Anthropologist Eve Baptiste is no stranger to erotic dreams, but her nightly encounters with Gypsy King Viktor Savitch are starting to consume her. From the moment she closes her eyes, Viktor brings her to the brink of madness, showing her pleasures of the flesh Eve has never imagined. Only little does Eve guess that her fantasy lover is no fantasy…

Excerpt

I can touch her!

Viktor Savitch peered through the flattest pane in his prison of glass and watched Evonne Baptiste drop onto her bed, her dark blonde hair falling like a curtain over her face. Exhaustion and shock had played a sinister game with her delicate features, but as she drifted into the serenity of sleep, he imagined her a creature of light and magic.

And he’d touched her! The experience had apparently sapped her energy, but he hadn’t felt this alive in one hundred years. A great trick, since he was still very, very dead.

Despite that fact, he could almost feel his hands thrust onto his hips as he threw his head back and laughed. He didn’t have a body for such an action, but the impression remained the same. Blood surged through invisible veins. His non-existent chest rumbled with mirth. His vision, cloudy before, now stood blocked only by the curve of the glass. For the first time in ages, the essence of life swelled around him.

An essence he would harness. Soon. To live again, he’d do whatever he had to do, knowing that some tasks, like seducing Evonne Baptiste, would be more pleasant than others.

When he’d first died, the phantom presence of his physical self had been strong and vital, just as he had been. But over time, he’d faded. Slowly. Painfully. His punishment for his life of arrogance exacted a precise toll. But now, had the powers of the ethereal world decided that he’d done his penance? Had they gifted him with the means to escape?

To hell with them, Viktor cursed. He’d get out, and he’d do it on his own.

Nearly.

Evonne stirred, a soft murmur spilling from her wine-tinged lips. Once again, Viktor reacted, as if a heart slammed beneath the imaginary ribs of his chest. Even the crick in his thigh from where they’d stabbed him so long ago throbbed again.

He’d deal with the pain if he had to. After all this time, he’d found a means to communicate with the world outside his prison. And he couldn’t have ordered a more perfect medium. This one, this Evonne Baptiste, not only possessed the ability to speak with those who had died, but she was haunted by an unsatisfied hunger for those intimate needs Viktor had once commanded above all other men, dead or alive.

Passion. Lust. Desire.

Could he find the means to satisfy her? Of course. He could feel his power increasing, even as she slept. For her part in his rejuvenation, she deserved the greatest gift he could bestow. A woman so beautiful, so responsive, so open to the possibilities of the magical world deserved more than just his gratitude. He would grant her whatever she wished, whatever he had the power to give.

Not for a century had he felt so strong and aroused. Had he ever experienced such an intense craving in life, when seduction had simply been his means to attain power? He’d twisted so many Romani traditions to keep his family together. And he’d paid the price--with his life, with a long, torturous and painful death. With denial into the otherworld.

He hadn’t been dead long enough to forget one detail. His murder at the hands of the witch was as clear in his mind as the supple curve of Evonne’s backside as she lay prone on the bed. But he wouldn’t think about his death now. The possibilities for revenge had long lost their sweet flavor, especially when the chance of life was just a concentrated touch away.

Outside, he’d manipulated the breeze, calling on Bavol, spirit of the air and wind, something he’d accomplished only once as a young man when studying with his shaman grandfather. After the great Chovihano’s death, Viktor had been sent away, forced to live in the gaujo world of the English aristocracy, where he’d forgotten his shaman magic and instead learned other means to attain power. At twenty, he’d returned to his tribe, keen to use non-Romani methods to rule as sherrengro, as chieftan. As Gypsy king.

After a decade of rule, his skills to call upon the elements, to foresee attempts on his life, had been so unused in his adulthood that he hadn’t been able to block the blow that killed him. But tonight, he’d tapped into that long dormant power. Could he do so again? Could he convince the woman on the bed that she was the key to his release?

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Lacy Baptiste suppressed her wild, sexy side in order to become a top FBI field agent. She needs to let loose. But a blind date mix-up lands her in bed with hunky P.I. Seth Kingston--and up to her thigh-high stockings in his latest case. And she's thinking about staying there a while...

Excerpt

He watched her eyes widen as the wait staff cleared the flowers and condiments from the table and presented their food. She closed her eyes and inhaled, causing him to do the same. The fiery scent of chipolte peppers, ground into a creamy sauce, then layered over buttery grilled shrimp assailed his nostrils first, hardly outdone by the garlic steaming from the Oysters Rockefeller.

The minute they were left alone, she grinned. "You're good."

He nodded his appreciation.

