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RED SAGE PUBLISHING, INC. :: * * * PAPERBACK :: SECRETS VOLUME 17 EROTIC NIGHTS Calista Fox, Kathy Kaye, Ellie Marvel, Kathleen Scott (Paperback)
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SECRETS VOLUME 17 EROTIC NIGHTS Trade Paperback Copyright © KATHY KAYE, KATHLEEN SCOTT, ELLIE MARVEL, CALISTA FOX, 2006 All Rights Reserved, RED SAGE PUBLISHING, INC. Birthday by Ellie Marvel An excerpt from "Birthday" by Ellie Marvel Wolves worked in packs. They took turns exhausting their prey until the poor animal collapsed and offered its throat. Only that’s not what the wolves were after, and that’s not what Jasmine was offering. Maybe she was holding out for her fantasy man, that actor Hugh Jackman, but Charlie didn’t think he was going to show, and eventually Jasmine would settle for someone else. Someone who wasn’t Charlie. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He gripped the metal rail so hard it bruised the inside of his knuckles. If Jasmine were so desperate to get laid, why hadn’t he offered to take care of her sexual frustration himself? Why didn’t he have the balls to make his move when she was obviously panting for it? Because she was panting for sex, and he didn’t want a one-night stand. With Jasmine, he’d want it all. He’d never told her because it would ruin their friendship if she didn’t feel the same. Which she didn’t, or she wouldn’t let that tall guy fondle her ass and grind her soft body against his crotch. Was that getting her wet? Did she like the way he touched her? Jasmine craned her head, met his eyes briefly over the guy’s shoulder, and Charlie would have given anything to be the man cradled between her thighs. Damn! She shook back her hair and laughed. With casual grace, she slung her arms over the guy’s shoulders as they did the dirtiest salsa Charlie had witnessed outside of his dreams. Shae, meanwhile, wriggled her butt against the guy’s friend and clasped his hands against her tits. A third guy took advantage of the fact Shae’s front side was unoccupied and glued himself to her. The short guy returned, apparently rebuffed by the pseudo-lesbians. “Bitches,” he said. His friends guffawed. Shorty turned his attention back to the floor, seeking his next victim. “The red dress with the black guy? That is one fuckable woman.” He elbowed Charlie. “Ya think?” Charlie did think, but he wasn’t about to discuss Jasmine with a troll in a bar. “She’s hot,” his friend agreed. “Come on, they’re ditching those losers. Let’s make a move.” He’d observed Jasmine sample a score of men tonight, but something surged inside him, something primal and fierce. Charlie stepped in their way. “Mine,” he growled. As he said it, he knew it for the truth it was. Jasmine belonged to him; she just didn’t know it yet. Intimate Rendozvous - Calista Fox Excerpt from Intimate Rendozvous Chapter One Talk about looking for love in all the wrong places, Dean Hewitt thought as he passed through the tall metal doors of The Rage. It took mere seconds for his eyes to adjust to the hypnotic flashing of the multi-colored lights as he made a quick sweep of his immediate surroundings. It took a bit longer for his ears to adjust to the decibel level of the band’s amplifiers. Once acclimated, Dean stepped further inside the nightclub and let the sights, sounds and smells assault his senses, something he always did when entering a foreign environment. Dean had relied on his gut instincts and quick mental assessments when he’d been a part of the New York police force for five years. Those valuable traits had continued to serve him well over the past year, as he’d made the transition to private investigator. The Rage was a trendy Upper West Side bar that showcased the hottest bands on the circuit, or at least that’s what it stated on the flyer he’d been handed when he’d walked in. He dropped the flashy advertisement on a table as he stealthily moved through the throng of people. The décor of The Rage was an eclectic collision of art deco and industrial styles, with black furniture, glowing sapphire blue accents and stainless steel fixtures. Though Manhattan-chic, the club was a bit on the wild side. The rock and roll music blared loud enough to make his teeth rattle. Had Cathy really said she’d been here last night? Though the nightclub was neither seedy nor disreputable looking, Dean couldn’t help but wonder if his little sister’s quest for a husband had taken a turn for the worst. This didn’t seem like her style. She generally preferred a more upscale dating scene. Then again, playful Cat was always full of surprises. She was a fun-loving girl and a bit of a