Triple Threat: Three Kinds of Wicked Series Book 5
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by MIA VARANO
Category: Erotica/Menage Erotica/Romance
Description: Vegas showgirl, Brandy Tate, is on the run from the mob and the FBI. When stoic FBI agent, Ridge Coltrane, tracks her down he puts them both in danger until a mysterious stranger named Trey rescues them. Brandy opens her heart?and her bed?to both men. Will her desire to trust end in heartache, or will it introduce her to a world of seductive delights at the hands of two men? To My Readers: Your mother always told you to beware of strangers, but Trey is not just any stranger. Welcome (once again) to Trey's world where love and seduction heal all and pave the path for Trey's redemption. In this story, Trey brings together two people who have lost their way and he shows them how to love again. So the next time you encounter a tall, dark stranger on the side of the road?maybe you should listen to your mother.
eBook Publisher: Red Sage Publishing, 2009 2009
eBookwise Release Date: August 2010
3 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [93 KB]
Reading time: 56-78 min.
"If you want a story that will stay with you long after you close the screen, then you need to read Triple Threat. This is a tale you won't want to miss. I give it 4 cherries."--Tiger Lily Whipped Cream Reviews
Brandy Tate pumped on the accelerator as her car slowed down. She gritted her teeth and ground out, "Don't do this to me."
She rocked forward in her seat as if to urge the dying car onward. As the car sucked up the remnants of the gas and began coasting down the highway on fumes, Brandy cranked the steering wheel to the right. She rolled along the gravelly shoulder of the road for another several seconds before the car whispered to a stop.
Stumbling out of the car, she tipped her head back and wailed at the bright ball of fire in the sky. Then she dropped her chin to her chest and wailed again as she glared at her four-inch heels.
She dug those heels into the glistening asphalt and wedged her hands on her hips. She announced to an audience of cacti, "You've been taking care of yourself for a long time, Brandy Tate. You can handle this one little setback."
Yeah, in a series of never-ending setbacks.
The last road sign she passed mentioned a town, Buzzard Flats, in another forty miles. She could hang out here and wait for a car to come by and catch a ride, even though Buzzard Flats didn't sound too promising. Her gaze shifted back and forth along the empty highway, wavy tendrils of heat rising from the blacktop like seaweed from the bottom of the ocean.
If a car didn't come along before sunset in another hour or so, she'd start walking to Buzzard Flats. How long could it take to walk forty miles? In four-inch heels? In sweltering heat? With a ruthless criminal after you?
Her eyes flicked in the direction of Vegas. If Vinnie "The Voice" Caprese discovered she was the secret witness, would he believe she had no intention of cooperating with the Feds? Or would he just take care of her anyway?
A hot gust of wind whipped over the desert floor, snatched at her skirt, and pelted her bare legs with sand. Licking her lips, she clutched her skirt against her thighs and made a decision.
She'd start walking toward Buzzard Flats right now and hope for a lift on the way. She could buy gas there, get a ride back to this godforsaken stretch of highway, and make tracks for L.A. Anyone could hide out in L.A. People did it all the time, and they didn't need the Witness Protection Program as insurance.
She swung her keychain around her finger. She might even have another pair of shoes in the trunk, something a little more practical for walking forty miles in the desert.
She tried to slide the key in her trunk lock and frowned when it scraped and stuck. She wiggled the key back and forth, jamming it into the lock. Finally, it clicked into place.
The trunk burst open, yanking the keys from her grasp. She stumbled back and clamped a hand over her mouth.
A large man unfolded his limbs and staggered from the trunk. His piercing blue eyes pinned her as he snarled, "It's about goddamn time."
Agent Coltrane. Brandy sucked in a sharp breath as her gaze raked over his solid, unyielding, six-foot three-inch frame. No disguises or suits this time. A pair of faded jeans outlined his muscular thighs, and a wrinkled white T-shirt clung to his broad chest. After taking inventory of his perfect parts, Brandy zeroed in on Coltrane's mouth, now twisted into an uncompromising snarl.
Don't go there. Brandy clenched her jaw. Despite all his physical disguises, she'd experienced a visceral attraction to the stoic FBI agent the minute he'd arrived at the Sundance Resort and Casino a few months ago to question her. And it all started with his mouth. Even the fake beards and mustaches couldn't conceal that sensual part of his anatomy.
His full lips did not mesh with the square jaw, the steely eyes, or the rock-hard, disciplined body he hid with his undercover disguises. He was a warrior with the lips of a lover.
Despite the raging heat that blew like a furnace through the desert, Brandy shivered and pressed her thighs together. Maybe if Agent Coltrane had used honey instead of vinegar to convince her to testify against Vinnie "The Voice" Caprese, she'd have succumbed to his wishes.
Or maybe not.