It’s a pleasure
to be a part of author Lora Leigh’s blog tour for the release of COLLISION
POINT, the latest installment in her Brute Force series.
Join me today
as we find out a bit about the new release with an excerpt Lora is sharing. The
post is a tad longer than usual, but well worth reading to the very end.
From #1 bestselling author Lora Leigh
comes Collision Point, part of the thrilling Brute Force
series—packed with powerful men, steely women, and explosive passion.
SHE’S NOTHING BUT
TROUBLE
Riordan
Malone is more than a bodyguard. As an Elite Ops agent, he’s ripped, raged, and
ready to rumble—a true warrior, inside and out. But no war zone can compare to
the battle in Rory’s heart when he lays eyes on the only woman he’s ever
loved—and thought he had lost forever. . .
HE’S EVERYTHING SHE
NEEDS
As
the daughter of a crime lord, Amara Resnova has endured the cruelty of her
father’s enemies—and has tried to escape that world ever since. Now, she must
reach out to the one man who saved her life, even if she’s never forgiven him
for breaking her heart. But Amara is tougher today than she was then. She’s
also more desirable to Rory—and dangerous to love. Can he protect her from her
father’s enemies without surrendering to his own passions…or will love seal
their fate for good?
Here's an excerpt for your reading pleasure.
Chapter one
Six months later
She’d been told that West Texas in the spring wasn’t much different from West
Texas in the fall, but as Amara Resnova pulled in the driveway of the small
house outside Alpin, she felt she had to disagree with that summation.
Stretched out in front of
the house with its wraparound porch was a lush green valley fed by a lazily
running stream winding through it. Sunlight speared from the cloudless blue
sky, bright and warm, spreading its heat in a comforting embrace.
And the charming little
house sat just beneath the warming sunlight. Spreading out in front of it was
the picturesque valley; behind it, the normal West Texas part-grass,
part-scrub, potential-desert landscape that never failed to amaze her.
On a rising knoll stood a
lone tree, thickly branched and heavily leafed, shading what appeared to be a
small cemetery. Rather than looking desolate and lonely, that little plot of
land with its surrounding black iron fence, appeared instead to keep watch over
the land below it. As though those buried there kept a gentle eye on those who
came after them.
As isolated as the
property was, it should have appeared stark. Instead, an air of contentment and
peace lay over it. As though the land, the house, the vibrant green of the
valley, and the cemetery that overlooked it all, knew all there was about life
and love and had locked all those secrets within it to sustain it.
Drawing in a deep breath
to steady herself against the fears she hadn’t been able to push behind her
even in such a lovely setting, Amara turned off the engine, forced her hands
not to shake, and opened the door before stepping into the warmth that filled
the valley.
It wasn’t a blazing heat,
but rather a gentle wave that filled the air and wafted around her. And in it there
was a strange sense of familiarity. A “been there before” feeling that had her
heart racing, her mouth drying as she stared around and drew in the sights and
whispered sounds of a land as yet untouched by civilized life.
Here, a person could see
the stars at night rather than the city lights. The sound of the lonely coyote
rather than the rush of traffic. Peace rather than a hectic race.
Here, perhaps, she could
find some answers. And maybe there was a chance to find everything she’d lost.
Tugging the hem of her
tank, she straightened it over the band of her jeans beneath the light denim
jacket she wore as she walked slowly from the car to the stone path that led to
the porch. The thick carpet of grass stretched from the valley to surround the
house, but she’d noticed as she parked that it became sparser at the back. As
though that carpet of green with its lazy stream could only struggle so far to
embrace the weathered home.
The dark blue pickup
parked at the side of the house attested that someone lived there. And she knew
the vehicle belonged to the man those in town called Grandpops Malone.
Riordan Malone Sr. was
grandfather to Riordan Malone the younger, she’d been told, when she stopped at
the gas station and auto repair garage outside town that bore the name MALONE
AND BLAKE—SERVICE AND REPAIR. There, she’d learned Riordan the younger was part
owner but currently out at his “grandpops’” place.
Riordan.
That name haunted her
dreams, her fantasies. Though the man in those dreams wasn’t an old man. The
one who came to her in those nightly images was tall, strong, impossibly sexy.
As Amara forced herself to
walk to the porch, she looked around, searching for the face, listening for the
voice of a man she knew only in those dreams. The man she’d escaped her
father’s protection to go search for.
Was he friend or foe?
