Monica Murphy - Torn

“Angel?” Jill called. “C’mon, girl. Let’s go get you something to eat.” She’d responded to her new name all evening. Jill frowned.

Chase gave a soft, staccato, dog-calling whistle. Angel stuck her head out from a stall a third of the way down the aisle. “There she is. C’mon, girl.”

Angel disappeared into the stall.

“Weird,” Jill said, heading down the aisle.

At the door to a freshly bedded empty stall, they found Angel curled beside a mound of sweet, fragrant hay, staring up as if expecting them.

“Silly girl,” Jill said. “You don’t have to stay here. We’re taking you home. Come.”

Angel didn’t budge. She rested her head between her paws and gazed through raised doggy brows. Chase led the way into the stall. “Everything all right, pup?” He stroked her head.

Jill reached for the dog, too, and her hand landed on Chase’s. They both froze. Slowly he rotated his palm and wove his fingers through hers. The few minor fireworks she’d felt in the car earlier were nothing compared to the explosion now detonating up her arm and down her back.

“I’ve been trying to avoid this since I got off that dang horse.” His voice cracked into a low whisper.

“Why?”

He stood and pulled her to her feet. “Because I am not a guy someone as young and good as you are should let do this.”

“You’ve saved my life and rescued a dog. Are you trying to tell me I should be worried about you?”

She touched his face, bold enough in the dark to do what light had made her too shy to try.

“Maybe.”

The hard, smooth fingertips of his free hand slid inexorably up her forearm and covered the hand on his cheek. Drawing it down to his side, he pulled her whole body close, and the little twister of excitement in her stomach burst into a thousand quicksilver thrills. Her eyelids slipped closed, and his next question touched them in warm puffs of breath.

“If I were to kiss you right now, would it be too soon?”

Her eyes flew open, and she searched his shadowy gaze, incredulous. “You’re asking permission? Who does that?”

“Seemed like the right thing.”

“Well, permission granted. Now hush.”

She freed her hands, placed them on his cheeks, roughened with beard stubble, and rose on tiptoe to meet his mouth while he gripped the back of her head.

The soft kiss nearly knocked her breathless. Chase dropped more hot kisses on each corner of her mouth and down her chin, feathered her nose and her cheeks, and finally returned to her mouth. Again and again he plied her bottom lip with his teeth, stunning her with his insistent exploration. The pressure of his lips and the clean, masculine scent of his skin took away her equilibrium. She could only follow the motions of his head and revel in the heat stoking the fire in her belly.

He pulled away at last and pressed parted lips to her forehead.

Morgan Standish can see things other people can’t. She can see the past and future. These hidden gifts have prevented her from getting close to anyone—except FBI agent Tyler Reed. Morgan is connected to him in a way even she can’t explain. She’s solved several cases for him in the past, but will her gifts be enough to bring down a serial killer whose ultimate goal is to kill her? Find out in Book Four of The Hunted Series.

Morgan’s fingers flew across the laptop keyboard propped on her knees. She took a deep breath, cleared her mind, and looked out past her pink-painted toes resting on the railing and across her yard to the densely wooded area at the edge of her property. Her mind’s eye found her guest winding his way through the trees. She still had time before Jack stepped out of the woods separating her land from his. She couldn’t wait to meet him.

Images, knowings, they just came to her. She’d accepted that part of herself a long time ago. As she got older, she’d learned to use her gift to seek out answers.

She finished her buy-and-sell orders and switched from her day trading page to check her psychic website and read the questions submitted by customers. She answered several quickly, letting the others settle in her mind until the answers came to her.

One stood out. The innocuous question about getting a job held an eerie vibe.

The familiar strange pulsation came over her. The world disappeared, as though a door had slammed on reality. The images came to her like hammer blows, one right after the other, and she took the onslaught, knowing something important needed to be seen and understood.

An older woman lying in a bed, hooked up to a machine feeding her medication. Frail and ill, she had translucent skin and dark circles marring her tortured eyes. Her pain washed over Morgan like a tsunami.

The woman yelled at someone, her face contorted into something mean and hateful. An unhappy woman—one who’d spent her whole life blaming others and trying to make them as miserable as she was.

A pristine white pillow floating down, inciting panic, amplified to terror when it covered the woman’s face, her frail body swallowed by the sheets.

Morgan had an overwhelming feeling of suffocation.

The woman tried desperately to suck in a breath, but couldn’t. Unable to move her lethargic limbs, she lay petrified and helpless under his unyielding hands. Lights flashed on her closed eyelids.

Death came calling.

A man stood next to the bed, holding the pillow like a shield. His mouth opened on a contorted, evil, hysterical laugh that rang in her ears and made her skin crawl. She squeezed her eyes closed to blot out his malevolent image and thoughts.

Murderer!

The word rang in her head as the terrifying emotions overtook her.

Morgan threw up a wall in her mind, blocking the cascade of disturbing pictures and feelings. She took several deep breaths and concentrated on the white roses growing in profusion just below the porch railing. Their sweet fragrance filled the air. With every breath, she centered herself and found her inner calm, pushing out the anger and rage left over from the vision. Her body felt like a lead weight, lightening as her energy came back. The drowsiness faded with each new breath. She’d be fine in a few minutes.

The man on horseback emerged from the trees, coming toward her home. Her guest had arrived.

Focused on the computer screen, she slowly and meticulously typed her answer to the man who had asked about a job and inadvertently opened himself up to telling her who he really was at heart.

She replied simply:

You’ll get the job, but you can’t hide from what you did.

You need help. Turn yourself in to the police.

Nightclub manager Leslie Cutter has never been one to back down from a bet. So when Peter Kowalskin, pitcher for the Denver Rush baseball team, bets her that she can’t keep her hands off of him, she’s not about to let the arrogant, gorgeous playboy win. But as things heat up, this combustible pair will have to decide just how much they’re willing to wager on one another . . . and on a future that just might last forever.

“Is there something you want?” he demanded with a raised eyebrow, amused at being able to throw her words right back at her.

“You wish,” Leslie retorted and tossed him a dismissive glance. Only he caught the gleam of interest in her eyes and knew her for the liar that she was.

Peter took a step toward her, closing the gap by a good foot until only an arm’s reach separated them. He leaned forward and caged her in by placing a hand on each armrest of her chair. Her eyes widened the tiniest bit, but she held her ground.

“I wish many, many things.”

“Really?” she questioned and shifted slightly away from him in her chair. “Such as what?”

Peter couldn’t help noticing that her breathing had gone shallow. How about that? “I wish to win the World Series this season.” It would be a hell of a way to go out.

Her gaze landed on his mouth and flicked away. “Boring.”

Humor sparked inside him at that, and he chuckled. “You want exciting?”

She shrugged. “Why not? Amuse me.”

That worked for him. Hell yeah. If she didn’t watch herself, he was going to excite the pants right off of her.

Just excitement, arousal, and sexual pleasure. That was what he was looking for this time around. And it was going to be fun leading her up to it.

But if he wanted her there, then he had to start.

Pushing until he’d tipped her chair back and only the balls of her feet were on the desk, her painted toes curling for a grip, Peter lowered his head until his mouth was against her ear. She smelled like coconut again, and his gut went tight.

“I wish I had you bent over this desk right here with your hot bare ass in the air.”

She made a small sound in her throat and replied, “Less boring.”

Peter grinned. Christ, the woman was tough. “Do you remember what I did to you that night in Miami? The thing that made you come hard, twice—one on top of the other?” He sure as hell did. It had involved his tongue, his fingers, and Leslie on all fours with her face buried in a pillow, moaning his name like she was begging for deliverance.