chameleon, capable of transforming herself from Upper East Side socialite to Midtown trend-setter with a change of wardrobe and hair color. This week, she sported fiery red curls and leather miniskirts. Last week, she’d been a sleek brunette in Versace. She changed her mind like the wind changed direction, and she could even be considered a bit flighty. But Cat had the biggest heart of anyone he knew. She possessed a free-spirit and a passionate nature. The passion du jour, it would seem, was to have a good time with a heavy-metal head-banger at The Rage. Mentally shaking his head at his younger sister’s curious choice of Friday night haunts, Dean sidled up to the bar. He wedged himself between a Kid Rock look-a-like and a young gal who’d applied an excessive amount of makeup to her pretty face in what he suspected was an attempt to conceal her age. His gut instinct told him she either hadn’t been carded by the burly bouncer out front or she was carrying a fake ID. He wanted to check it himself, but that was no longer his gig. He’d left the police force to pursue his own path, preferring the more intriguing cases he took on as a P.I. versus the routine work he’d engaged in as a department detective. The endless piles of paperwork had bored him senseless. He’d longed to be out on the street, tracking down bad guys, not saddled to his desk filling out reports. So he’d struck out on his own, much to his parents’ dismay. They hadn’t embraced his choice of career after he’d graduated from law school with honors, and they still weren’t too keen on the path he continued to follow. But Dean had finally found work that satisfied him. During his first year in business for himself, he’d helped the FBI to break up an international art theft ring, located two missing persons, and recovered nearly a million dollars in stolen jewelry for a popular Broadway actress. Dean hadn’t had much trouble finding exciting cases to occupy his time this past year. He had a good reputation, and it continued to grow with the successful conclusion of each case he was involved with. He’d finally found his true calling. Resting an arm on the stainless steel bar, Dean caught the bartender’s attention. The lean-muscled, blonde-haired guy looked as though he’d walked right off the stage at a rock concert. He wore black leather pants and a black sleeveless T-shirt that said, quite simply, Shut Up. “I’m looking for Slider,” Dean announced over the bass-thumping music, thinking the nickname of the latest perp he was chasing sounded completely absurd. Maybe the kid was a Top Gun fanatic. He’d used the alias with Cat, who hadn’t even known her designer wallet had been lifted until she’d gotten home. The bartender made a quick assessment of him. Dean’s relatively clean-cut visage helped the other man to deduce he wasn’t a patron but a cop--or some derivative thereof. The bartender’s gaze turned to minimal interest. “No one I know. My cousin might’ve heard of him, though.” He inclined his head toward the entrance. “Upstairs.” Dean gave a curt word of thanks before backing away from the bar and fighting the crowd once again. His first order of business was to locate this Slider fellow--he’d helped himself to all of Cat’s high-limit credit cards. The second order of business was to take her in for a lobotomy. He fought his way through the sea of bodies, back to the entrance of the nightclub and into the softly lit, small foyer of the contemporary building that housed The Rage. Earlier, he’d noticed the black wrought iron spiral staircase that led upstairs, but he’d dismissed it as leading to a second-floor office or apartment. Now he took note of the signage painted discreetly on the far wall, which read “Rendezvous” in elegant script. It was accompanied by a curvy arrow that pointed upward with a flourish. Dean could only imagine what he’d find at the top of the stairs. A bar that was even rowdier than The Rage? Perhaps one teeming with illegal activity? His P.I. instincts kicked into high gear and a shot of adrenaline got his pulse racing just a bit quicker. He loved a good mystery. As he ascended the winding staircase, Dean knew he should be a bit bent out of shape that he was spending his vacation working on a case. It was, after all, the first full week he’d taken off since opening Hewitt Investigations. He wondered now if the reason he’d opted not to leave town was for fear of missing out on any action. He’d been resigned to catching up on some reading and maybe spending a couple of days doing target practice, but then Cat had called this morning to borrow money, something she never did. In addition to their own personal funds, they both had