Even she couldn’t answer
that question, not fully. But for some reason, she couldn’t seem to help the
need to learn which he would be.
As her foot lifted to the
first step, the front door creaked, causing her to pause, to wait with bated
breath as it slowly opened to reveal an aged, gray-haired gentleman she
suspected was Riordan Sr., Grandpops.
In his worn loose jeans,
well-washed white shirt with sleeves folded neatly back below his elbows, scuffed
leather boots, and with that serene expression, the man looked as old and wise
as the mountains themselves. And there was no doubt he was just as damn
stubborn.
“Well, hello there.” The
smile that lifted the corners of his mouth was reflected in his dark blue eyes.
“Can I help ya, young lady?”
There was a whisper of a
lyrical accent. Irish. Just a whisper though, not the full, male lilt she
sometimes heard in memories that never fully revealed themselves.
“I’m looking…” She
swallowed nervously. “I’m looking for Riordan Malone.”
His head tilted to the
side, his thick graying hair neatly trimmed but giving a hint of the rogue he
must have been in his youth.
“I’d say you’re looking
for my grandson rather than myself,” he said gently. “He should be along in a
bit. His da just called to say he’s done stole that wild pony again and headed
this way.” A chuckle filled the air. “Come along up to the porch and sit with
me till he arrives. That wild beast always gives a show when he comes barreling
through the valley.”
Moving gingerly up the
steps to the porch, she followed him to the comfortable-looking cushioned
rockers that faced the valley.
“Does he steal ponies
often?” She frowned as she sat down, feeling more off balance than she’d felt
in her life—which was saying something considering the past six months.
“Just that wild-assed
black son of a satan that took a liking to him.” He grinned back at her, his
gnarled hands gripping the arms of the rocker loosely. “His da threatens to
kill the beast every time Riordan takes it out. He swears it’s gonna kill the
boy.”
Boy.
That didn’t sound like the
man she was searching for. But, everything she learned assured her this was the
one place she was certain to find him.
“Ahh, here he comes now.”
Fondness filled the old man’s tone as he motioned to the valley.
He appeared at first as no
more than a storm of dust rising beyond the verdant green of the valley.
Amara watched, her heart
racing as that trail of dust grew steadily closer.
It was an imposing sight,
she had to admit.
A sensual, exhilarating
sight.
The horse, black as
midnight, neck extended, flying across the deserted landscape, was enough to
hold the eye. But the sight of the man, bent low to the horse’s neck, black
hair flying back from his face, riding without a saddle, was a bit more than
simply imposing.
It was exhilarating.
Imposing and savage and wildly erotic.
Amara could feel her body
responding to the sight, weakening, filling with a sensual lassitude she
couldn’t combat.
“Be watching this now.
That horse loves ta take him on a wild ride he does,” Grandpops said softly.
The horse flew over a
gully as though he had wings, before jumping the stream, neck and legs extended
as it went airborne for precious seconds. The animal then took a series of
fences as though they were nothing, and as she stared, she felt she knew how
those women felt from centuries past as they watched a conquering warrior
bearing down on them.
When the horse flew over
the fence that enclosed the house yard, Amara was certain there was no way it
could pull up before slamming headfirst into the porch itself.
With no more than a few
yards to spare, the beast came up on his hind legs, a triumphant equine scream
filling the air before landing again and prancing about with pure high-spirited
joy before finally settling.
And Riordan sat firm on
the animal’s back the whole time, holding onto the horse’s mane rather than a
bridle, thighs gripping the animal’s heaving sides as he stared at her with
blazing, furious blue eyes before turning them on his grandfather.
The younger Riordan
dismounted smoothly, the soles of his moccasined feet hitting the ground as he
slapped the beast on the rump. It came up on its hind legs once more in another
display of savage beauty as it reared up, pawed the air, then shot off back the
way it came the second it landed.
Flying like the wind,
strong legs launching it over the fence, the gully, then the stream before a
trail of dust followed it around the bend of the mountain.
So much beauty, she
thought. A display of savage male temper and strength, and no less showed in
Riordan’s expression as he propped his hands on his lean waist and glared up at
her where she sat next to his grandfather on the porch.
Well-worn denim encased
his hips and legs, and the moccasins that covered his feet weren’t fringed or
fancy, just well made. A black T-shirt stretched across a broad chest,
emphasizing his muscular abs and making her fingers itch to remove it.