"Of course," she continued, grabbing a shrimp by the tail and swirling it in the sauce, "I don't know how much kissing we'll want to do between the peppers and the garlic."

He nodded, then scooped an oyster shell with his hand and stabbed the steamed center with a small seafood fork. "I thought of that, but if we both eat our fill, we'll cancel each other out, right?"

"That's the common belief."

He shimmied the oyster off the shell, making sure to balance the prized morsel with the creamy spinach that covered it. "Let's give it a shot."

He fed her the oyster slowly, watching with fascination as she opened her mouth in anticipation. She closed her eyes and the minute the flavors connected with her tongue, she groaned appreciatively. As if she'd pressed her fingers around his sex, he hardened. Would she be this wild, this unbridled in bed?

"God, those are delicious. You're turn," she said, reaching for an oyster.

He stopped her. "Not quite yet." He lifted her champagne glass to her lips, staring at how her raisin-stained mouth touched oh-so-lightly against the crystal. "Try the shrimp first. But be forewarned, it's hot."

She met his stare boldly. "I like it hot."

"I'll bet you do," he answered.

"You think I'm real hot-to-trot, don't you? A real wild cat?"

She'd read his mind.

"Am I wrong?"

She shook her head, licking a thin layer of bubbles from her mouth. "Maybe."

"Now who's the liar?"

He fed her the shrimp and after they laughed over the spicy fire of the dish, he let her feed him. They cooled the peppery taste with more champagne and a shared serving of creamy strawberry soup, served cold and garnished with mint. Seth could have spent the entire night watching her lick the last of the pink concoction off the silver spoon, but she had other ideas.

"Ready to go?"

She placed her napkin beside her plate and retrieved her purse.

"We haven't even hit the main course," he protested, though half-heartedly. He wanted nothing more than to retreat to somewhere very quiet and very private. Soon. But not before he hit her with the whole treatment. He couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted to please a woman with simple things like sexy food and good manners. How she managed to coax the gentleman out of him at the same time she lured the aroused man intrigued him more than any throwaway comment about her job.

He didn't care what she did for a living. He hoped it wasn't illegal. Other than that, he was wide-open.

"The main course? Isn't that what we're about to have?"

He tossed a few bills on the table. He grabbed the bottle of unfinished champagne from the bucket and followed her out of the restaurant and into the elevator.

Temptation glazed her eyes when the doors swooshed shut, but a stop on the next level to pick up three more couples erased the possibility of making love to her in the enclosed space. Once they hit the bottom floor, they followed the crowd outside. She pulled her valet ticket from her purse.

"I'm parked around the corner," he said.

"You don't think I'm going to get in the car with a man I just met, do you?"

He laughed, and luckily, she only looked half-insulted.

"You'll go home with me, but you won't ride in the car?"

"I'm not going home with you, either."

Seth acted on a whim, tugging her away from the crowd into a semi-private corner behind a thick potted palm.

In the tight space, he pressed his body flush against hers, as he had on the dance floor. Through the material of his shirt, he felt her nipples harden, felt her breath pant against his neck. "You're not some kind of tease, are you?"

"Oh, I'm the best kind of tease," she replied. "I'm the kind of tease that will follow through, but on her own terms."

With one hand holding tight to the champagne bottle, he smoothed his other hand down her side, reveling in her intoxicating curves. "Name your terms, Lacey Baptiste."

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She needs to escape into fantasy.

He needs to learn to lose control.

Little do they dream that a book of sensual invitations will give them both exactly what they desire...

After years on the streets as a runaway, Micki Carmichael suddenly has more than she ever wanted. She's saved her best friend's life, reconnected with her twin sister, and is now the proud owner of Sexcapades, a book of naughty, sexy invitations for lovers. Better still, she also has gorgeous multimillionaire Sebastian Stone all to herself for seven days. He's offering to make all her dreams come true--and from the look in his eyes, it's the X-rated ones he's talking about....

Excerpt

Once sure of their continued privacy, Bas settled in beside her, smiling when she slid the tray onto her lap, then crossed her legs over his. Her toenails sparkled bright crimson on surprisingly pale, delicate feet.

"What do you want to try first?" she asked.

Bas looked over the tray and nodded toward a fig.

She lifted it, eyeing it with her standard wariness. "Isn't this just some funky garnish?"

"A garnish? I suppose it could be used as one. But it's a fig. Have you ever had one?"

Her lips twisted in a grimace while she twirled the brownish purple skinned fruit in her hand. "Not unless it was inside a Newton."

Bas laughed. Fig Newtons had been a favorite cookie in his childhood, but the real fruit, freshly picked from a homegrown vine in Italy, bore little resemblance to the filling in the store-bought treat. In taste, texture or color.

