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Excerpts From: ELLORA’S CAVEMEN:
DREAMS OF THE OASIS II

An Excerpt From: TREASURE HUNTERS

Copyright © SYLVIA DAY, 2006

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

If the guy in her office weren’t so damn gorgeous she might be able to think properly. But he was yummy. In fact, he was so unbelievably handsome Samantha was staring, something that was brought to her attention by the long, masculine fingers snapping in front of her face.

“Miss Tremain.” His deep voice, though soft, was filled with exasperation. “Are you listening to me?”

“Beg your pardon?” She blinked rapidly.

He exhaled and took the seat in front of her desk. Crossing one ankle over the opposite knee, he bared to her view an impressive bulge behind the tightened lacings of his pants.

“Animal,” she breathed. The bulge jerked in response.

“Huh?”

Sam coughed into her hand as her face heated. “A-animal skin.”

“Yeah. It is.” Bright blue eyes flashed briefly before narrowing. “I was told that you’re the foremost expert on literary antiquities in this part of the galaxy, Miss Tremain. Is that right or should I be looking for help elsewhere?”

“Mr. Bronson—”

“Rick.”

“Oh…” The way he said his own name, like it was a sensual threat, made her shiver. And the way he was dressed, in animal skin and some billowing material for a shirt, made her mouth dry. “Why aren’t you wearing a bio-suit?”

A dark brow rose. “You want to talk about my clothes?” He shook his head. “You brainy types are always a little weird.”

“Look who’s talking,” she retorted, stung by his comment, one which she’d heard a thousand times. “You are a twenty-third-century mercenary who dresses in nineteenth-century clothing while tracking down a legendary twenty-first-century treasure. Shouldn’t you be doing something else? Killing for hire or something of that nature?”

Blowing a loose tendril of hair from her face, Sam stood and began to pace. As long as she didn’t look at that breathtaking face, she could keep her wits about her. His dark hair, tan skin and eyes like the Laruvian Ocean were bad enough. When you added in the broad shoulders, tapered hips and animal skin-covered bulge, she had a living wet dream sitting right in her office.

Rick Bronson chuckled and the warm sound of amusement made her womb clench. “Whatever a mercenary does, he does for credits. Hunting treasure is a hunt for credits. Pretty easy to figure out.”

“But why this particular treasure?”

“It’s worth a fortune.”

“It’s rumored to be worth a fortune. Just as it’s rumored to exist. You’re most likely wasting your time.” She hazarded a side glance and her heart skipped a beat at his soft smile. “It seems an odd treasure for a man to hunt for. Why not the Draken Cup? Or the Sarian Stone? Why the erotic e-books?”

“That’s a silly question.” The curve of his lips deepened. “You know how much those Romantica stories are worth. Ever since the Conservative Censorship Committee succeeded in banning erotica and erotic romance back in 2015 it’s almost impossible to find. All the print books have long since turned into dust, but the remaining e-books that manage to make it to the black market bring in a small fortune. Can you imagine how much a database full of those stories would be worth?”

Sam sighed with longing. “Now that the ban has been revoked, finding those stories would not only return literary treasures to the people, but it would help lift this sexual repression that has stifled us all for so long.”

“You sound like a woman who appreciates the erotic,” Rick purred. He stood and came toward her, his gait slow and filled with seductive promise. The blaster strapped to one thigh and the laser sword strapped to the other only emphasized how dangerous he was. Against the backdrop of her small office, he was even more intimidating. And tantalizing.

An Excerpt From: ALLERGIC TO LOVE

Copyright © ANNA J. EVANS, 2006

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

Ella swallowed, but it was hard. Very hard. Almost impossible.

What had he put in there? And was it really worth possibly risking her life to prove that Marcus Ashton was a completely unprofessional and potentially dangerous man who should be fired immediately, do not pass go, do not collect your 401k?

She was a chemist for god’s sakes, she should just test the cocoa, find out what he’d used, and turn him in. Why did she feel compelled to drink the damn stuff? Because she was a sick cookie? Perhaps. Or maybe because she knew whatever he’d dumped in her hot chocolate probably wouldn’t kill her.

Probably.

“Relax,” she whispered to herself, setting her cup down in the section of her lab station reserved for personal effects. She wasn’t the sort to risk a spill that might contaminate an experiment.

But you’re the type to risk being poisoned? Are you nuts?