Yes, this was him. The
savage who invaded her dreams, the fury who slashed at her nightmares. Vivid
sapphire eyes, daunting features, proud, imposing. A man who knew his own
demons as well as those that inhabited other men. Or women.
She rose slowly to her
feet, aware of Riordan’s “grandpops” as he sat comfortably in his rocker,
watching in interest.
“What the fuck are you
doing here?” the words that passed from his lips caused her to flinch; their
icy tone caused her heart to sink.
The tender tone, the edge of lust and hunger she’d
dreamed of, was nowhere in sight.
His gaze raked over her
and there was none of the sensual promise she’s seen in his eyes when he’d
invaded her dreams, none of the dominant sensualist who tormented her with his
touch in her fantasies.
She hadn’t expected this.
This wild fury and enraged demand. He didn’t seem the least bit glad to see
her, she had to admit. What made her think he would be? she wondered.
Was she wrong? Did she not
know him?
She was certain she had to
have known him, certain that somehow, someway, they must have meant something
to each other. Could she have been so wrong?
“Riordan!” Grandpops’
surprised tone had a grimace contorting Riordan’s face.
Evidently the grandfather
thought little of the grandson’s language.
“Grandpops, perhaps you
should go back to Grant’s.” He turned to his grandfather, his voice firm.
“Noah, Sabella, and the babies will be there in a bit.”
Grandpops continued to
glower at him.
“I’m certain I can handle
whatever language he wants to use, Mr. Malone,” she assured the older man. “I’m
not exactly a stranger to it these days.”
Her father cursed more
often, brooded more often, and Amara knew the situation she’d found herself in
was weighing on him. If she didn’t do something, didn’t fix things, then she
was terrified of what may happen. Of what her father would do to fix things
himself.
“But can his grandmother?”
The old man sounded disappointed rather than angry. “Remember whose home your
using that language in, boy.”
Rising from his chair,
Grandpops moved to the steps stiffly and made his way down, casting his
grandson yet another warning glare.
“Drive carefully,
Grandpops. No more racing with those Brickford boys,” Riordan stated as his
grandfather passed by.
And Amara could have sworn
she saw a gleeful grin tease at the older man’s lips. But he merely grunted as
he passed.
A few moments later the
truck started, and they watched Grandpops ease around the circular drive and
onto the road that led to the small valley.
The silence that stretched
between them was heavy—with his anger and her uncertainty.
As the truck took the curve
around the rising hill, she turned back to Riordan and tucked her hands into
the pockets of her light jacket, her fingers curling into fists.
She’d faked the last six
months with friends and most of her family. Taking cues from her father and his
assistant Nikolai, she’d smiled and faked her way through every damn meeting
and gathering she’d been forced to attend until she slipped silently from her
father’s estate the week before and, in essence, ran away from home.
Not that he was letting
her run without giving chase. He and his men weren’t far behind her and she
knew it. They’d almost caught up with her the night before, outside Houston. If
she didn’t do something, if she didn’t find a way to eliminate the threat
shadowing her, then her poppa could do something she may not be able to live
with. And it was that decision that sent her running to Alpine and the man who
shadowed her dreams.
She was here now. She’d
found the man she’d gone searching for, and she knew the days of lying and
pretending to be who she’d been six months before were over.
She lifted her head,
straightened her shoulders, and stared up at him in determination.
“Whatever I did to you,
I’m sorry,” she told him, miserably aware that if she’d offended him in the
past, angered him, then there was the possibility it couldn’t be fixed with an
apology. She hadn’t been the nicest person she could have been in the past.
His eyes narrowed on her
before once again moving to sweep over the landscape. There was a tension that
surrounded him, a steady watchfulness she’d noticed her father and Ilya always
carried as well. That prepared and ready-for-action thing strong men always
seemed to carry with them.
“Go home, Amara,” he told
her when those brilliant eyes turned back to her. “Go back to daddy. This is no
place for you.”
He knew her. He was angry,
but for a second, she swore she saw something more in that flash of heat in his
expression.
“No. Riordan, please.” He
couldn’t make her leave. Not yet, not until he knew what was coming, because
what was coming didn’t affect just her. She could sense it, her dreams assured
her of it.
Turning, Riordan dismissed
her just that easily and strode up the steps to the porch, leaving her to stand
alone as the storm door slammed behind his retreating back.
Alone.