ample family money. So while Cat really didn’t have an occupation to speak of, she never lacked for money. Their father kept her account well padded. It had taken a stern interrogation for Dean to learn Cat had been robbed the night before. He’d loaned her three hundred bucks so she could enjoy lunch and shopping with her friends in SoHo, but the money came with a stipulation. He wanted a description of the thief and an exact accounting of what had transpired from the time she’d met Slider until the time she’d discovered her wallet had gone missing. In typical Cat fashion, she’d given feeble information at best. But it was still enough for Dean to work with. As he reached the landing at the top of the stairs and traveled down a narrow hallway, the raucous din of The Rage slowly faded away, to be replaced by more enticing sounds. He pushed his way through a set of heavy metal doors, covered with a tufted layer of thick, dark red velvet. He drew up short, taken aback. It took a lot to throw Dean off kilter, but what he discovered at Rendezvous did just that. Disappointment registered first. So much for the tawdry, secret backroom he’d hoped to uncover. Instinct told him he’d be hard-pressed to find illegal activity in this place. Instead, Rendezvous was a stylish, upscale wine bar. Not at all the sort of establishment he’d expect to be housed in the same building with The Rage. As he contemplated the scene, a sultry Jazz tune met his ears. Soft, enticing scents he couldn’t even begin to identify, but which stirred his senses nonetheless, wafted under his nose. Slowly, relief washed over him as Dean realized this was the club Cat had visited last night, not the MTV video set downstairs. Phew. He could scratch Cat’s lobotomy off his To Do list. The warm, inviting ambience of the lounge immediately drew him in. Though it was a large club, it felt cozy and intimate. The layout was a maze of nooks and private alcoves. Crescent-shaped sofas and high-backed, comfortable-looking chairs, all covered with crimson-colored, velvet upholstery, were strategically placed throughout the lounge. Coffee and end tables helped to create a living room-like setting. The diffused lighting added to the intimate atmosphere. The high-traffic areas were illuminated with a romantic, yellowish glow. The rest of the club was cast in a mixture of flickering candlelight and dancing shadows. Dean’s gaze swept the room. Toward the back of the lounge were tall bistro tables with barstools around them, along with two elegant, custom-made pool tables. Stretched along the back wall was a massive mahogany bar, as ornately designed as the pool tables. Dean headed in that direction, taking in the erotic scents and the seductive atmosphere along the way. He passed attractive women draped provocatively over the wide arms of chairs and sofas, their soft, feminine laughter floating on the air, mingling with a curious sexual energy. In dark corners, couples swayed to the soulful wails of muted trumpets, their limbs and bodies entwined like lovers. Twosomes snuggled together on the plush sofas, deeply engrossed in private conversations, occasionally pausing to steal an intimate moment. A sweep of hair from a cheek… A kiss on the nape of a bare neck… A hand creeping slowly up a shapely thigh… The ambiance was clearly designed to inspire romance. Dean grew more intrigued by the second. He reached the bar and slid onto the only empty stool. Candles glowed in red-tinted glass votive holders, adding to the sensual environment. The air was just as sexually charged in this part of the club as it was in the lounge. His curiosity was already piqued… And then he saw her. A beautiful creature dressed all in red. Suddenly, Dean felt sexually charged himself. The woman was breathtaking. His gaze locked with hers as she made her slow, seductive approach. Her eyes were bright blue. Vibrant and sparkly, they practically glowed in the soft candlelight. Dean was instantly mesmerized. A very peculiar sensation swept over him. He felt strange. Mellow, actually. As though he’d been drugged and was now moving about in a mind-tingling fog. What was happening to him? He was usually disconnected from mind-altering scenes like this one. He was a man with razor-sharp focus and clarity. Not at all a sucker for a pretty face in an intimate nightclub, where the promise of sex lingered in the air, thicker than the scent of expensive perfume. At the moment, however, Dean was deeply ensnarled. Definitely a sucker for this pretty face. “Let me guess.” Her soft, provocative tone mingled with the passion-induced haze that filled his brain. The erotic combination made his cock stand up