Just as he suspected of Michaela, the outside of the fruit was tough, misleading. But the inside...his mouth watered before he'd taken one bite.

Besides, a fig was an inherently sensual fruit. The fact that Michaela would taste her first at his hand thrilled him.

"Ah, well. There is no comparison. Poets have written odes to this sweet little morsel."

She pulled the brown fig closer, eyeing it from all sides.

"This? The stuff of poetry?" she asked, doubtful. "Pomegranates must have been out of season."

Bas was impressed, knowing that while Michaela was by her own admission under-educated, she didn't by any means lack intelligence or wit. He, on the other hand, tipped the scales in terms of formal schooling--and yet if they were let loose separately in a room full of diplomats, world leaders and celebrities, he had no doubt who would be more popular.

Maybe that was why he wanted to feed her the fig, why he wanted to take her to New Orleans or some other charming city where he could watch her eyes soak in the sights, listen to her insight, gauge her reactions. She'd been around the block, and yet so much remained new to her. He couldn't imagine how long ago he'd lost the true wonder for life.

Likely, sometime back in college. And try as he might, even when he closed his eyes and concentrated, he couldn't remember as much as a full phrase of the poem he'd memorized in college about figs. Seemed a million years ago. He'd mainly studied macroeconomics and business theory, but he had taken a few literature classes to support his minor in Humanities. He'd always possessed a hunger to broaden his knowledge base. Besides, Lit classes had allowed him ample time to check out the bevy of female co-eds with insatiable tastes for randy poets like D.H. Lawrence.

"Open it," he suggested.

She glanced around, but he hadn't supplied a knife. Bas took the fruit and tenderly tore it in half, preserving the natural pear shape. The brownish purple skin opened to reveal a fleshy center in a rainbow of pinks, from the lightest shade, nearly white, lining the outer rim, to the bright magenta deep in the core.

But what Bas turned to show Michaela was not just the colors, but the shapes, the textures. "See this deep slit slicing down the center? The folds of sweet flesh teasing from the sides? Look how moist it is. How wet. The juices glisten, promising a delicate flavor unlike any other."

Michaela looked as he instructed, and only a few seconds later, she made the symbolic connection.

"Are you trying to be subtle?" she asked.

"Would you rather me be crude?"

She snagged her bottom lip, thought, then held out her palm to accept her half of the fruit. "I've had too much crude in my life. I'll take subtle, thanks."

He smiled. "Not too subtle, I hope. I wouldn't want us to suffer from any misunderstandings."

Her stare captured his, level and steady. "Good point. How about we try a little bit of both?"

"Starting with the fig?"

Her grin, a lesson in subtlety itself, was prelude to a soft shimmy of her bottom against the seat. "Why not? Is there a right way to eat this or is this one of those 'just enjoy' situations again?"

Bas forced a serious expression. "Oh, no. There is definitely a nuance to the eating of a fig. Some people ravish the fruit, devour the flesh and the juices in one ravenous bite."

"Fools," she commented, her voice a whisper.

"I agree." Bas drew the fruit to his lips, took a sweet, tentative lick over the soft pink flesh. "I prefer to savor the experience. Take a brief taste first, allow the flavors to mingle on my tongue."

She mimicked his action, licking the inside, her tongue stiff, sure. Her eyes dark and desirous. Her lips lustrous with the moisture from the fruit. She hummed her pleasure and instantly, Bas's cock hardened. God, making love to this woman would be either his greatest adventure or his greatest failure.

And Sebastian Stone didn't fail. Ever.

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An innocent looking for adventure.

A bad boy trying to change his image.

And a book of sensual invitations that will make them forget everything but each other ...

Rory Carmichael is finally free! Free from her suffocating small town, free to experience what the world has to offer...and free to experiment with all the sensual fantasies that have been teasing her, tempting her, tormenting her, at night.

And when she discovers 'Sexcapades,' a book of naughty but very, very nice scenarios created for lovers, she realizes she has exactly what she needs to turn all those fantasies into reality. Especially since her new landlord, sexy Alec Manning, looks like he would be very nice to be naughty with…

Excerpt

When Alec walked into the bathroom however, all sappy romantic images popped out of his brain, replaced with the kind of fantasies that normally got him in deep trouble.

Candles glimmered from every corner of the spacious bathroom from behind the commode to the top of the sink and the wicker hamper in the corner. They were new, barely melted, yet fresh with the scent of vanilla that had haunted him since he entered Rory's apartment. He inhaled deeply. The smooth scent seeped into his lungs, warm and inviting.

