Excerpt & Giveaway: In For The Kill by Shannon McKenna
In
For The Kill
McClouds & Friends # 11
McClouds & Friends # 11
By:
Shannon McKenna
Releasing
January 27th,
2015
Kensington
Blurb
The
risks ex-cop Sam Petrie has taken have turned his life into a train
wreck. So he has nothing to lose by doubling down as the elusive
Svetlana Ardova’s unwanted bodyguard on a potentially deadly trip
to Italy.
Ever
since the McClouds rescued Sveti from certain death, her crusade
against modern slavery has blazoned a bulls-eye on her chest, but
when one of the threats against her almost hits the mark, Sam’s
protective instincts go into overdrive. Every lethal obstacle and
trap they encounter ups the stakes—and the undeniable heat between
them.
Now
they’re spiraling in on a deadly and explosive secret—one that
could either redeem them or destroy them . . . and the closer they
get, the shorter the fuse . . .
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Excerpt
Sam
Petrie leaned against the wall, arms folded. He stared into the dance
floor, careful not to meet anyone’s eyes. He wasn’t here for
chitchat. Against every last lingering instinct for
self-preservation, he was at another no-holds-barred McCloud Crowd
wedding, trolling for a chance to scope out the elusive Svetlana
Ardova. She of the big, tragic eyes, the high, pointed tits. And the
obscure, inexplicable prejudice against him.
It was
almost two years since that kiss in Bruno’s studio. But that event
had transformed his schoolboy crush into a full-out obsession.
Which
was why he’d snookered himself into accepting the invitation to
Aaro and Nina’s wedding. Nina’s pregnancy had derailed it last
year, but their twins, Julia and Oksana, were six months old now, so
wedding plans had finally gone forward, and the gang was all there.
Great food and booze and music. Squealing kids. Everyone dancing,
having a good time, being curious about shit that was not their
business. While he lurked in the corner, hot-eyed. Staring at Sveti
like a panting perv-weasel. It was humbling. He’d locked up many
specimens of the kind of obsessed asshole he was now, and rejoiced to
see them off the streets.
Sveti
was talking to a bevy of hotties in evening gowns, all holding
stringed instruments. The Venus Ensemble, aka the eye candy
orchestra. Trafficked from Eastern European conservatories, lured by
promises of green cards, subsequently embroiled in a deadly scheme
involving mind-control drugs and other crazy shit that Sam still
didn’t quite believe. Kev McCloud had saved them from an
unspeakable fate, and the news coverage had given the group awesome
publicity. They’d formed a hot string ensemble and were making
money hand over fist.
Hurray.
Chalk one up for the good guys.
The
Venus Ensemble were stunners, yes, but Sveti blew them away. She was
the smallest, even in killer heels, but so perfect. Vivid, in that
crimson dress. His eyes hurt from the hyper-stimulation. Tilted hazel
eyes over Slavic cheekbones. Full, soft red lips calculated to invoke
impure thoughts, and a regal attitude that instantly rebuked said
impure thoughts. High, perfect tits. Taut nipples. The sight made his
hands tingle. Her hair was twisted into a complicated knot. It looked
great, but he liked it better loose. His fingers clenched,
remembering that silken floss. He wanted to kiss the heart-shaped
port-wine birthmark on her neck. Trace its borders. Study it like a
map.
He
sidled closer. She was talking in Russian or some dialect thereof. It
turned him on, hearing her speak her native language. Then again, it
turned him on to hear her talk at all, period.
Aw,
fuck it. Even her sullen silences turned him on.
He
wrenched his gaze away and stared out at swaying couples. There was
Sveti’s date, Josh Cattrell—tall, prosperous, and flushed with
champagne. Might or might not be the reason Sveti blew off Sam’s
phone calls, texts, e-mails. Any comparisons between Josh and Sam
would not be in Sam’s favor at the moment. He’d been too lazy and
rebellious to cut his hair lately, and had resorted to yanking his
brown mane into a ponytail. He’d shaved last week, for the psych
eval, but the shrink’s conclusion had pissed him off so much, he
hadn’t bothered since. And he was too thin for his suit, everywhere
but the shoulders, which strained at the seams as a result of
obsessive workouts. His face looked grim and sunken when he caught it
reflected in glass.
Nah,
he didn’t stack up well next to Cattrell’s stylish haircut, fresh
shave, charming dimples, fake tan. The perfectly cut suit.
Empty-headed
dickface. Sam hated him on sight.
Sveti
had known Cattrell since she was thirteen. He’d briefly shared her
imprisonment, before they’d been rescued from the organ thieves.
Most episodes involving McClouds and their pals had an off-the-charts
weird factor. Weird usually turned him off, but not when Sveti was
involved. It was wrist-thick iron cables, yanking him in.
Josh
Cattrell was an ass-bite, flashing his overly whitened teeth at every
babe he saw. Sam watched him punch the number of one of the catering
staff into his smartphone, whisper in her ear, pat her ass.
This
piece of shit was his competition?