and take notice. Spellbound, Dean watched as the gorgeous bartender rested her elbows on top of the bar and leaned toward him. She tapped the pad of a long finger against her glossy lips in a contemplative way. Her nails were painted candy-apple red. Her lips were a deep crimson color. She was quite the siren. “You look like a whiskey drinker. The good old-fashioned kind. Straight up. No frills.” Her smile was soft, hypnotic. “Good guess.” Was that his voice he heard, so low and intimate? “It’s a gift.” Her eyes twinkled playfully in the candlelight. Thoroughly captivated, Dean knew he could sit on that barstool for hours, staring into her eyes, and never tire of looking at her. Therefore, disappointment seized him when she pushed away from the bar and turned her back on him. She glided over to the mirrored wall behind her and reached for a bottle of Jack Daniels that sat on one of the glass shelves. The disappointment he felt over her departure was quickly replaced by something else…a more primal reaction. Presented with her enticing backside, a slow rise of heat started in his groin. It spread slowly, deliciously throughout his body like some mood-altering drug flowing through his veins, creating a warm and molten feeling inside him. If he hadn’t known better, he may have thought he actually had been drugged. But he hadn’t taken a sip of anything yet. No, the only way this feeling inside him could be blamed on illegal drugs was if some intoxicating scent was being piped in through the air vents. Not an unlikely scenario…if he were James Bond. But Dean wasn’t the flashy Bond type. He’d never thought of himself as a ladies’ man, and he preferred a subtle approach to everything he did. He wasn’t into showboating. Come to think of it, his current predicament seemed more reminiscent of Peter Gunn, hanging out at the stylish jazz club, Mother’s. Gunn had always been Dean’s favorite TV “eye,” despite the fact that the show had aired in the late 50’s, way before his time. He’d been hooked on reruns and, as a kid, had daydreamed about being the cool P.I. who swooped in to save the day. Gunn had been a man’s man. The kind of P.I. that could get the girl if he wanted to, but whose real focus was on solving mysteries. Hip and “in the know,” Gunn was a man who got the job done in ultra-suave, low-key Bogie fashion. Of course, Gunn probably hadn’t entertained the kind of erotic thoughts about flame/jazz singer Edie Hart that Dean was currently conjuring up over the siren bartender before him. Wicked thoughts. The kind that only seemed to dance into a man’s head when he found the perfect female specimen with which to engage in the most carnal of activities. She certainly had the body for those carnal activities, he noted as he took in every inch of her mouth-watering backside. The seductive bartender wore a red leather miniskirt that revealed a great ass and mile-long legs. Her red leather pumps were tall with spiky heels. Sexy as hell. Visions of those toned, incredibly long legs wrapped around his waist drifted through his fuzzy brain. His groin tightened. Reluctantly, Dean raised his eyes--just as the siren turned back to face him. She placed an intricately cut crystal glass in front of him and poured the amber liquid with precision. Dean’s gaze swept over the gorgeous woman before him, settling on the red satin top that was knotted at her waist, leaving an inch or so of her toned midriff exposed. The first few buttons on her blouse were undone, revealing the hint of a red lace bra and the slightest glimpse of the full swell of her breasts. Around her neck, she wore a red satin ribbon adorned with a small gold-and-ruby butterfly pendant, which rested peacefully in the hollow of her throat. The delicate ornament caught his attention for a moment, but then he was distracted by her movements. As she passed the drink to him, the candlelight caught the cut glass and, mixed with the hue of the liquor, created a prism of color. She noticed it too and smiled softly at the illusion. Warmth touched her eyes, making them glow in the soft light. For a brief moment, Dean was rendered speechless. He was too entranced to even breathe. But then a curious thought popped into his head. He pondered the situation, wondering what, exactly, he’d stumbled upon here. The sexy atmosphere, the intimate setting, the provocative bartender… Were all these people really here for pool, cocktails and conversation? Or were there rooms to rent by the hour in the back? Something was definitely going on. The attractive twenty- and thirty-somethings came to Rendezvous for some intriguing reason. Even the name of the club was suggestive. He sat back in