Strange, but this feeling
of “alone” didn’t seem nearly as unfamiliar as it should have.
Inhaling deeply, she
followed him rather than doing as ordered. Not that she often did as she was
ordered. That was probably how she found herself where she was now. Opening the
door quietly, she stepped into the house, her gaze taking in the homey
atmosphere of the large living area.
A comfortable leather
couch, recliner, and matching chairs were grouped around a cold fireplace. The
mantle held a variety of family pictures that she would have loved to have time
to check out. The wood floor was smooth, aged with a sheen of time and caring.
There were more family
pictures in frames on the wall, many appeared old and passed down through the
years, the frames lovingly polished, the photos a bit faded from time.
As she stepped into the
room, Riordan watched her silently, leaning against the wide doorframe into the
kitchen, his arms crossed over his broad chest as he simply stared at her, his
expression still and remote.
“What the hell are you
doing here?” he asked, that rumble of his deep voice sending a stroke of
sensation up her spine.
What was she doing here?
Trying to survive, to
live.
“I need your help.” She
had to force herself to say the words, and still they came out as barely more
than a whisper. “Please, Riordan. I need your help.”
* * *
Six months.
For six bloody months this
damn woman had tormented his dreams while asleep and his thoughts while awake.
He’d given his life for her on a dark, blood-filled night, then again on an
operating table, only to be told she never wanted to see him again when he’d
been released. And now, two months after he’d returned to Texas, here she was.
Son of a bitch. Just when
he thought he could get through a night without being tormented by her, she
just showed up out of the blue. And it was all he could do not to touch her, to
jerk her to him and show her exactly what she was dealing with in coming to
him.
But, she’d been his
weakness from the moment he’d met her, hadn’t she? From the second his gaze
touched hers, she’d been the one woman he couldn’t get out his head. And God
knew he’d fought it.
Tiny and delicate, she
made a man want to wrap her in cotton and hide her away from the world.
Resilient, stubborn, and independent, she made a man realize fast that she
wouldn’t allow him to do so.
Her once-long, straight
silky black hair was shorter now, courtesy of her abductors. At first jagged
and close to her scalp, it had grown a good six inches or so and feathered
around her delicate face becomingly. Piercing gray-blue eyes stared back at
him, somberly.
Frightened.
Riordan straightened from
the doorframe, his eyes narrowing on her. That was fear in her eyes, along with
the uncertainty and the heat he always saw there.
“You need my help?” he couldn’t
help the mockery that tinged his voice simply because it flooded every corner
of his mind. “Strange, two months ago you never wanted to see my damn lying ass
again. What changed?”
What had changed? For a
moment, that question had her pausing.
God, if only she could
tell him. She was damned if she knew herself what had changed. All she knew was
that now, six months after she’d awakened, she was unable to remember what had
happened or who had abducted her or what they had wanted. The nightmares had grown
worse, the sense of imminent danger and panic that fueled them had become
overwhelming. In each one, this man stood with his hand outstretched, his voice
whispering to her, urging her to find him. To come to him.
She swallowed tightly,
uncertain what to say, how to explain. She didn’t trust him, not by any means.
But she didn’t trust anyone now. She didn’t know who to trust.
“I’m sorry.” But she was
damned if she could remember telling him he wasn’t wanted.
No doubt she’d had a good
reason. Savagely hewn, rough and sexy, and a cowboy to boot. No doubt he had a
wandering eye and hands that had no idea how to be faithful. The one type of
man she despised. But personal fidelity and the ability to protect weren’t
always intimately acquainted, she’d since learned. The man who cheated on his
wife and walked away from his children could also be the very man willing to
give his life for that same woman, or those children.
Men had never made sense
to her, even from an early age. But she didn’t need him to make sense to her,
she needed him to fulfill the promise he made in her dreams and help her figure
out who was determined to see her dead and why she was so certain it was
someone she knew and loved.
“You’re sorry?” he
snorted, flashing her a look filled with disgust. “Fine, go home and be sorry
there. I don’t have time for it here.”
The panic was beginning to
build inside her chest. It thundered through her veins and raced to her heart.
If he made her leave, if he threw her out and forced her to run again, she was
going to die, and she knew it.
“You promised you’d help
me,” she snapped, her tone more demanding than she would like despite her
uncertainty and the fact that the words tore from her almost involuntarily.
“You swore it. You can’t renege now.”