The
guy turned without missing a beat and held out his arms to Sveti. He
pulled her onto the dance floor and dropped his hand to her hip, like
he hadn’t just been fondling another woman’s booty. The singer
crooned a slow tune as the hand crept lower.
Fuck
this shit. Fuck it into lightless oblivion.
The
feeling built like steam, hot and dangerous. He didn’t recognize
it, or have a strategy for dealing with it. He played it cool with
the ladies, as a long string of disgruntled would-be girlfriends
would attest. He’d heard plenty about his “commitment issues”
over the years. “Man slut” was another phrase they tossed around.
Out,
out, out. Get your deranged, unhinged ass out before you do something
pointless and stupid. Just fuck off. NOW.
Sveti
was too young for him, anyway. Josh was closer to her in age. Not a
lot closer, though. Maybe five years younger than Sam’s
thirty-three. Maybe only four. Four fucking measly years. Four.
He
barreled into someone on his way to the coatroom and mumbled an
apology, but the person grabbed his arm. “Hey, Sam.”
It
took a few moments to place the guy. Tall, tanned, closely shorn dark
hair. It was the nose that finally pegged him. “Oh. Miles.”
The
man partly responsible for derailing Sam’s career as homicide
detective. Not that he held any grudges. Miles had just been trying
to keep himself and his girlfriend alive. But Sam’s involvement in
Miles’ bizarre adventures, however slight, had not helped his
career prospects.
“I’ve,
uh, been meaning to talk to you,” Miles said.
Not.
Miles had been busy rolling around on sugar sand beaches with his
adoring bride on their protracted, well-deserved honeymoon.
The
weirdness of their tale had made the higher-ups nervous and
uncomfortable. Which made people want to blame someone. Punish
someone. Step right up, Sam. At the ready.
The
woo-woo factor had sealed his doom. They’d put him away. Using the
excuse of last year’s gunshot wound and the psych evaluations that
followed. PTSD, the shrinks said, but that was bullshit. His symptoms
weren’t that bad. Sure, he was twitchy and depressed, but so were a
lot of people who were out there working. That diagnosis had far more
to do with some discreet phone calls from his father to various local
politicians who were tight with the police commissioner.
He
pushed on past the guy. “Gotta go, Miles. See you around.”
Miles
grabbed his arm. “Wait. I just wanted to say, uh, that I appreciate
your giving me that heads-up, back when I was fighting for our lives.
I haven’t said that to you directly, being out of town so long, and
I’ve been wanting to. And you, uh . . . weren’t at our wedding.”
“Yeah.”
He’d been in the hospital. Gut shot. Miles looked just too fucking
relaxed, tanned, and sexually fulfilled. Choffing all those ripe
mangoes, boinking his true love on all those beaches. It stuck in
Sam’s craw. “Where have you guys been?” he asked, just to
torture himself.
Miles
had the grace to look sheepish. “Bali, most recently. We rented
this tree house, in a banyan jungle.”
“Sweet,”
Petrie said.
“Pretty
much. We only came back because Lara, well . . . we’re expecting.”
His large Adam’s apple bobbed nervously. “So we wanted to settle
into the house. Get ready for the new arrival.”
“Great.”
Sam coughed it out like a hair ball. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks,”
Miles said. “We’re really excited. But if there was anyone I
could talk to, you know, to explain how things really went—”
“God,
no. Thanks, but no,” he said hastily.
“Okay.”
Miles looked downcast. “Just wish I could help. So what are you
doing with yourself these days, anyhow? Still on medical leave?”
Wow,
where to begin. Loafing like a slob, when he wasn’t sprinting
through the park as if flesh-eating zombies were chasing him. Day
trading. Reading Sveti’s anti-trafficking blog. Watching the
flesh-crawling adventures she sometimes live-streamed on her viral
v-log, following every peep of her Twitter feed. Watching her TED
talk, about her own personal journey into anti-trafficking activism.
On his computer, tablet, smartphone. Obsessively. Or staring at her
Facebook photo gallery. Not that she’d friended him. He’d hacked
her account.
“I’ve
been evaluating my options,” he hedged.
“I
hear you’re getting pressure to join the family business. Some big
hedge fund, right?”
Sam
was startled. He’d mentioned it in passing to Kev, weeks back. Now
here was Miles spouting it back at him. He hadn’t thought they were
so interested in his life. Hell, he himself wasn’t that interested
in his life. “Yeah, some,” he admitted. “I’d rather slit my
own throat.”
Miles’
eyebrow went up. “Why? Do you suck at it?”
“No,
I’m good at it. But just because you’re good at something doesn’t
mean you should be doing it.” He’d gotten dangerously skilled
lately at high-tech stalking, for instance.
“I
hear you. I’ve got a few unspeakable skills myself these days.”
Author
Info
Shannon
McKenna is the New York Times bestselling author of numerous romantic
thrillers and several novellas. After a bizarre assortment of jobs,
from singing cocktail waitress to medical secretary to strolling
madrigal singer, she decided that writing hot romantic suspense suits
her best. She lives with her husband and family in a small seaside
town in southern Italy.
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