I'm pleased to say the sequel to I Spy Something Bloody just squeaked in under the wire for Halloween!
I Spy Something Wicked is a Halloween "fling." What that means is, if you had questions about whether Mark and Stephen really would manage to carve out a life together, well this one's for you. MORE angst.
It's All Hallow's Eve and Mark Hardwicke's past has come back to haunt him. The Old Man needs Mark to go on one last mission to the wild, lonely hills of Afghanistan—a mission Mark knows he can't survive. Even if he does make it back, Stephen has made it very clear Mark is out of second chances. Should Mark place his lover and his own happiness before duty?
Especially when deep down Mark knows he doesn’t deserve a happy ending.
EXCERPT:
I parked in the tree-lined circular drive of the white Victorian mansion. The
lights were on downstairs, the curtains wide open. It was like looking into a
doll house or a stage set. Downstairs I could see Buck curled up on the sofa in
the den. The bookshelves where my books now crowded Stephen's. My paintings
symmetrically arranged around Stephen's. Upstairs, Stephen walked from the
bathroom into the bedroom. He wore a pair of pale green pajama bottoms. He was
toweling his hair.
I sighed. Despite my best efforts, I couldn't get Stephen to take the concept of
security seriously. Granted, he was better than he had been; he remembered to
lock the doors now, at least. But that was just to relieve my mind. When I'd
tried to explain why this was so important, bewilderingly, he'd apologized and
said, "I know you need to feel secure. I promise to be more careful." As though
it were about my safety. About my feelings.
I ejected the magazine from the Glock and dropped it back into the glove
compartment. I bent, re-taped the pistol beneath the seat, got out of the Range
Rover, locked it, and went quickly up the stone steps to the long, covered
porch. There was a pyramid of resin jack-o-lanterns at the base of one of the
posts, electric eyes and smiles glowing brightly. Black rubber bats on string
hung from the porch rafters, stirring in the breeze.
As I locked the front door behind me, Buck came to greet me, tail wagging while
he growled in that way of Chesapeake Bay retrievers. He'd been shot back in May
when a team of assassins hired by a senior Taliban commander had come calling
for me, but he was doing fine now. A little stiff in the mornings, but—as
Stephen had gently teased—who wasn't?
Upstairs, the stereo was playing. I could hear the music drifting down the
staircase: simple, intensely emotional, and somehow fragile. Barber's Adagio for
Strings. An appropriate soundtrack for the return of old ghosts.
Trailed by Buck, I went around checking windows and closing curtains. I was
relieved to see that while Stephen hadn't bothered with the curtains, he had at
least locked everything.
In the kitchen, I poured myself a glass of milk and leaned against the sink
while staring out at the black diamond glitter of the lake behind the house. I
hadn't been able to spare time for dinner, but I wasn't hungry. It had been a
long day. I was taking courses at the University of Shenandoah, their Career
Switcher Program, which was designed for people like me, frustrated teachers who
hadn't completed the training curriculum but had "considerable life experiences,
career achievements, and academic backgrounds that are relevant."
Apparently I'd have been better off reporting to the target range every day and
practicing my Pashto. In the mountains of Afghanistan they have a saying: A wolf
cannot outrun its shadow.
I tried again to think how I would tell Stephen, how I would explain what I was
considering, and I decided that it would be better to work it out in my mind
first. I was too angry and confused just now—and Stephen had zero tolerance for
the Old Man even at the best of times.
I washed the glass, rinsed it, and set in the sink. I turned out the lights and
went upstairs.
Stephen was in bed, reading the New England Journal of Medicine.
He glanced up, and smiled, and my heart did that little flip it always did. He
was so…beautiful. At fifty he made everyone else look callow and crude. Tall,
lean, broad shoulders and long legs. His hair was prematurely silver, but it
just emphasized how young and handsome he really was. He looked like the
quintessential doctor on the telly, a man you wouldn't think twice about
trusting with your life or your heart.
I went to him and he kissed me, but as our lips parted, his green eyes were
searching. He said, "You're late."
"Yes. Sorry."
He was waiting for an explanation. That was one of the difficult things about
being with someone. Accountability. I just wasn't ready to discuss Malik's
proposition with him, and I didn't want to lie, so I said nothing.
When I didn't offer an explanation, Stephen, patiently explaining the customs to
a foreigner, said, "You should have phoned. I was worried."
"I wasn't thinking of that."
His mouth quirked wryly. "Obviously not." He was still studying me, looking for
clues. "Have you eaten?"
I shook my head. "Not hungry, really." I added quickly, as his brows drew
together, "Not for food."
I loved the way the concern in his face gave way to that wicked grin. He tossed
aside the journal and, reaching for me, murmured, "Oh yeah?"
I mimicked that soft Southern accent, "Oh yeah."
Released October 13 from Loose Id
