Kiss or Kill Under the Northern Lights Read online

  Contents

  By Susan Johnson

  Take It Easy

  By Tracey Cramer-Kelly

  Mercury Falling

  By Edna Curry

  Robbery at the Lilliput Bar

  By Patricia M Jackson

  My Time with Pearl

  By Diane Pearson

  The Bent Fork Café

  By Laura Ashwood

  Second Chances

  By Angie Speed

  How to Catch a Tomcat in Seven Days

  By Nancy Pirri

  Courting the Nanny

  Take It Easy ~ Copyright © 2018 by Susan Johnson

  Mercury Falling ~ Copyright © 2018 by Tracey Cramer-Kelly

  Robbery at the Lilliput Bar ~ Copyright © 2018 by Edna Curry

  My Time with Pearl ~ Copyright © 2018 by Patricia M. Jackson

  The Bent Fork Café ~ Copyright © 2018 by Diane Pearson

  Second Chances ~ Copyright © 2018 by Laura Ashwood

  How to Catch a Tomcat in Seven Days ~ Copyright © 2018 by Angie Speed

  Courting the Nanny ~ Copyright © 2018 by Nancy Pirri

  ISBN: 978-1-68046-639-3

  Published by Satin Romance

  An Imprint of Melange Books, LLC

  White Bear Lake, MN 55110

  www.satinromance.com

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

  Published in the United States of America.

  Cover Design by Shelley Schmidt

  Take It Easy

  By Susan Johnson

  They had nothing in common but trauma and raw memories until love slipped in through the cracks, captured their hearts and made life worth living.

  1

  “Come on, not another one.” Behind a hangover fog, Bodie Rourke’s eyes darkened. “When’re you gonna quit?”

  “When you remember to eat, when you stop drinking—”

  “It’s only beer.”

  “When my feet don’t stick to the floor, how about that?” his brother muttered. He didn’t say, When you stop chasing all your caretakers away. “I’d like you to meet Eva Strozzi. She worked with a UN aid mission in the Congo and went through some of the same shit you did. So don’t bite her head off. She’s here to help.”

  For the first time since she walked in the door, a restless, haunted gaze was turned on her.

  “No offense, Eva, but I don’t want help. Thanks for coming, but I’m not interested. Tell my little brother, Jesse, to give you combat pay for your time.” Bodie’s eyes were on her for a second, ice gray and unblinking. Then he turned to his brother. “Get her out of here.”

  Moments later, standing on the porch, the wind from the lake carrying a hint of rain, Jesse Rourke gave Eva a strained smile. “I apologize. I thought Bodie might relate to your experiences, consider not acting out for a change.”

  “Everyone handles PTSD in their own way.”

  “You seem to be doing all right.”

  She could have said, I wasn’t locked in a cage for three months and tortured. “He hasn’t been home long,” she said, instead. The story had been everywhere on the news, Bodie’s capture while filming in the Tribal Areas between Afghanistan and Pakistan, his ransom by Le Monde who’d been partnering with him on his film, those searing images of him, gaunt and bearded, stumbling to his feet after being tossed from a moving truck.

  “It’s almost six months now and he’s worse. You saw him; half drunk, unshaven, his weight in free fall.” Jesse’s brows crept up a notch. “What’s your secret? How’d you cope?”

  Unlike Bodie Rourke who’d gotten rich after winning Oscars for two of his block buster documentaries, she needed to make a living. “Working helps,” she said in lieu of full disclosure. “I try to keep busy.” Defensive care, she called it. “Look, why don’t I give it a try. See how long I last before your brother tosses me out.” Hollywood’s darling had been transformed into an ascetic, brooding apparition, but he was still sinewy and muscular, tall and strong, and his displeasure had been palpable.

  Jesse stared at her. “You mean it?”

  She shrugged. “I like a challenge.” Which was what had taken her to the Congo, she reminded herself, and that hadn’t gone well. “And honestly, the salary is good. Why don’t we say a two weeks’ trial?” she added. One of her mantras since arriving back in the States: always give yourself a way out.

  Jesse jerked a thumb at the door. “Give me a couple minutes. I’ll make this happen.”

  His mouth had firmed, there was an edge to his voice, but Eva said it anyway. “I don’t want to make trouble between you two.”

