because if he has no hair, then the man is a juggernaut and can not be stopped. But if he has hair, even a little, the 10th Doctor will win over Spock and Willis—but only by sheer “luck”. Which is to say, some antic, somewhere, would go all wibbly-wobbly and the Doctor would make a choice that puts him in the lead.

Because after all, we all know that no matter how endearing the face, the Doctor can be just as ruthless as any villain, if he needs to be.

Spock? Well, I think we’re long past the point where we attribute any sort of “logic” to the Saw franchise.

 

5/ When is the most inappropriate time to use the word “fuck”?

When it’s strung together in the same sentence as “your newborn baby”. “Your mom” is even more inappropriate.

Actually, while I’m sure there’s lots of inappropriate places to use it, I have been known to drop it nevertheless.

 

6/ What’s you favourite swear word?

Fuck! It’s so versatile. Angry, sad, happy, shocked. It’s my stand-by. That said, I’ve developed a love affair with Ryan Reynolds’ use of “cock-juggling thundercunt” in my more passionate outbursts.

 7 / Who do you prefer, Snape or Dumbledore? Both as a Professor and as a lover? (Or if you prefer, Kirk or Picard? Both as a Starfleet captain and lover?)

Snape: you just know that emo boy’s got some dark deeds afoot under all that severe, buttoned-down control.

Picard, because a) Kirk’s seen more lady alien flesh than Casanova’s seen beauties and, ew, alien STD much?; and b) I’m a sucker for quietly dominant men who know the value of a good joke or a good drink.

7a/ You’re having an affair with one of your characters (yes, I realise you’re busy with the historical figure as well *grin*). Who is it, from which book and why?

Phin Clarke, from Lure of the Wicked. I’ve made no secret of my love for him! Phin is what I call my “alpha-beta”. He’s just metro and polished enough, just sensitive enough, to let me be as publically wild and loud and inappropriate as I want, but when he needs to step up, there is nothing and no one that gets in his way. He knows a woman’s body like nobody’s business (a total win!), he’s rich, he’s understanding (but only to a point), and he’s tall, dark-haired and lean. Just like I like ‘em!

[image error]All Things Wicked, the latest book in the Dark Mission series was released January this year. Seriously, if paranormal romance is your thing (and you’re here on my blog, so I’m guessing it is for some of you *grin*) this is the series for you. Get it. Read it. You won’t be sorry, I promise

Juliet Carpenter thought of the coven as family, but when she falls for a man who betrays them all, she’s left alone and desperately searching for a reason why. Caleb Leigh has spent the past year in hiding, unable to escape his demons. When Juliet finds him again, her need for vengeance clashes with the hunger still burning between them.

It’s a fight born from the embers of a half-forgotten attraction and the wounds of a past too raw to ignore. With enemies circling and secrets threatening to consume them, Caleb has no choice but to fulfill a promise made long ago—protect her, save her. Even if it costs him his blood, his body…and what’s left of his mind.

You can find out more about Karina on her website, follow her on Twitter or stalk her on Facebook (well, don’t “stalk her” stalk her, just be her friend. Ahh, you know what I mean)

It’s Warming Up On Bilby Island…

One wedding, three red hot affairs to last a lifetime. You don’t want to miss this celebration on Bilby Island.

Keep your eyes on this site for more details over the coming months.

From the staff at Bandicoot Cove Resort

 

Have You Noticed Superheroes…

…always do a three point landing?

Click here to view the embedded video.

(Did you want to go climb on the sofa and do your own three point landing on the floor after watching that? Or was it only me?)

Ralf and Rover – A Love Story

I wrote this waaaaay back in 1995. Can you believe it. Not a kiss to be had. Wow. But it’s sweet and I thought you’d like a little glimpse into what my mind was like before I became debauched

 

Ralf and Rover – A Love Story

Can’t someone write a song about something else apart from love?

Jennifer Wilson rolled her eyes, bit back a groan and, with a sharp flick of her wrist, switched off the radio in her small vet clinic. Her assistant-cum-receptionist had left half an hour ago and now Jenny was shutting up shop for the day.

“Love! Who needs it!” She scooped up Rover, her blue-tongue lizard and perching him on his favourite spot: her shoulder. “In fact,” she continued as she made her way through the clinic, “I’m giving up on men completely. If I wasn’t already a vet, I’d become a nun.” Rover wrapped his tail around her shoulder, tongue gently flicking. Jennifer smiled at the lizard, feeling better for her spat. “Men,” she mumbled. Rover cocked his head up at her and emptied his bladder.

“Ooohh Rover!” Jenny moaned, quickly forgetting everything except the spreading stain on her shoulder and the insolent lizard now scuttling down her back to the floor.

“Excuse me.” A deep voice broke through her embarrassment and Jennifer looked up, knowing her face was red. Worried grey eyes meet her embarrassed green ones.

A man stood at the counter, tall with light brown hair and a strong nose. A young German Shepherd—wrapped in a blanket and whimpering softly—was cradled in his arms.

“My dog’s been hit by a car.” The man’s voice was worried and Jennifer could see he was shaking himself. “He seems only shaken but I’d like the vet to look at him. I’ve only just moved to town and haven’t needed a vet until now… I don’t have a file. It’s not too late for the vet to see us is it?”

“No, not at all. Please, follow me.” The spread of lizard pee staining the back of her white T-shirt forgotten, Jennifer quickly led the man into the examining room, indicating to a stainless steel table.

“His name’s Ralf.” Ralf’s tail thumped weakly at his name, his brown eyes moving between Jennifer and his master as she began to check over his trembling body. “Thanks Miss…err, Mrs…”

Jenny looked up quickly from the young shepherd, trying to hide the smile twitching on her lips.

“It’s Miss—but I prefer Doctor.”