He spied her clothes, tossed in a pile in the corner, the silky strap of her bra peeking from beneath the soft pool of her lavender sweater. He noted the bottle of lotion, the top askew, perched on the toilet tank. From the tiny white flowers and vanilla beans on the label, he guessed that's another way the scent had seeped into the air, then wondered how recently Rory had applied the emollient to her skin, how much of the enticing scent that permeated the room was from her and how much more he could take of the homey, yet sensual scent before he went insane.

The old Alec Manning, tucked safely away in his now temporary persona of Xander Mann, wouldn't have wasted another minute speculating. Xander would have grabbed the lotion, sneaked into Rory's room and proceeded to smooth more lotion over her flesh, from her enticing, slim arms to what he suspected her incredibly round breasts.

Xander wouldn't have thought twice before seducing his tenant, wouldn't have considered how satisfying his need for sex would play against Rory's emotions or vulnerabilities. The old Alec would have seduced her, maybe broken her unsuspecting heart, then would either have found a reason to evict her, or would have awarded her sexual curiosity with such coldness that she'd move or come to hate him. Luckily, he'd managed to contain Xander to behind the bar, since even logical Alec couldn't destroy who he'd been in the past.

But he did feel confident he could continue to keep his old instincts under control--until he spied a sheet of paper, unfolded, yet creased, on the corner of the sink.

Sexcapades?

His eyes widened and after leaning out the bathroom door to make sure Rory wouldn't catch him peeking at her personal belongings, he read down a little further.

"Sexcapade 21. Slippery When Wet."

He scanned the teasing blurb, his tongue thickening with each word he read. Adjectives like glistening and hot. Verbs like rub and flick and massage. Intrigued, he flipped open the page, noting that the glue seal had been broken. He'd heard about this book, though he couldn't remember where. Probably while eavesdropping on any of the countless conversations between girlfriends sipping Cosmopolitans at the bar at Dixie Landing, pretending they were Carrie and her pals from Sex And the City.

He expected the prowling females who ponied up on his barstools to buy books like that, to be experimental in their sexual preferences. But Rory?

Great. Just great. Not only was she beautiful and honest and alluring, she was sexually curious, too. Wonderful. How the hell was he going to remain on the straight and narrow when the perfect woman lived in the apartment just above his?

"I don't hear any--"

Rory's comment died the minute she cleared the threshold and caught him with her fantasy in his hand.

He laid the paper down gingerly. "Sorry. I shouldn't have snooped."

She pressed her lips together and swallowed.

"That's okay," she said finally, contradicting her forgiveness by folding her arms tightly across her chest.

"No, it's not." He knelt beside the tub, his wrench poised on the washer on the faucet's base, his eyes focused on the work he should have been doing.

"I wanted you to read it," she volunteered.

He glanced over his shoulder. "You left it there on purpose?"

She smirked. "No. Not consciously. Or maybe I did. I'm not sure. But now that you've seen it, what do you think?"

"Do you really want to know?"

He'd asked her the same question earlier and she'd wisely backed away from hearing the truth. But something had definitely changed since this morning when they'd first met on the stoop. Little by little, she dashed each and every preconceived notion he'd entertained about her. Where he'd first spied exuberant innocence in her baby blue eyes, her gaze now brimmed with temptation. He'd sensed her militant determination to spread her wings from the beginning, but now he suspected her pertinacity would soon thrust her into new, uncharted territory.

"Yes," she said, her tone resolute. "I really want to know."

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Sydney Colburn is a card-carrying member of the Bad Girls Club. When she wants something, she goes after it until its hers. Too bad it took her over a year to realize that she wanted sexy architect Adam Brody for more than a love-'em'-and-leave-'em affair. So with a little help from her friends, Sydney finds Adam and sets out to seduce him back into her life. Unfortunately, Adam doesn't remember who she is...

Adam Brody instantly reacts to sultry, sensual Sydney. He doesn't remember their affair, but he's completely open to Sydney's offer to remind him—touch by touch and kiss by kiss—particularly since Sydney holds the key to sorting out the mystery of the accident that stole his memory in the first place. Besides, there's no man alive who can say no to a bad girl...

Excerpt

Adam grinned. "Indulge me."

She pulled her car keys out of her pocket, detached her condo keys, then tossed him the ring that would start the Corvette. "My pleasure, but I'll need to run upstairs first. Warm up the engine. I won't be two minutes."

She didn't lie. Sydney flew upstairs and then back down in less than one hundred and twenty seconds. She had her purse in one hand and a small cooler in the other.

"Let's blow this joint," she instructed, green eyes flashing. She tore her hair out of the ponytail and let the wind from their race out of the garage sweep her curls into a windswept mass of sexiness.