  A slice of a laugh. “Don’t worry about it. This isn’t our first fight and it won’t be our last. And if it makes you feel better,” Jesse said, grinning, “I’ll persuade Bodie.”

  It was a lie, but she left it. She needed the job. “Sounds good. I’ll wait in my car.”

  “I know what you’re going to say,” Bodie growled, “and I don’t care. So fuck off.”

  “You need some help.”

  A cold stare.

  As tall as his brother, Jesse stared back, eye to eye. “Whatever you’re doing isn’t working.”

  “Says who?”

  Jesse scanned the living room. “A quick count gives me twenty-five pizza boxes, a couple dozen Taco Bell bags, enough Subway wrappers to paper the floor, and beer bottles as far as the eye can see. You’re living in a fucking garbage pit. I’m guessing a psychiatrist would agree.”

  “And I’m guessing a psychiatrist wouldn’t like his or her lights punched out.”

  “Jesus, Bodie.” Jesse sighed. “You hear yourself? Aren’t you the guy who can talk himself out of any situation?”

  “Except one,” Bodie said, his voice raw.

  “Oh shit, sorry. Look, I’m going to play the baby brother card. Do this for me, okay? Two weeks, that’s all I ask. You need someone to pick up the mess if nothing else and Eva says she likes to cook. She also knows you’re—”

  “Crazy?”

  “A little self-destructive. She survived some attack and, like you, she’s not inclined to spell it out, so it’s not as though you’re on different planets. But if she decides to bail early, I won’t complain. Just try, please?”

  Bodie’s jaw was set in disapproval. “She can cook so she’s qualified?”

  “She can empathize and cook, how about that?”

  Bodie gave his brother a pissy look. “If you say the word, soulmates, I’m going to puke.”

&
nbsp; “Swear to God, Bodie, I’m really reaching here. You’ve thrown everyone out, starting with the psychologist who didn’t last an hour—”

  “She was a twit.”

  “And the yoga guy?”

  “He thought if I went vegan, my problems would be over. I told him when they remembered to toss some food in my cage, it was vegan, and it hadn’t improved my mental state. As for the others, let’s just say we had personality differences. Is this discussion over?”

  “Eva seems nice.”

  Bodie snorted. “You’re still a pain in the ass.”

  Jesse was six years younger, a constant annoyance to an older brother who’d always been too kind to blow him off. Jesse was counting on it today. “Consider this my last ask.” He held up his hand. “Promise.”

  Bodie frowned. “Two weeks. That’s it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  A thoughtful look. “Then you’re off my case?”

  “Yup.”

  Bodie dipped his head a little, his eyes flint hard. “You better warn the babe she’s on her own. Tell her to stay out of my way. I don’t like people underfoot.”

  Now, Jesse thought, remembering Bodie’s LA apartment with its nonstop party. Jesse nodded. “I’ll make sure she understands. And thanks.”

  Bodie smiled a real smile. “Don’t thank me yet. She won’t last.”

  Walking to Eva’s car, Jesse opened the passenger-side door, and slid into the front seat. “Done deal.”

  A lift of her eyebrows. “I don’t see any bruises.”

  “Nah, he can be reasonable.”

  After meeting Bodie Rourke, Eva reserved judgment on that point, but the outcome was encouraging. “Good to know,” she said. “I’ll be as unobtrusive as possible.”

  “Bodie told me to warn you he’s likely to be a recluse. And you probably already figured out he can be a real bastard. So you’re going to need that combat pay Bodie mentioned. Let me give you a first week’s salary plus hazard pay up front”—Jesse grinned—“to inspire you to stay.” Shoving his hand into his jean’s pocket, he handed Eva a fat roll of hundreds. “Take it,” he said at her hesitation. “Believe me, you’re doing me a huge favor.”

  She debated arguing for a second, but she’d been out of work for almost a month, trying to get over some major flashbacks, and her bills were piling up. She could go to her parents’ or sister’s, but she didn’t much like company; the word, recluse, she understood. “Thanks,” she said simply. “Appreciate it.”