“Ella—”

“Shit!” Ella screamed, jumping half a foot as Mandy popped her head into her station.

“You’re cussing now? When did this happen?” Mandy asked.

“I’m just a little nervous today,” Ella said.

“Maybe you should lay off the hot chocolate,” Mandy joked. If she only knew.

“Right!” Ella giggled, somewhat hysterically. Would Mandy think she was totally crazy if she hugged her and begged her to take care of her cat if she mysteriously dropped dead in the next few hours?

Or days. It could be some sort of cumulative toxin.

“All right, you’re definitely coming to happy hour today. I was going to ask you to go, but now I’m telling. You need a drink. I’ll meet you outside at five-thirty,” Mandy said, turning to leave.

“But I—”

“Five-thirty, psycho. No overtime on Thirsty Thursdays,” Mandy ordered and then disappeared.

No overtime on Thursdays. If she hadn’t been logging overtime yesterday, then she wouldn’t be in this mess. Well, she would still be in the mess, but wouldn’t know that she was in the mess, wouldn’t have, with her very own eyes, seen Mr. Scary doctoring her cocoa mix. Given the choice, Ella supposed she would rather know that she was being poisoned, even if it made her a mass of paranoia nearly incapable of getting anything resembling work accomplished.

“Ella? Can we talk?” came another voice from the entry to her station, a male voice this time. A deep, sexy, lust-inducing male voice that belonged to a certifiable psycho nut job who could be trying to kill her.

“Yeah. Sure. What?” Ella snapped, spinning around to face him, hoping that her eyes weren’t as wide and frightened as she thought they were. It was bad enough that her nose started running every time he was in a ten-foot radius, the last thing she needed was to look like a terrified snot-nosed kid.

“I wanted to apologize,” Marcus said, folding his arms across his incredibly broad chest, his bright blue eyes shining intently down at her. As her entire body tingled with response to his nearness, Ella braced herself for the inevitable sneezing and itching and the migraine that never failed to make a torturous appearance seconds after the Sex God’s arrival.

Hurriedly, she reached for a tissue and…

Nothing. Nothing happened. She could still breathe, her head didn’t hurt, there was no running nose, no itchiness, nothing, nada. There was absolutely nothing going on in her allergic body to distract her from the rush of raw desire that swept through her every cell. It was crazy, but she felt herself actually tremble as she took him in, symptom free.

Of course, he was ridiculously gorgeous. His nearly black hair was cut close to his head, his eyes passionate and expressive, and all six foot whatever of him composed of pure testosterone-enhanced muscle. He was her dream man—handsome, smart, and just a little bit dangerous. Too bad he made her allergies act up like nobody’s business.

And he was trying to kill her or drug her or poison her or something. Mustn’t forget that little detail.

An Excerpt From: ECLIPSE

Copyright © DENISE A. AGNEW, 2006

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

Dawn Chartrier sat in her parked car and held her breath, certain she might walk into the Den of Wolves tonight and meet her death if things didn’t go as planned. Tonight she could discover the mystery of what happened beyond the darkness between death and rebirth.

Dawn looked out at the New Orleans night, with its foggy nuance and mysterious layers. She felt the chill down to her marrow. She’d seen costume-clad revelers around the streets, but once she’d arrived at the club, fundamental change brought a deathly hush over the street. Edginess prickled her skin, her stomach uneasy and her heart throbbing a little too fast. Dawn had never experienced a panic attack, but she fought with rising anxiety to keep her heart steady and her trembling at bay. She’d always been the brave one in the family, willing to take chances. Now that she was here, reluctance dogged at her heels.

What insanity lurked around this single street and caused Halloween partygoers to avoid this area? Did the reputation of the club keep them away? Her heart pounded, and fear threatened to smash her resolve. She could start the car and escape.

But she would never forgive herself if she didn’t help her sister.

Taking time away from her financial analyst job in Denver hadn’t endeared Dawn to her work-fourteen-hours-a-day boss. He’d grudgingly given her a week off when she explained her sister could be in grave danger. The boss from hell might use this trip as a reason to mark her down on her evaluation next month. If so, she’d start looking for another job, or another career.

“Shit.” Cursing came easy to her now—she’d never been a potty mouth, but circumstances and stress made her do things she didn’t think she would.

