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Ira McKenzie has spent his life struggling with the undeniable anger that scorches through his veins. But in the arms of Ricki Sullivan, Ira finally finds his peace. Until Shahla enters Ira's world…
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Billie Cartwright’s always paid her own way. Felicity is after whatever she can get -- and she’s not above bending the rules. When the sisters discover they’ve inherited an aging mansion from a mysterious aunt, Billie’s more than a little skeptical -- till she meets Grant Jorgensen. Not even the pull of the Agrippa will stop Grant from claiming his woman! Customer Ratings:
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Excerpt:
Deadly Sins 1: Anger
Lexxie Couper
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2008 Lexxie Couper
An Authorized Excerpt
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Standing outside the Kings Cross police station, Ira let out a long breath, dragging his hands through the scruffy brown mop that was his hair. Whoever this Balionel was, he’d taken off, leaving no number or message. Not even a Post-It with a smiley face. How the hell was Ira to buy the bloke a beer if he’d buggered off?
Anger stirred in his gut, red and inviting.
Sucking in a deep breath, Ira counted to ten.
The slow count calmed him down. Just. It would do no good to lose it again tonight. He’d fucked up his life enough for one day.
A hooker strutted past, headed toward the Cross’s main drag. Tall, slim, with an ass to make J. Lo envious and a wild mane of spun gold hair tumbling over straight shoulders, she turned every man’s head on the footpath. Including his.
Ira’s cock twitched. Damn, she was hot. Something about her looked wrong though. Like she didn’t --
A low black Porsche skidded into the gutter beside the hooker, powerful engine purring as the passenger window lowered. The blonde leaned into the window, her magnificent ass stuck in the air, long legs growing even longer as her mini-skirt rode up high, revealing ass cheeks firm and toned and made for grabbing.
Scowling, Ira turned away. What was going on in his head if he thought a hooker didn’t belong in the Cross? Storming down the path he headed toward the nearest pub. If he went home now he’d only end up kicking the cat.
Okay, he didn’t have a cat, but he had a nosey neighbor who did -- an overfed Persian called Prince. Kicking Prince, however, definitely fell in the just-plain-stupid category. Besides, there was nothing waiting for him at home except some second-hand furniture and an empty fish bowl.
“Watch it, buddy!”
Ira turned, just in time to avoid bumping into a tall man with blond hair and blue eyes.
“Don’t you Australians ever watch where you’re going?”
The man’s voice was heavy with an American accent and dark contempt. Ira gritted his teeth, struggling to keep calm. “Sorry, mate.”
“Now, now, Hogan,” the slim woman hanging off the American’s arm soothed. “Let’s not ruin our honeymoon. It’s their country, remember.”
The tall man gave Ira a scowl and then turned back to his wife. “You’re right, Charlotte.” His contempt dissolved into adoration. “Let’s go.”
The woman gave Ira a smug look, cold eyes seeming to drill into his very soul. For a split second a powerful wave of inexplicable greed crashed over him, rivaling his smoldering rage. Then he blinked, and the sensation was gone.
“Oi!” A balled fist thumped against his chest. “Wanna see the hottest girls in town?”
Ira looked up, his own scowl returning. A weedy strip-club hawker barred his path, leering at him with bloodshot eyes. “No thanks, mate.” He shook his head, raising a deflective hand. “I’m right.”
“Whatayagay?” the hawker snarled, shoving at Ira’s shoulder.
Red. Everything went red.
Blood pounding in his ears, Ira stepped forward, the crowded street around him fading away. “Touch me again, mate,” he growled at the offensive hawker, “and I’ll break your fucking nose.”
“Oh yeah?” the weedy, smelly man blustered, poking a bony finger against Ira’s chest. “You and whose army?”
Deep within Ira’s veins the red beast of anger roared.
Even deeper, however, came a sense of destiny met. It was Ira’s right to destroy a usurper. His right and role as king.
Ira blinked, a chill shooting up his spine. King? What the hell --
“Oi!” the hawker shouted, shoving at his shoulder again. “Are ya listen’n to me, poof?”
A cold smile stretched Ira’s mouth. “I don’t need an army, mate.” His fists curled. “All I need is --”
“Honey!” A female’s voice, low and husky with a soft American accent, cut across Ira’s rage. “I’m here, babe.”
Long fingers curled around Ira’s left wrist, slipping down to force their way into his clenched fist. He turned his head, staring into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen.
In a heartbeat, every fiber of his body felt relaxed. Calm.
“I’m sorry, hon,” the woman continued, an apologetic frown creating a little line between honey-gold brows that were straight and serious. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” She raised his hand to her mouth, pressing full lips against his flesh with gentle contact. Ribbons of bliss unfurled through his body, from hand to heart to groin. Ira gazed at the woman in silent rapture, struck dumb. Those amazing blue eyes made contact with his and a jolt of squirming anticipation shot straight to his groin. He pulled in a quick breath. Wow. “Come on, babe,” she murmured with a small, promising smile. “Let’s go.”
She took a step backward and, almost of its own accord, Ira’s gaze dropped to her body. He sucked in another sharp breath.
The hooker. It was the blonde hooker he’d seen earlier. Holding his hand. Smiling at him.
“Honey?” With a gentle pressure, she tugged on his hand. “You coming?”
Without thought or deliberation, Ira followed, stepping away from the blustering hawker. The anger in his chest roared in indignation, robbed of its sustenance. Yet the sound, usually so dominant in Ira’s life, was weak.
Ineffectual.
In just thirty seconds of contact, the mysterious woman had achieved something Ira thought unobtainable. She’d extinguished his burning anger.
Heart twisting, he followed her out of the ignitable situation.
Totally in love.
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