In the Arms of Danger Who knew desire could be so dangerous…or addictive. Stranded on the rough streets of Liverpool, Julie Sheridan falls into the arms of an unprincipled Brit with a history of violence. When she learns that a stalker seeks her life, those same arms are the only ones that can protect her. Struggling with a whole host of inner demons, Julie’s profane Prince Valiant isn’t at all what he appears to be. The street-rough wants to escape his past and Julie is his ticket to freedom. All he has to do is sell her out. And he might do just that…if he could find a way to ignore what appears to be a bad case of lust on his part, along with a worse case of frayed heart strings. Bound by an intense attraction, threatened by a series of events beyond her control, Julie takes refuge in the dark shelter of her protector’s embrace—only to find herself in the arms of danger. |
| Cover Art by Willo |
Excerpt “Get your hands off her fucking tits.” The harsh words echoed on the pub’s paneled walls. At the sound of that cold command, the young man crowding Julie froze. Trapped in the leather-lined booth, she’d found herself the unwilling recipient of his unwelcome attention. Now, a look of pure panic fell over his face as his thick, meaty mitt stiffened on her chest. Julie watched as perspiration bled from his pores to shine on his upper lip. With a sick feeling of revulsion, she leaned away from the mouth which hovered uncomfortably close to her face. His damp, sweating breath was an insult to her senses. “Hey, Dicky,” her assailant answered warily, without turning. “I didn’t see you come in.” Julie jumped when a dart slammed into the wall between the booth’s benches. The hand came off her chest as though her nipples were red-hot burners. The dart’s red tail shivered as she stared at the bronze point buried in the oak wall. “Christ, Dicky,” the man beside her hurried to protest, his voice strangling in his throat. “Take it easy! I didn’t know she was your girlfriend.” Julie leaned forward, craning her neck, eager to get a glimpse of her new boyfriend, but a set of beefy shoulders stood between her and her profane Prince Valiant. Although she couldn’t see the owner of the voice, she could tell the young man beside her was scared shitless of this Dicky. “How could you have known?” The smooth voice was forgiving without surrendering an ounce of menace. “She just walked in. I never seen her before. When did she become your girlfriend?” her assailant challenged in a defensive mutter. “When she ordered supper.” The short, clipped words sent chills down Julie’s spine, chills unlike the cold revulsion that had settled around her when the beefy lug had slid into her booth and—after a few words of introduction—had leaned over and slid a sweaty paw over her breast. This was a different sensation entirely, and one that Julie was unfamiliar with. A sensation filled with anticipation and apprehension, mixed with the melting gratitude of a woman extricated from an awkward situation. With a scrape of heavy boots on old wood floors, a young man sauntered into view. He dismissed her unwelcome companion with a flick of his head. “Piss off, Jimmy.” As Jimmy slid out from beside her, the newcomer slid into the maroon leather seat facing her. Julie watched him as he placed two red-tailed darts at the table’s edge. He was a bit of a shock. Because Jimmy was obviously afraid of him—yet Jimmy could have just about made two of him. At maybe five-nine, that made Dicky a good deal taller than she was, but he was neither tall nor broad. His frame was slim, his hips narrow. His shoulders were hidden beneath the long coat he wore but appeared wide enough for a man his size. Smooth hair, the color of vivid rust, tucked into the collar of his black coat and slashed over his forehead to almost hide his eyes. Every feature on his face had a hard edge, from his straight, narrow nose to his sulking, down-turned mouth. As his lips parted, she caught a glimpse of ragged white. One of his front teeth was chipped along its bottom edge. The effect on his face was harsh and unmannered. And his eyes. His eyelashes formed a fence of dark spikes around irises the color of smoldering wood. Those eyes fixed on her with a hungry intensity, making her draw farther into her seat. He might have been good looking, if he hadn’t looked so threatening. Dicky. Only a Brit could wear a name like that and carry it off like a threat, rather than a joke. He didn’t say a word. He just sat across from her with his eyes cutting through the dark ribbons of his hair. |
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madison hayes
In the Arms of Danger
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