It's nearing the end of February . . . incredible. Valentine's Day is done and dusted for another year. Hope everyone had a good day—or at least read some great VD romances. I did, some lovely m/m and m/f from my publisher BDP. I really need to get on my Goodreads page and add some of the books I've been reading, but in case I don't, certainly give any of the books from the new Valentine's Day Collection a go: www.bottomdrawerpublications.net If it's only m/m you're after then A New Dream by C J Baty was sweet and lovely, and An Unexpected Party by Henrietta Clarke was a British gem—loved the dialogue.
Apart from a bit of reading, I have also been settling back into some writing. Thank goodness. I'm very happy with the story I am working on right now, and even though I am not ready to share titles or the story's future (well planned anyway), I'd love to share an excerpt that I am really happy with.
Hope you enjoy it. Please remember it is still in draft and unedited.
Till next time.
Bette.
* * *
“Get up,” a deep voice urged
him; a hand shaking his shoulder helping to pull him from his deep sleep. “Get
up. Hurry.”
Ryan blinked open his eyes,
unsure of what was happening. The room was still dark and he didn’t know how
long he’d been asleep. He turned his head, looking up, trying to focus, not
recognizing the person whose hand was on his shoulder, its firm fingers digging
into his flesh.
“Jesus,” he complained,
shrugging his shoulder to try and shake the insistent hand off. “Get the fuck
off me.”
“We don’t have time for this.
You need to get up, and you need to get up now.”
Ryan felt like shit, his whole
body resisting even waking up, let alone getting up. “I’m sick, leave me
alone,” he grumbled, allowing his eyes to close again.
“I don’t know what your name
is, but if you want to be alive in five minutes, you need to get your ass out
of this bed.”
The urgency in the man’s tone
roused him, aided by the words “alive” and “five minutes.”
Ryan sat up, the rush of blood
to his head almost making him fall back down again. The hand that was still on
his shoulder held him firm then pulled him off the bed. “Move,” the man said,
taking him by the elbow and leading him quickly and insistently from the room.
Ryan put the brakes on just as
they reached the top of the staircase, wrenching his arm out of the man’s grasp,
a deep cough issuing from his tortured throat. He was conscious enough now to
know that nothing about this situation was right. He’d never seen this man
before in his life. “I don’t know you and you expect me to leave this house. Not
a chance.”
The man turned. Even in the
dim light Ryan could see his determined face. “I’m the good guy, believe me.
There is a bomb in this house, right there in the study,” he looked over Ryan’s
shoulder toward the room in question, “and if you don’t leave with me now then
you will die.”
Ryan blinked, trying
desperately to process what the man had said. A bomb? In Jacob’s study? He began to shake his head in denial.
“You’re wrong. There couldn’t— Who would—?”
“There is a bomb attached to
the safe door in Jacob Rite’s study.” The man’s words were punctuated for
comprehension. “The timer is set for”—he glanced at his wrist—“less than two
minutes.” Ryan felt a chill pass over his body, and it had nothing to do with
him being naked. “So move—now!”
The man turned and Ryan
followed him, rushing down the stairs and then through the lounge room,
adrenaline pushing his flu-ridden body on. The light from the kitchen was a
beacon, allowing Ryan enough visibility to dodge the obstacles in his way. The
man in front of him not once looking back to check he was following, as if it
was a given.
They entered the large timber
and stone kitchen at a gallop, the man in front of him coming to a total unexpected
stop, causing Ryan to collide into his back. “What the—”
Not a second later they were
moving again, the man turning and locking his hand with Ryan’s. He pulled Ryan
to the left, leading him the long way around the counter, but not before Ryan
saw what had made him stop. Jenna the housekeeper was draped backwards over the
black stone countertop, her eyes wide open, a ghastly red hole in the middle of
her forehead.
“Jenna . . .” he murmured,
pain evident in the sorrowful word, a million conclusions rapid
firing through his brain. What the hell is
happening in this house?
Bile
rose in Ryan’s throat. He held it down, allowing the man holding his hand to
pull him forward, his own mortality innately more important to him at that
moment.
BetteBrowne©2013
