RISK
OF EXPOSURE
by Emmy Curtis
Available 05/03/16
Book #6 – Alpha Ops
Series
Publisher: Grand
Central Publishing
Forever Yours
He is a trained
professional—but nothing can prepare him for the hottest mission of his life.
Assigned to protect his boss’s daughter, British former SAS operative Malone
Garrett breaks the first rule of covert surveillance—don’t make contact. And
especially don’t take your mark out to dinner, then agree to a rooftop quickie.
But now that Mal has Abby in his arms, he has no intention of ever
letting her go.
Abby Baston told herself it
was a hit and quit, a one-nighter with a hot, handsome stranger whose hands
were trained to take action. Working undercover for the CIA, she can’t risk
anything more. But when an international crisis ignites, Abby must make a call:
trust Mal with her secret—and her heart—and partner up, or lose everything in a
split second . . .
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Emmy Curtis is an editor
and a romance writer. An ex-pat Brit, she quells her homesickness with Cadbury
Flakes and Fray Bentos pies. She's lived in London, Paris and New York, and has
settled for the time being, in North Carolina. When not writing, Emmy loves to
travel with her military husband and take long walks with their Lab. All things
considered, her life is chock full of hoot, just a little bit of nanny. And if
you get that reference...well, she already considers you kin.
The
Alpha Ops Series:
(while books in this series
are loosely connected, all function as standalones)
Dangerous
Territory- Book 1- novella –only 99 cents!
Over the Line- Book 2
Pushing the Limit- Book 3
Blowback- Book 4
Compromised- Book 5
Excerpts
Five
minutes into her short drive home, she passed another old beater Škoda with its
hood up. She slowed down. It was pointing the opposite way, so it wasn’t like
she could really offer him a ride. She was about to pass it, when she caught
sight of the man, or more specifically, his jacket. It was bright red and
emblazoned with MEDCIN SAND FRONTIERS. She pulled over. She wasn’t going to
strand a fellow aid worker in the countryside at night.
“Ca
va?” she asked.
“Eh.
I’ve been better,” he replied in a deep voice with a distinct English accent.
“And
you’re not French,” she said, slamming her door and striding over to him.
“Not
even a little bit.” He straightened and blew out a sigh as he held his hand out
to her. “Malone Garrett. Thanks for stopping.”
She
shook his hand and looked into the engine. “Anything I can help with?”
He
cocked his head and looked down at her.
A
jolt of awareness flashed through her as he met her eyes. He was all man. Firm
jaw, really blue eyes, way over six feet, and built to match. His jean-clad
legs were long and clearly muscled. She suddenly wanted to see what was under
his jacket and shirt…Her long-dormant libido kick-started in her stomach,
sending unwelcome messages through her body. Jesus, girl. Get a grip.
“Are
you good with cars?” he asked, a hint of a smile behind his words.
I
can hot-wire them, siphon fuel from them, disable them, make them explode, and
change a fan belt. But aside from that, not really.
“I’m
good at giving stranded motorists rides back into town,” she said, as if she
was admitting she knew nothing about cars.
“In
which case, I’d be grateful to take advantage of that skill, if you don’t
mind,” he said, closing the hood. He got back into his car, turned off the
headlights, and grabbed a messenger bag from the backseat.
She
got in her car and watched him in her rearview mirror. His accent did strange
things to her. Maybe it was just speaking to someone who actually spoke English
as a first language. Maybe it was something different. Holy hell. Did God send
him because she’d been determined to meet someone? Or at least touch someone?
He
opened the door and peered in. “Are you sure? I promise I’m not an ax
murderer.” He smiled disarmingly, and for a second she considered that that was
precisely what an ax murderer would say. She shrugged to herself. Anything to
relieve the boredom of her life.
“Sure.
Maybe you should be asking if I’m the ax murderer?”
A
frown flickered across his face for a second and she laughed. “I’m not, I promise.”
He
got in and put his seat belt on. “Isn’t that exactly what an ax murderer would
say, though?”
She
laughed again. “You’re the one who brought up ax murderers. Maybe I kill with a
spork. Maybe you’re making me feel inferior with all your talk about axes.” She
pulled onto the road and headed toward the flickering lights of the town about
thirteen miles away.
“Then
let’s drop the subject. Although, clearly, axes are superior in that line of
business.”
She
sniffed. “You haven’t seen what I can do with a spork.”
He
laughed, a low belly laugh. “So perhaps I can take you out to dinner, to thank
you for your assistance this evening. That way, I can see firsthand how
proficient you are with cutlery.”
###
He
did nothing other than blink, his guard down for a second, before she suddenly
had another knife in her other hand. She pushed him against the wall and held
the knife to his throat. What the fuck just happened?
He
wasn’t scared. He could still kill her with his bare hands if he wanted to.
This was nothing more than a slightly rough dance to him, but he begrudgingly
admitted that she had some skills too. And there was a much higher possibility
that it was she who had hurt and maybe killed the two men outside.
Her
eyes blazed not three inches from his. If he hadn’t been a little curious about
who Baston’s daughter was—indeed, if she even was Baston’s daughter—he would
have been turned on by the fury she showed. By her physicality and her
strength.
She
pressed the knife to his throat, not easing up the pressure even when he felt
the warm trickle of blood down his neck. Shit. She was sexy, and violent.
He
leaned toward her mouth, suddenly wanting to kiss her more than he wanted the
knife away from his jugular. The knife held constant, but he didn’t. Even
though she didn’t let up pressure for one second, in that second he valued the
kiss more than the knife.
She
startled when his lips touched hers, jerking away, and then back to his. He was
kissing a woman who was holding a knife to his throat. Fuck, it was sexy.
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