Had he really promised, or
had she just dreamed it? Was the memory of that dark little hole and the pain
that filled her just another nightmare? Had he really been there, swearing he’d
always save her, or had she just imagined it?
“Did I now?” Softly
voiced, the question held that bit of Irish sexy, lyrical sound that she often
heard in those fantasy dreams filled with pleasure rather than pain. “And when
did that happen?”
She shook her head. Memory
or nightmare?
“You swore you’d always be
there if I needed you.” She fought to believe it was memory. “All I had to do
was reach out to you. Well, dammit, I’m reaching out. Do you want me to beg
too?”
She could see his hand
outstretched, his expression somber, demanding. He wouldn’t come to her, she
had to go to him.
Riordan felt as though his
world had narrowed, that nothing existed but this moment, this woman, and the
dreams that had haunted him. Dreams of her cries, her pleas that he come to
her. And no matter how desperately he tried to reach her, she was always but a
touch away. No matter how often he’d urged her to take his hand, to come to
him, just reach out to him, she never did.
The dreams had become so
insistent over the months, he’d actually contacted his former security team
members who still worked for her father to check up on her.
All was well, he’d been
told. Princess Resnova was still the princess, and the czar still protected her
like the cherished daughter she would always be. And still, he dreamed, reached
out to her, and urged her to take his hand.
I’ll always be here for
you. Just reach out to me.
He hadn’t told her that,
he’d whispered those words in a dream.
And son of a bitch if that wasn’t enough to make a
man force himself not to shake in his boots.
“Why?” he demanded. “Why
the hell do you need me when your father has over fifty protection agents, and
every damn one of them is on call in case they’re needed to protect you? What
the fuck do you need with me?”
Damn her. She’d waited six
months to come to him. She’d let him lie in a hospital out of the country, half
alive for weeks, and hadn’t once called or reached out him. Why the hell was
she short circuiting his brain now?
“I need you to help me,”
she whispered again. “I need someone I can trust with my life, Riordan, before
I die because I don’t know anymore who’s a friend and who’s the enemy.
But you might know. I need someone I can trust to watch my
back while I figure out who the hell is trying to kill me and why.”
Kill her?
According to every source
he had in her father’s organization, she was safe. The men at the farmhouse
where they’d found her were all killed. The bodyguard they’d identified as
being behind the abduction and her beating was dead as well.
“Your father’s men can
protect you.” God help him. If he even tried, he’d get them both killed—because
he wouldn’t be able to stay out of her bed.
She was shaking her head
even as he spoke. “I don’t trust them. I don’t trust anyone.” Desperation
filled her expression now. “You don’t understand, Riordan. All I have are these
crazy dreams of you. Every nightmare I have you’re at my back, protecting me.
That’s all I have because I don’t remember what happened before my abduction or
the abduction itself. I’ve lost a year of my life and I don’t know why and I
damn sure can’t force those memories back,” she cried out, fury filling her
tone. “All I have are the nightmares and dreams, and the only person I can see,
the only person I can trust in them is you. And by God, I want to know why.”
She faced him, fists
clenched, anger flushing her face, but that was heat in her eyes. It wasn’t
just nightmares she had, it wasn’t simply dreams.
It was this bond he could
sense between them even as she stared back at him, furious, frightened.
And he’d waited long
enough.
Taking the steps that
separated them, he jerked her into his arms, his lips stilling her cries, his
arms tightening around her, holding her to him.
Her lips parted in shock,
and he took full advantage of it. He tasted her. Lips and tongue possessed her
kiss, and he let his senses grow drunk on her.
Because somehow, someway,
she’d shared not just her dreams with him, but those incredibly erotic
fantasies that filled his head as well.
And now, he wanted a taste
of all that passion, that feminine hunger and need he hadn’t nearly had enough
of before her abduction.
Then they could discuss
the rest.
Copyright © 2018 by Lora Leigh in Collision
Point and reprinted with permission from St. Martin’s Paperbacks.
 |
| Author Lora Leigh |
For those not familiar with the author, #1 New York Times
bestseller Lora Leigh is the author
of the Navy SEALS, the Breeds, the Elite Ops, the Callahans,
the Bound Hearts, and the Nauti series.
Thanks for stopping by today. Do you enjoy stories
that feature steely women and powerful men?
It’s a pleasure
to tell you that THE SOMETIMES SISTERS by Carolyn Brown hit the bookshelves this
past week with its release on Tuesday, Feb. 27.
