Operation Reunion

Dane knew her, knew how to touch her, to kiss her, to take her exactly as she wanted to be taken.

And the next time, because now she was sure there would be one, she would return the favor, calling up everything she’d learned of him, of what he liked, to make sure he would be the one driven mad. She would show him she understood, that she knew what they’d nearly lost, how rare and special it was.

And then he was easing into her, hot and hard, slow and taunting, and rational thought fled. Her body arched in eager anticipation as he slid home bit by bit, and the low groan that broke from him, the first sign he wasn’t as completely in control as he’d seemed, made her every muscle clench.

He lifted his head, looked straight into her eyes. “Don’t throw this away, Kayla.”

She tightened her arms around him. “No more taking for granted,” she said.

Her words were apparently what he’d needed to hear, because he abandoned all efforts at teasing slowness and began to move with an urgency that was no less compelling. Kayla gave herself up to the driving stroke of his body, let slip all restraint and reveled in the sweet, delicious fact that he was hers again.

For now.

Cutter’s Code: A secret network of operatives specializing in lost causes

Dear Reader,

Writers are strange people. I say that with full knowledge that I fall squarely in that category. I have a motto that in various forms is espoused by many writers, I’m sure: “It’s all research.” I’m certain of this because of all the tiny bits and images that clutter my mind, making me a wiz at Jeopardy but not so hot at things like, oh, remembering birthdays.

Many of these little bits and images fade over time, but some do not. One day, long ago, I was picking up mail from my post office box. As I went inside, I saw a young man, jaw tight, eyes suspiciously wet, wad up a piece of paper and an envelope and throw them somewhat energetically into a trash can as he stalked out of the building. As I came back moments later, hands full of mail, there he was again. Only, now he was digging through the trash to retrieve that wadded-up letter. He took it to the nearest sort counter and tried to smooth it out, then folded the wrinkled paper and envelope neatly and put it in his pocket before leaving again.

I’ve lived with that image for all these years, wondering what the story was behind it. I’ll never know, but with a little tweaking and some role-reversal, I’ve finally unloaded that image. It’s yours now, and I hope you enjoy the story!

Happy reading,

Justine Davis

JUSTINE DAVIS lives on puget Sound in Washington State, watching big ships and the occasional submarine go by, and sharing the neighborhood with assorted wildlife, including a pair of bald eagles, deer, a bear or two and a tail-less raccoon. In the few hours when she’s not planning, plotting or writing her next book, her favorite things are photography, knitting her way through a huge yarn stash and driving her restored 1967 Corvette roadster—top down, of course.

Connect with Justine at her website, justinedavis.com, at twitter.com/Justine_D_Davis, or on Facebook at Facebook.com/JustineDareDavis.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Miz Cedar Dogge

February 25, 2001–April 24, 2012

Cedar was intelligent, inquisitive, willful, demanding,

bratty, expectant, a dragon in a golden retriever’s body. She never met a stranger and fully expected everyone she met to love—and pet!—her, and they generally did. She was the perfect travel companion, the consummate hostess, an intuitive and compassionate friend. She always had a twinkle in her eye and a smile on her face. She always got the last bite of everything I ate and took her duties as pre-wash cycle for the dishwasher very seriously. She loved when I bought a Kindle because it gave me one more hand available to pet her with while I read. She loved to go to the dog beach—not for the dogs, or the beach—but for the pets she received from all the dog-friendly people there; a roll in a dead crab and some seaweed was always a bonus. Her favorite thing in the world was a good roll in some scratchy grass, even better if some wild creature had left something good and stinky there first. She was a force of nature who has left very big paw prints on our hearts and a huge hole in our lives. I miss her every day.

Sharyn Cerniglia

Cedarzmom

This is the first in a series of dedications from readers

who have shared the pain of the loss of a beloved dog. For more information visit my website at www.justinedavis.com.

Kayla Tucker stared at the note in her hand. She was barely aware of the woman opening the post office box next to her, stepped out of the way of the man emptying trash, ignored the girl chattering loudly into her cell phone, all without looking up from the page obviously torn out of a spiral notebook.

The note wasn’t signed. If it had been printed, she could have pretended it was a mistake. That he hadn’t written it. But there was no mistaking the handwriting; the slightly crooked hand, falling off the lines in her brother’s typical way, was definitely Chad’s.