Excerpts

If This Bed Could Talk Chapter One They say you only get a few seconds to make a good first impression. Vienna James needed to make a great one. It all came down to numbers. Numbers and time. How many strikes do you have? How many years did you get? When should you make your move? How long do you give it before you run like hell? She gazed up at the shadowy figures of the men in the glass booths encircling the top tier of the auction round. They watched her as if they were spectators at a sporting event. As if she was the sport itself--with just seconds remaining in the final period. Numbers and time. How many men have told you in so many words that they could fix your world if you just gave them long enough? How many actually have? The odds of finding a buyer on a three-strikes sentence were practically nil. But not impossible. Seething inside that her life had come to this pathetic crossroad--where the best possible scenario would be another human being purchasing her for unknown service--Vienna did her best to smile on the platform. Not an easy thing to do when a pissy attitude, wrist shackles, and a grubby prison uniform were your only props. The loudspeaker instructed her to turn in a circle. Vienna did exactly what she was told, her heart rate picking up again as she finished the 360 and came back around to face the front, where a row of green lights were extinguishing one by one. When the entire line of lights on the wall went out, the auction would be over. Two out of six dots left. Smile, Vienna. Smile for the silly boys . . . oh, for God's sake. This is ridiculous! She was just a weapons specialist. A gunrunner. A target shooter. End of story. This . . . this preening and putting her . . . girliness or whatever on display . . . it just wasn't her game. But you had to do what you had to do. Working this hard to impress men might not have been part of her old job description, but it apparently was a requirement now. And if this was what it took to convince a buyer to get her the hell out of this mess she was in, then this was what she was going to do. Vienna looked up and scanned the booths again, noticing that in one of them, two men had leaned forward on the window and were staring intently down at her. You there. Buy me. Buy me and you won't be sorry. And I won't be sorry either, because once you get me away from here, I'll get away from you. Michael and Devlin Kingston leaned against the glass of a cramped auction booth, glancing between a folder describing Docket 664291 and the woman down below--the real thing, Vienna James. Blond, blue-eyed, and working serious bombshell curves that even the most ill-fitting uniform couldn't hide, the girl could not have been closer to the specifications of Devlin's ex-fiancée, Julia, if she'd been custom built that way. She's perfect, Michael thought. "She's a mess," Devlin said abruptly. Michael glared at his brother. "Are you joking? Look closer." Devlin folded his arms across his chest, his mouth a grim slash. "I have a feeling about her," Michael said. "And, come on. Blond. Blue eyes. You know she's perfect." He slid the auction file over to his brother. "Vienna James." Devlin arched an eyebrow. "How much do you want to bet it's not her real name?" Michael chuckled. "It's the name attached to the crime, so I expect it's the only one that matters." " Three crimes caught three times. And now she's looking at automatic execution, aka Three-Strikes policy, if somebody doesn't buy her." He tossed the folder back at Michael. "We'd be better off with somebody whose line of business had more to do with seduction than common illegal weapons handling." "I disagree. I think Pierce would detect a professional seductress in a second." "You don't plan to train her?" Devlin asked. "Of course I'll train her. I'm just saying that a little rough around the edges is a good thing." He pointed at the row of green lights. "We need to make a decision." Devlin was silent for a long time. Finally, he said, "She has Julia's coloring exactly." Michael studied his brother's face. Though anyone else would probably miss it, he always caught the change in the set of Devlin's jaw when he said Julia's name. Julia's or Pierce Mackey's. Devlin hadn't forgotten. Hell, Michael hadn't forgotten either. And neither of them had forgiven. Michael looked down at the girl who was busy complying with a litany of automated requests blaring from the platform speaker. She turned in a circle, modeling for the prospective buyers in a strange kind of Simon Says that would have been laughable if her life hadn't been on the line. "Maybe you need to be running the job," he suggested to his brother. "Maybe it would make more sense if you were the one with her. A kind of repeat that he wouldn't be able to resist." Devlin winced. "I'd rather not. You're better in the field and Pierce will jump at the chance to wreck you. It would make his victory complete." The final green dot began to pulse, indicating only thirty seconds remained in the auction. Michael picked up the red line. "I'd like an opportunity to question the prisoner on the block prior to bidding." He hung up, and a moment later an all-call message went out to the booths that a buyer was interested in one Vienna James and that the courtesy of questioning her was extended to any who were interested. Watching her face as the guard announced buyer interest, Michael saw the moment her courage failed. As she took in the news, her lips parted in surprise. She closed them again and swallowed, and he could see uncertainty move like a shadow over her face. If This Bed Could Talk . Copyright © by Liz Maverick. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. 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