The Plano Book
Club Book of the Month Selection January 2008
LRC Award Winner,
2nd Place for Best Sci-Fi Fantasy 2007
Nominee Best Book 2007
Winner, Best Overall Fantasy Romance
LASR - Best Book
Finalist Best Paranormal Romance 2007
Award Winner, Best Contemporary Romance 2007
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Lost for Words
by Mike Duncan
used with permission mike-duncan.org
Read Chapter One
Sunlight refracted through the full glass door as Asha opened it, blinding him for an instant, then she rematerialized, born from the brilliant shafts. A breath-stealing shard of time that burned deep into his soul. When he was old and grey, he'd recall this instant as if yesterday and remember its power.
Not a classic beauty, Asha's face was riveting, arresting, feline. Her jawline hinted of the Montgomerie stubbornness, but a faint cleft in her chin softened the effect. His body bucked as he imagined running the side of his thumb over the shadowy dip, seeing those cat eyes watching him, enrapt by his action. A flicker of arrogance flashed in those amber eyes, though in an understated way, the haughtiness carried off with regal self-assurance few women ever truly achieve.
The crowning asset was her hair. Thick, it rippled like silk down to the small of her finely arched spine, no curl disturbing the heavy mass. A honey-color generally ascribed gold-brown, Jago deemed the label apathetic, short of characterizing her mane. The locks shimmered with a thousand golds, a range from fiery to pale auburns and vibrant browns.
It provoked an appetite to see it spread across his pillow as he drove himself into her slick, welcoming body, feel it draped, cool over his burning skin. A hunger that would force a throwback like him to howl.
Asha glanced about the room in disinterested fashion. She stared men in the eye, dismissing them with a flick of her long black lashes, a poise that would send all but the ardent meat-eaters running. In the end, Jago knew those fleeing would feel guilty for even daring to look, to wish.
It was fascinating to observe the emotional shifts on male faces. Clearly, they wanted Asha, but Jago doubted any would approach her. Only sheer morons with nothing to lose would take the risk. Or a man as assured of himself as he was.
Asha's aloof scan of the dining room finally reached Jago. The amber-brown eyes widened as her stare collided with his. The witchy force of those cat-eyes rocked Jago, stole his breath. Lightning sizzled along his nerves as the odd moment in time lengthened. All about them blurred. Then with a sweep of her long lashes, she pretended she hadn't noticed him.
Nice try, Asha. he said under his breath, then took a long draw on the beer to kill his parched throat. Jago Luxovius Mershan, you're one lucky sonofabitch―or curst, he mused.
Asha spoke to the hostess, their words lost under restaurant chatter. Evidently she'd requested the blinds dropped. The woman did, plunging the diner into shadows. Then Asha went ahead and seated herself in a booth about halfway back, away from the long row of windows.
His position on the stool at the counter was dead-center on the aisle, affording him a splendid show. Oh yeah, this Scottish miss had one sweet ass! Her rear view sent his blood into the low rocking thrum, similar to a Harley-Davidson jump-starting in his chest. Yep, that's what Asha reminded him of, his classic '67 Harley Electra Glide in black, all sleek curves and lines, created so a man just craved to climb on for the ride of his life. He contemplated if she made love Harley-style―zero to a hundred m.p.h. in a blink of an eye. It'd be riding thunder.
He nearly laughed aloud realizing if he told her that―in all sincerity meaning it as the ultimate compliment―she'd probably deck him. Only a man would think comparing a woman to a Harley―not just any bike, mind you, but a Harley―was highest praise. He recalled that old Robert Palmer song Bang a Gong and the stanza about a woman being built like a truck. Females just didn't get what Palmer wailed about. Men did. Few things born of man could bring Jago to his knees faster than a vintage Harley or the perfect woman.
And Asha Montgomerie, without doubt, was the perfect woman―in his eyes.
Back in May at her grandfather's funeral in England, he d seen her from a distance. Brief glimpses little prepared him for the up-close affect this woman had on his system. It took all his control not to get to his feet, go to her, put a hand behind her neck and devour that small, pouty mouth.
Jago wanted her as he'd never wanted a woman before. And without hesitation he'd take her, possess her, brand her, never looking back and damning the consequences. Because like her, he too was a throwback.
Too bad he was here to tear her safe secure world apart. Before the dust settled, she'd likely hate his guts, despise him just as powerfully as he craved her.
Jago prayed he didn't destroy them both before it was done.
Coming 2007 from Love Spell, Dorchester Books
© DeborahAnne MacGillivray
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