If she didn’t watch out, she’d follow her sister Maureen’s destructive path. She could still hear Maureen’s chilling words when she’d called. Dating a werewolf is a bitch.

Well, her sister had given her life over to something unnatural, and now she paid the price.

Yet one fact plagued Dawn more than other concerns. If she left this vehicle, if she went into the fog-enshrouded night surrounding the club, she might not come back alive.

Plus, she didn’t want to ask the help of one very, very dangerous man. A man she’d fallen for ten years ago and had never forgotten. Rumors about him abounded in New Orleans.

Was he a vampire?

Or a werewolf?

She didn’t know if either applied to him, or neither.

No matter. She would find out tonight.

She’d located a parking spot as close to the club as she could. The streets were lined with cars, and she must traverse a block before the dubious safety of the club could embrace her. She smiled without mirth.

She glanced at her watch in the dim light from a streetlamp. Close to midnight. She unlocked her side of the BMW sedan, then stepped out of the car.

“Now or never,” she said into the dank breath of New Orleans at night.

An Excerpt From: GENESIS

Copyright © B.J. MCCALL, 2006

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

“Kysis Station, this is Currus. Currus hailing the Kysis Station. Do you read?”

Dr. Tria Anara listened as the communication unit translated the words of the male speaker. Contact. Others in the galaxy had survived.

“This is the Currus of the Sarruian Expeditionary Force hailing Kysis Station. Repeat. Currus hailing Kysis Station. Do you read?”

Tria clasped her hands together and thanked the Mother. Salvation had arrived.

“Station Kysis hailing Currus.”

“Kysis, I am Captain Dax Rann of the Sarruian Expeditionary Force. We are responding to your signal. Are you in distress?”

This male voice was deeper, richer, more mature and confident. Instead of masking the voice, the translator enhanced the tonal quality.

“Negative. This is Dr. Tria Anara of science station Kysis. You are the first contact since the invasion.”

“Status of station?”

The strength in the Sarruian captain’s voice filled Tria with hope. After the Purge had passed through the Zyrai system decimating the population, Tria had feared all intelligent life in the galaxy had perished.

“Secure. Functional.”

“How many on station?”

“Five. Females.”

Seconds ticked by before the captain responded.

“Four hours to your position. Permission to land?”

Tria thanked the Mother. “Standby for landing beacon and coordinates.”

When the ship had entered orbit about the mother planet, Zyrai, Tria started an analysis scan. Ever cautious, she’d suppressed her excitement and allowed the Scan-net to evaluate the vessel before making contact. Her excitement had grown as Scan-net spit out information giving her specifics about the Sarruian ship. The scan had picked up five compatible life forms, all male, and although the Currus was armed, Sarru had never shown aggression against Zyrai.

The Sarruians had made peaceful contact over a century ago and were perfect male specimens to begin the genesis mission.

Tria uncloaked the station’s docking portal. “Landing beacon initiated.”

After signing off, Tria left the communication center. She hurried through the lush gardens, her feet flying along the pathway leading to the bathing pool. Edible and medicinal plants, and a variety of flowers graced the vast science laboratory and station conceived and built by her grandfather. Seven years had passed since the Purge had invaded the Zyrai system and destroyed all sentient life forms. Only Tria and her young charges had survived on Kysis.

Before her, four beautiful young women representing the future of Zyrai bathed beneath one of many recycling waterfalls. “Dr. Tria, join us.”

“Thank you, ladies, but something important has come up. Naci, will you accompany me to the communication center?”

An Excerpt From: BLIND DATE

Copyright © ELISA ADAMS, 2006

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

“A penny for your thoughts, Ruthie. A quarter if they’re dirty.”

Ruthie shot a teasing glare across the couch at Mike. “Please. If my thoughts were dirty, I wouldn’t share them with you, of all people.”

He shook his head and let out a dramatic sigh. His blond hair, a little shaggy on top, drooped over his forehead. “Why not? We share everything else.”

She snorted and gave his shoulder a swat. He was only kidding, and they both knew it. He was her best friend. Her confidant. The down-to-earth guy she could confess her worries and fears to and know he’d always be willing to offer an objective opinion. Whether she asked for one or not.

“Not everything. Some things aren’t meant to be shared with friends.”

“Friends? Is that all I am to you? A shoulder to cry on?”