She gave him directions and in less than ten minutes, they'd apparently arrived. When they approached the back entrance to what appeared to be a country club, she leaned over and flipped off the headlights, then extracted a key card from her purse.

"I take it you're not a member," Adam asked, trying to concentrate on something besides the way she wiggled her backside as she climbed across his lap in her reach for the automatic gate.

"Yeah, right. Do I look like a debutante?"

"I don't know any debutantes."

She slipped the card into the machine and after a red light turned green, a buzz alerted him that the gate had slid open.

"Believe me, none of them look like me, talk like me or act like me. I used to date the head groundskeeper."

He hesitated before easing the Corvette through.

"Then you've been here with him?"

Sydney grinned. The fact that he'd exhibited even the least bit of jealousy seemed to please her, but he wished he could restate the question.

"Not the way I'd been here with you."

He scowled, so after laughing and insisting he go through the gate before it slid closed, she explained further. "The head groundskeeper is a closet gay. But we work out together at the gym and when he needs a date, he calls me. In return, he gave me a copy of his key card and showed me this entrance."

"Why?"

"So I could seduce you outdoors."

"You needed a private country club for that?"

She settled back into her seat, her eyes and smile dancing with that blatant naughtiness she wore so well.

"Just wait. You'll see."

After spying her check her watch, Adam followed her directions down a thin path, past a small outbuilding and into a clump of trees. In the distance, a large colonial mansion at least three stories tall, lit by countless lights, loomed on a small, man-made hill. He saw no one milling about the expansive verandah or ornamental garden, but guessed the humid air kept the club members inside where the air-conditioning could protect their hundred-dollar hair-dos and even pricier clothes.

Sleek greens and brushed sand traps dotted the pristine landscape. Palm trees lingered on the edges, mixed in with native pines and palmetto. Adam had never been an avid golfer, but he'd learned the game from his one-time mentor, Marcus Malcolm, so he could work the links for business. With a high handicap and little patience for the slow-moving sport, Adam finally convinced Marcus to leave the golf-related smoozing to his lower handicapped son, Steven, the heir to the Malcolm design firm. With or without his amnesia, Adam couldn't remember the last time he'd been on a green, and he was certain he'd never sneaked onto a green late at night, except maybe once when he was a kid, filching lost balls to sell back to golfers for bubblegum money.

The minute Sydney pointed to where she wanted him to park, a forbidden thrill hit him full force. Sliding the car between two small hills, hidden from behind by a clump of bushes, no one could possibly see them.

In the dark, but out in the open.

Amazing.

When he pulled the emergency brake, she jumped out of the car. She'd already discarded her shoes and wore nothing but the midriff-baring tank top and her jeans, which she'd refastened before they'd gone to see the neighbors, but had now again released. Tiny brass button, now folded down just under her navel, caught a flash of moonlight and winked.

He didn't need any more invitation than that.

He chased her out onto the lawn, catching her as she spun, bringing her down to the ground with a soft thud, his arms cradling her fall. Laughter peeled against the quiet of the night--his deep, hers light. An invigorating rush coursed through him, compelling him to capture her mouth with his and kiss her long and hard.

Her scent, a romantic mixture that reminded him of sunrise--crisp and cool, softened by the colors of lavender and rose--blended with the fresh scent of the grass into an intoxicating combination. He inhaled as he nibbled her neck, fired by the sound of her laughter, invigorated by the way she moved her body so his sex pressed into the juncture between her thighs.

"God, I want you, Sydney," he admitted, not knowing when he'd wanted someone more than he did at this moment.

"Then take me, Adam. That's why we're here."

He kissed her thoroughly, his tongue and lips learning her mouth, his hands blazing a trail down her sides, across her back. She was bold and brazen, stopping only once to wiggle out of her white-washed jeans so that she wore only her tank top and purple t-back panties. The tiny straps criss-crossed her hips and thighs, fairly begging for removal with his teeth.

He moved forward, until a thought struck him. Had he done that to her before? Had he taken off her underwear that way, or had the scenario popped into his mind only because it was perfect for the moment?

He pulled back.

"What?" she asked.

"We've made love out here before, right?"

She scrambled onto her knees, her eyes filled with contained expectation. "Do you remember?"

"I'm not sure. I have a very strong image of me removing your panties with my teeth, but I don't know if it was a memory or a prediction."

She rolled her eyes, then playfully let herself fall to the side, her arms reaching out to him. "Well, damn, Adam, I can't remember all the little details! You're going to have to recall something a tad more significant."

He crawled over to her, like a jaguar on the prowl. "Then I'm going to have to do something more significant."

"Go right ahead."

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