“Are you the vet?” The man looked around quickly, a hint of amazement in his tone, his cheeks turning a faint pink. Jennifer nodded, wondering if he had assumed she was just the assistant—most people did, something she found a little annoying. But this time she didn’t feel the tightening resentment that normally accompanied such an assumption. In fact, all she could detect in her stomach was the stirring of nervous butterflies, a reaction that left her puzzled. Turning her attention back to her patient, she quickly but thoroughly ran her hands over the young dog, her voice low and soothing as she spoke to the skittish animal. There was a small abrasion on his left shoulder and Ralf was less than happy about her touching the area, trying to lick and nip at her fingers as they gently moved over the wound. Probably the point of contact with the car, she thought, carefully feeling the muscles and bone structure around the area. After running her hands over the rest of the dog’s body, she was convinced there wasn’t too much damage.

“Ralf’s fine,” she said as she made one last check of his eyes. “There’s a small wound on his shoulder that’s going to be a little tender for a while but it won’t require stitches. I’d like to keep a watch on him though, so he should stay here tonight.” She looked up from her patient and caught the man studying her, a frown creasing his forehead.

“All right Ralf.” He quickly turned his attention to the young dog who was wagging his tail again. “You’re going to be okay, mate.” Grey eyes glanced up at her. “Thanks Dr…?”

“Wilson. But please, I insist all my patient’s pets call me Jennifer.” He smiled at her, putting out his right hand, his expression friendly.

“Tom Peters.” She took his hand in hers, noticing how his skin was warm and dry. It was nice.

“I’ll fix up that scratch and get Ralf settled and then I’ll be out.” She turned to the counter behind her, letting Tom Peters say goodbye to his pet without her watching. People, especially men, sometimes felt foolish talking to their animals in front of her.

“Be good Ralf,” she heard him murmur as she turned back. Tom smiled at her, his eyes warm and something in her stomach did a little flip-flop, completely taking her by surprise. Bending down to the shepherd, scratching him gently behind the ear, Jennifer studied the man as he left the room, trying to hide her sudden nervousness.

“Don’t worry Ralf,” she whispered to the young dog, “Your dad will be back tomorrow.”

At that wholly wonderful thought the butterflies that had softly been fluttering away in her stomach exploded.

* * * * *

Moving through the clinic Jennifer checked on her patients, Rover again perched contentedly across her shoulder. Most of the animals were asleep; her more serious cases snuggled up in heated cubicles and blankets. Only one small kitten required constant attention tonight, but it was enough for Jennifer to set up the camp bed in the clinic. Besides, it was better than spending the night in her small unit alone, even with Rover for company. Stopping by Ralf’s cage, she looked in on her patient, his tail thumping in the blanket when he saw her.

“Hello, boy.” She squatted down lightly, unlatching the door. He stretched his head, his warm tongue licking her hand as she scratched his muzzle. “How’s that shoulder?”

Jennifer found herself thinking about the young dog’s owner, Tom Peters again.

Be honest, those grey eyes hadn’t left you all afternoon.

That was true. After she had tended to Ralf and placed him in his cubicle, she had gone out to the front counter to find Tom Peters looking at her framed university degrees hanging on the wall behind. It hadn’t taken her long to create a new patient file, but as she entered the data into the computer, the man had stood quietly, his grey gaze on her. It had made the butterflies stir again and she’d begun a nervous conversation about God-knows-what, sounding—now she thought about it—like a giggling schoolgirl.

“Great impression you made there, Jenny,” she mumbled. “He probably thinks you’re a complete idiot. And he’s bound to go to another vet!” She sighed, picturing the natural ease of his smile. She looked at Ralf again, his coat a healthy sheen, his eyes bright.

“You’re no help.” She scratched Tom’s dog behind his ears. “How can I not like someone who loves his dog so much?”  Ralf’s tail wagged again, his tongue lolling from his mouth in a doggy smile. Rover moved on her shoulder, seemingly aware of the attention she was paying the German Shepherd and deciding to take a look. With uncanny grace, the lizard moved down her arm, his nose coming close to Ralf’s. The dog cocked his head slightly to one side, ears cocked as he watched the approaching blue-tongue. Preparing to move her pet from within mouth range of the Shepherd, Jenny was surprised when Ralf gently sniffed at the reptile. Even more surprising was Rover’s reaction. The lizard flicked out its bright blue tongue, unconcerned with the snuffling investigation.

“Wow.” She raised her eyebrows as she moved Rover back to her shoulder. “What’s got into you?”

As she was re-latching the cubicle door, the front buzzer rang. The clinic was closed after seven pm, but most of her clients knew she stayed back late at night, some calling by on their way homes to visit their pets. Walking to the front of the clinic, she scratched the soft underside of Rover’s scaly neck.

“Who’s come to visit tonight?” she asked the lizard as she unlocked the door. Opening it Jennifer stared. Tom Peters stood on the other side.

“The light was on…I was hoping you…” He held a bulging plastic bag and Jennifer caught a whiff of something spicy. “The Indian restaurant down the road was having a special… Do you like Indian?” He stopped, the frown returning quickly. “You’ve probably eaten…I’m sorry, dumb idea. Is it okay if I say hi to Ralf?”

Jenny felt her lips stretch into a wide smile. “I love Indian. I haven’t eaten. And you may say hi to Ralf.” The butterflies in her stomach burst into riotous flight but for some reason, now they didn’t make her feel nervous or clumsy. Just happy. Tom hesitated at the door for a moment.

“What’s the chances of Ralf and that lizard of yours getting along?” His grey eyes seemed to shine. Jennifer knew she was grinning like a fool, but those butterflies were having a wild party.

“I think the chances are pretty high.” She laughed. “Tell me, do you like love songs?”