Pure sex and sin flashed across his gaze and it made something flutter low in her stomach. Something that had been fluttering an awful lot in the past few months. But she knew better than to take him seriously. He was playing around with her, trying to get her temper going. No way was she taking the bait.

“Nah, you’re pretty good for taking out my aggravation on, too.”

She’d had a crush on him once—when they’d first met in their senior year of college. But she wasn’t a kid anymore and that crush was long gone. Mostly. It was hard not to be a little bit attracted to him, but her attraction was more of an appreciation of the male form in its absolute perfection rather than a desire to want him in her life as more than a friend. Women drooled over him all the time. Damned near swooned at his feet, despite the fact that swooning had gone out of style eons ago. The last thing Mike needed was to find out that his best friend, of all people, harbored a teeny, tiny little infatuation. Not even an infatuation. It was more like an involuntary twinge. Just because her body reacted didn’t mean her mind had any interest in him—or that he had any interest in her.

Of course, a girl could dream, right?

And dream she did. About his long, muscled body honed from ten years working as a personal trainer. About his thick blond hair that just about screamed for her to sink her fingers into it. About his warm brown eyes and strong jaw and the goatee she’d always found so sexy.

She took a big gulp from her can of soda to wet her suddenly dry throat. Maybe she wasn’t as over her crush as she’d thought.

Mike cupped her chin in his big palm and swiped his thumb across the corner of her mouth. His touch lingered for a beat too long, his gaze locked with hers, and something passed between them that she couldn’t explain. She wanted to pull out of the amazing, discomforting touch, but she couldn’t make her muscles move even an inch away from him. Her nipples pebbled against the soft material of the tank top.

His finger trailed down her chin as he pulled away.

An Excerpt From: SIR STEPHEN’S FORTUNE

Copyright © SAHARA KELLY, 2006

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

Had it not been for his mother, Stephen’s life would have been a misery. But she had interceded between him and his father, buffering the currents of distaste, protecting him from the worst of his father’s volatile temper and his brother’s vicious taunts.

Now Stephen could understand the emotions. Could easily see how Lionel would not view him as his son and heir but as an interloper fathered by another. This awareness did not ease the pain he felt, but as a man he could at least understand.

Even armed with that knowledge, he’d been unprepared for his instant dismissal. Preparing for his mother’s funeral, his father had stormed into the room waving a small book that Stephen recognized as his mother’s diary.

“A filthy gypsy. That’s who sired you, boy. A filthy gypsy. And to think today I have to pretend to grieve for the death of that—that—whore, your mother.”

Stephen was caught unawares, shocked at the vitriol in his father’s voice. He knew he’d said something in response, but couldn’t remember what.

“She admits it. Relishes it, the doxy. It’s all here…” Lionel had thrown the small diary at Stephen, hitting him on the shoulder. “I knew it was a mistake from the start. You’ve been nothing but trouble your whole life.”

“Father, that’s unfair…”

“Father?” Lionel’s veins had stood out on his forehead as his temper approached apoplectic. “I’m no father to you. You’re no son of mine. Get out of this house and never come back.”

And there they were again, those heated and angry words that haunted Stephen. He had ridden away from his mother’s grave, vowing never to return.

He was a bastard. A homeless, landless bastard with nothing to recommend him to anybody. As if in sympathy, droplets of rain began to dapple his shoulders and he sighed. A fitting conclusion to a perfectly rotten day.

He rounded a bend in the lane and stopped short. Here was the source of the smoke…a small country fair, tucked into a fallow field miles from anywhere. The hardiness of the local residents showed quite clearly in the small crowd which must have walked or ridden for quite some distance to get here and enjoy a day away from their labors.

Music and laughter assailed his ears and the most delectable smells of good hearty fare crept around his nostrils and made his stomach rumble.

Trying to remember if he’d eaten anything that day, Stephen led his horse toward the fair. There must be a blacksmith around someplace who wouldn’t mind taking a look at the injured hoof.

In spite of the rain, children ran around the few stalls, giggling at their own games while their parents tried their hand at throwing a ball at a target or discussed the finer points of one or two large sows and their litters. It was the quintessential gathering of simple country folk and Stephen found himself smiling as he walked through the raindrops to join the throng.

Tethering his mount to a convenient post, he looked around—just as the skies opened and produced a heavy downpour. Stephen cursed and darted in to a small colorful tent beside him.

“Sorry. It’s the bloody rain…”

“Welcome. Yer here just in time…”