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The more the merrier
Born into a long line of spies, sanctioned killers and covert weapons developers, Beth Faraday carried out her first hit-for-hire when she was still a teenager.
That part of her life—the American spy royalty part—ended one year ago, with a job gone wrong in Afghanistan. The collateral damage she caused with a single shot was unfathomable and, for Beth, unforgivable. She’s worked hard to build a new life for herself, far away from the family business.
But someone, somewhere, hasn’t forgotten what Beth did in Kabul. And they want revenge.
As the Faraday clan bands together to defend Beth and protect their legacy, Beth is forced to flee her new home with the unlikeliest of allies—MI6 agent Raleigh Vick, the only man she’s ever loved. And the one she thought she’d killed in the desert
There were worse things than having a gun held on him by a beautiful woman, he supposed. Such as glancing down in time to watch the pink heat drain from her honey-gold skin when he told her he was supposed to kill her.
That was worse.
He sucked in a breath as they hit the street, the chilly night air swirling around them as Beth hustled him to the other side of the block. “Not sure going back to yours is the best idea,” he mumbled, hissing as each step jarred the wound in his side. He hadn’t been lying when he told her it was a flesh wound, but he could feel the bullet lodged against his lowest rib, pinching and scraping and being generally uncomfortable.
She shouldered open the front door to her building. “Do you want me to get that bullet out of you or not?”
“I do,” he grated as they ascended the stairs. “But we’ve got a limited window before they send someone to do my job for me.” He let her push him into her apartment, taking a seat at the dining room table while she set the alarm and locked the door.
“And by job, you mean me, right?” She didn’t look at him as she dropped his briefcase to the floor and disappeared down the hall, emerging a moment later with a hefty black nylon case that resembled an oversized lunch cooler. Drawing his surrendered gun from the waistband of her jeans, she replaced it with hers, setting his Ruger aside on the kitchen counter before she unzipped the case and began pulling out various medical supplies: latex gloves, sterilization pads, tweezers, an actual suture gun.
Thirty seconds later, she was kneeling next to his chair. “Lift your hand and take off your shirt.”
“Bossy. I like it.” But he complied, yanking his tie over his head, unbuttoning and shrugging off his shirt, and was relieved to find that the bleeding had slowed to a trickle.
Dark-lashed hazel eyes glared up at him, their gold-speckled gray flashing under the light of the chandelier above the table. “You flirt with me, I make this hurt. Understand?”
Edie Harris studied English and Creative Writing at the University of Iowa and Grinnell College. She fills her days with writing and editing contract proposals, but her nights belong to the world of romance fiction. Edie lives and works in Chicago and is represented by Laura Bradford of Bradford Literary Agency.
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