Romantic Suspense and Thriller

Touch Me By Kathryn Jane

Friday, November 29, 2013

Excerpt from Touch Me

Telepathic abilities are a bitch and a blessing.

Grace shuddered as unbearable memories fought to surface.

She wrenched open the door and stepped into a whirling of unfamiliar energy.

Heart slamming against her ribs, she scanned the garage, saw the smooth concrete and shiny cars one would expect. She tipped her head, opened her senses, and listened carefully.

Nothing. Just nerves, she thought. Must beat the panic. Stay in control. Get to the car.

But the parking spot was empty—except for the sign on the wall she’d missed when she’d arrived. With a groan at her own stupidity, she scurried back to the elevator room and grabbed the doorknob. It refused to open. She circled to the other door, but it, too, was locked.

Frustration took the edge off her fear.

“Five floors below the flippin’ city and I have to walk out,” she muttered as she began the trek. Narrow spiked-heels assaulted the concrete with angry intent, echoes bounced, while a new tingling of awareness crawled up her spine.

Logan held his position at the side window of the surveillance vehicle, adrenaline hovering, waiting at the edge. A warning flickered through him before he heard the sound. He slipped his hand into the black curtain, edged it open a fraction, and, for a moment, he was just a man, not a special agent.

The woman was stunning. Long, lean, sun-kissed skin with dark silk sliding over sexy curves.

“Son of a bitch.” he growled.

“What? What is it?” The team leader’s voice rattled through his earpiece.

“I thought they secured this place.”

“Done. Elevator doors electronically frozen. Garage doors same.”

“Bullshit. There’s a woman walking toward me.”


She was less than fifty feet away now. He sucked in a breath and muttered, “Drop-dead-fucking-gorgeous-woman.”

Her head came up like a startled gazelle.

Carter’s voice cut in. “Shit. Get her contained. We can’t have a civilian in the middle of this. Into the van now! Two minutes max to target.”

Logan slipped out and watched her from behind a concrete pillar.

She stopped, eyes wide, searching, took a couple more steps then leaned down to jerk off her shoes. The slit up the side of her skirt gaped open. He tore his attention away from the long smooth leg in time to catch a glimpse of luscious breast pressing against the top of the silky dress. She straightened, reached up to push the sun streaked mass of hair back from her face, and he stepped in front of her, badge in hand.

“Police, ma’am.”

He barely saw the flash of panic in her golden eyes before she spun and ran for her life.

“Shit.” Caught flat-footed, he dug deep to catch up.

“What?” Carter’s voice came through the ear-piece. “What’s going on?”

“Rabbit,” he growled as he stretched to grab her by the shoulder.

“NO!” she screamed, twisting around with every ounce of flight morphing into fight and driving her knee deep into his groin.

“Ugh.” It was a grunt, followed by a groan and other unintelligible guttural sounds, pieces of words. Hot seething pain shot up through him, sucked the breath from his lungs. Her arm swung and he took the full force of shoes—with matching evening bag—across his left ear. There was a gasping, scuffling noise and a couple more grunts.

Earpieces suddenly crackled with, “Man down! Paul, Lance, level three!”

She kicked, punched, scratched, and clawed but he didn’t let go, kept up the battle, unsure if he was trying to save her life or his own. There’d been one clear moment when he could have tagged her, dropped her, knocked the fight right out of the bitch. Instead, still half bent, gasping for breath while nausea clawed at him, he snagged her wrists, held them behind her back, and ground out, “Police, dammit. Knock it off.”

Only then did he hear them. First the hard boots pounding, then, “Police!” and she was ripped away from him to be held firmly between two heavily armored S.W.A.T. officers. Bent double now, his forearms pressing on his thighs, he tipped his head and saw the confusion on her face. Realization at war with the need to be free and probably the bloody gender’s need to be right.

Carter’s voice was sharp and urgent in his earpiece. “Target on approach. Positions.

The two black-clad figures shoved her back at him and vanished among the parked cars.

There was no time. They were too far away from the van. Never make it. He could already hear the vehicle, tires squealing gently on the tight turns between levels. His voice was low and deadly serious as he tugged her back between cars. “This is life or death, lady, so play along.” He dragged her against him, pulled her arms up around his neck, wrapped his own around her waist, and growled, “Pretend you’re liking it.” Then his mouth dropped over hers.