Blurb:
Reclusive
Mesha Rayburn's safe haven disintegrated when athletic Jack Connolly raced into
her life. He was like an uninvited guest to her pity party. Yet, his brashness
stoked her dormant emotions and injected spunk into her veins with every bated
word. And—calling the cinnamon-skinned Black woman "biggety" didn't
help matters.
Mechanic
Jack Connolly thought the trip down South to patch up and retrieve the
bullet-ridden helicopter would be a pain. He never imagined the rhetoric
becoming reality. But, thanks to Mesha's panicked outcry, it had. The pain
radiating in his palm bothered him less than the one in his rear. She was bold
and so beautiful. He had to know why she hid out in the boonies. As her
transient tenant, he intended to find out at the risk of feeling the sting of
her Louisiana Hot Sauce temper.
Excerpt:
Burped,
fed, and ready to play, Mya was placed on a pallet spread out on the
floor. Mesha sat cross-legged before
her, the laptop screen staring at her like a big-eyed specter waiting to steal
her thoughts. Writer’s block seemed an inevitable outcome to the looming
deadline for her latest manuscript. Too many distractions pulled her in too
many directions. Her lids fluttered rapidly as her eyes magnetized to the
cursor’s hypnotizing blink. Her descent into oblivion, merely a few seconds in
length, was substantial enough to jerk her awake in such a terrorized state she
launched upwards and rocketed outside.
“Jack!”
Her terrified shriek rent the air as she bolted blindly, thinking she had left
her dog out too long. “Jack!”
“Sonof******!”
a man’s voice thundered as tools thudded to the ground at his feet.
The
man repairing the helicopter missed his intended mark, stabbing the screwdriver
into the fleshy part of his palm when he heard the panicked screams. Gushing
blood required him to apply pressure to the area with the work rag as he bent
his tall body to clear the undercarriage of the craft. The person he witnessed
lurching towards him resembled a wild woman—one who teetered on the edge of
sanity—as she zipped through the open field, thick hair flying every which way,
evidently unaware of his presence.
“What?”
he yelled while sprinting in her direction. Suddenly, he saw her cut away and
make a beeline for the house.
He
gave chase.
Mesha
looked over her shoulder at the goateed and mustached man gaining on her, his
forehead furrowed with more rows than her square foot garden—an admonition to
beware. Studying the direction he came from spurred her to deduce the mechanic
that was due days ago was finally on the job. But, as for his intent as he
bounded after her? Her heart pounded loud enough to rupture her eardrums. Her
refuge seemed to get farther away the harder she pushed. She tamed her hair for
another quick glance that settled a foreboding in the pit of her stomach, for
she realized he was swifter than she. That truth bore out as his long legs
galloped in the hunt and a vise squeezed her upper arm, goading her to fight
for her life.
“Stop
hitting me!” he commanded, flinging the arm out that held her captive, the move
dangling her about like a rag-doll. His eyes jumped from her to the weathered
clapboard house in the distance where the burst of red foliage attracted him.
Mesha
saw his distraction as her chance.
She
wanted her freedom. Nothing else would do. So she attacked with all she had:
kicking, biting, punching, scratching, stomping. In other words—street
fighting. All of her efforts were for naught since his arm snaked around her
body, constricting her intake of breath. The more she struggled, the tighter he
compressed. Her feeble attempts to extricate herself turned her thoughts to
Mya—all alone.
“The
baby’s in the house,” she whimpered, cursing the fragility in her tone.
“I’m
not going to hurt you, lady,” he stormed. “Just stop mauling me.”
“O-o-kay,”
she heaved, unable to control the panting while bent over the crook of his arm,
her body gouged into his.
“I’m
going to release you to turn around. Can you do that without a fight?” he
questioned and received her positive headshake. He did as committed. “Turn
around.”
She turned all right and took off again, zigzagging across the
field to throw him off.
Mickie Sherwood
~~Sweet,
spicy romance – a heartbeat away~~
Mickie's
Manor
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