his barstool and sipped his drink. Of course, he knew what the allure was for the men. Her. The siren before him moved away with grace and ease, a sleek tigress on the prowl. She turned her soft, sexy smile on a couple of guys at the end of the bar as she poured them fresh beers. Interestingly, she didn’t engage in anything more than polite conversation. A quick visual sweep of the bar told him she had about a dozen beers on tap, but she clearly wasn’t on the menu. Dean felt oddly relieved by that observation. When she made her way back to him, Dean’s glass was empty. She’d been gone no more than five minutes. He’d needed that stiff drink to help take the edge off. He set the glass back on the bar as she returned her attention to him. Her glossy blonde hair fell over her slender shoulders in big, loose curls. He imagined those thick strands felt as rich and luxurious as the red velvet on the sofas and chairs. “Get you another one?” she asked. Mischief danced in her vibrant eyes. Dean was certain he’d never met a woman who reeked of trouble the way this one did. Better keep those hormones in check, pal. No doubt a guy could easily fall prey to a woman who looked as sinful as this one did. She knew how to gaze seductively, suggestively into his eyes--doling out promises she’d never keep. Dean found himself wishing they were the only ones in the club. Better yet, he’d like to get her alone, in his bedroom. Correction. In his bed. But he wasn’t here to score with the sexy bartender, as appealing an idea as it was. He had business to attend to. “I’ll pass on the drink,” he managed to say. He normally didn’t trip over his own tongue when talking to a woman, but it seemed to have swelled to twice its normal size. He’d dated a bevy of beauties in his time, but she was more than beautiful. She was bewitching. It would be a good idea, he decided, to stick to the issue at hand. And, if he had half a brain left, he’d be able to recall exactly what that was. Oh, yes. Cat, her stolen credit cards and cash, and the creep who’d availed her of them. Focus, pal. “I’m looking for someone.” Again, that low, intimate voice sounded so foreign to him. They were speaking in tones that belonged in the bedroom, not a nightclub. Trouble smiled wantonly at him, and he was momentarily mesmerized by her lush, full lips. Her extremely kissable lips. “You’ve come to the right place if you’re looking for that special someone.” His gaze followed hers to the lounge. “Most of the patrons are members of my dating service. The pretty blonde over there in the corner,” she said as she inclined her head toward the entrance, “will be more than happy to give you information about our services.” Dean had noticed the attractive woman at the sturdy wooden desk when he’d walked in. She was working diligently on her laptop. From time to time, she’d stop to converse with whoever slid into the seat across the desk from her. No wonder there was so much sexual energy swirling about. They were all looking for love. Like Cat. Thinking of his sister, Dean turned his attention back to Trouble. “That’s not quite what I meant.” Understanding registered in her eyes, but she still looked perfectly at ease. “You’re a cop.” “Private investigator. Dean Hewitt’s the name. Wanna see my ID?” Her playful smile made his insides clench. “Clever. I’m usually the one carding.” Every fiber of his being wanted to follow this flirtation down its natural course, but he had business to take care of. He wanted to nail the guy who’d stolen his sister’s wallet. Why did he have to keep reminding himself of that? “I’m looking for a guy named Slider. Smooth-talking, good-looking thief. Know him?” She paused a moment before saying, “No.” Her hesitation was just long enough to convince Dean that she was lying. No problem. He could play that game. He’d let her off the hook, for now. He reached for the wallet in the inside pocket of his black leather jacket, but she waved him off. “It’s on the house, Detective Dean.” She gave him a contemplative look, then added, “Just don’t share that little tidbit with your counterparts at the precinct. I don’t want them loitering about, putting a damper on the party.” “You own this place?” “Yes. I’m Cassandra Kensington.” He eased off his barstool and cast an appreciative look at Trouble. “Nice to meet you, Cassandra. Thanks for the drink.” He turned and walked out of her joint, knowing this wouldn’t be the last he’d see of her. ____________________________________________________________________________________ RED SAGE PUBLISHING, INC. © 2006 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
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