  2

  At eight the next morning, Eva walked up to the sprawling fieldstone bungalow that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Cotswolds, stepped up under the pitched roof of the porch and rang the doorbell. Waited, pushed it again, waited some more; not a sign of life. On the other hand, almost no one locked their doors in Applefields, Minnesota, small town friendliness the norm. Not that Bodie Rourke was even remotely small town anymore, nor particularly friendly, but it was worth a try. Gripping the brass lever, she gently pressed, and the well-oiled latch gave way.

  She smiled. He hadn’t gone completely big city after all.

  Closing the door behind her, she stood for a moment surveying the discarded food and debris in the living room, pizza clearly Bodie’s main food group, fast food a close second. If work was her therapy of choice, she was looking at hours of optimum serenity. Taking off her jacket, she tossed it on a chair, and went in search of trash bags.

  Two steps into the kitchen, she gasped and skidded to a stop. Bodie Rourke was impatiently opening and shutting cupboard doors, a perfectly mundane act had he not been epically, stunningly, disturbingly naked. The dragon tattoo sliding darkly down his back further stamped his possibly aberrant nature, the sense of menace finely drawn, the dragon’s feral gaze glowing blaze orange. Instinctively, she eased back a step.

  “I don’t suppose you know whether I have any coffee left,” he said, gruffly, throwing open another cupboard door.

  Her pulse spiked at the suppressed hostility in his voice. “Actually no… why don’t I—wait in the…living room until—”

  “Sounds like I should put on some clothes.”

  She instantly bristled at the amusement in his tone. “You find this funny?”

  “Not really. You’re early.” His voice was deeply disinterested.

  Understanding the exceptional salary was at least worth a nominal courtesy, she said, “Your brother was supposed to tell you I’d be here at eight.”

  He didn’t seem to notice her clipped tone. “Don’t blame him. He might have. Look, I’ll get some clothes on, you find the coffee.” And with casual disregard for his nudity, he turned and walked away.

  Any possible answer was lost to the flash and dazzle of one tall, lean, magnificently studly Bodie Rourke strolling past. Awestruck, she understood why he’d been the darling of females around the world; it wasn’t for his handsome face alone. The man was spectacularly male. But a heartbeat later, she dragged herself back from fantasy land, took a calming breath and dismissed Bodie’s smoking hot body. He was her boss, nothing more, nothing less. She was tasked with alleviating his burdens, setting to rights a house that could only be defined as a disaster zone and perhaps, with luck, altering his fast food diet.

  There, boundaries reinstated.

  Softly exhaling, she counted to ten. Twice. Okay, three times. You don’t see a package like that every day. Now to find some coffee.

  Bodie returned in record time considering he’d obviously showered and shaved. His dark hair was slicked back behind his ears, the swarthy stubble gone from his face; a faded blue t-shirt clung to his damp chest, a pair of gray sweatpants, also plastered to his wet skin, avert your eyes, rode low on his hips. His feet in flip flops made squishy noises as he walked. Did he not have a towel? Cautioning herself against snark on her first morning of employment, she said instead, “That was speedy.”

  A small suspicious glance, a moment to register her bland expression. “Caffeine withdrawal, what can I say. And you found coffee. Great.”

  “Six different kinds. I like Ethiopian, so you do too this morning.”

  Her blunt declaration raised one brow. But he was minding his manners for reasons unknown, or more likely for reasons having to do with the hint of cleavage visible with the top two buttons of her green plaid flannel shirt undone. “Ethiopian is fine. Is that pancakes and bacon? Am I dreaming? How’d you do that?”

  “You have a full freezer.”

  “No shit. Join me,” he said, pulling out a chair. At her hesitation, his eyes twinkled. “My brother must have told you I was an ogre or crazy or both.”

  “Not exactly,” she said, rather than You’re much too close, the heat from your body is unnerving. With effort, she managed a neutral tone. “He called you a recluse.”

  “Not always but, yeah, lately.”

  Her tremulous response was obvious to a man who’d had a reputation for pleasing women. He was surprised how good it felt to hear that small, breathlessness in her voice, to recognize her almost infinitesimal quiver. But she was here for two weeks or less and even if he was interested, he didn’t trust himself; his nerves were too raw and volatile. So he said, smoothly, “Come, sit, I’m harmless when I’m hungry. There’s plenty for both of us.”

  He ate like he hadn’t eaten in a week, looking up from time to time, meeting her gaze. He rose to refill his coffee cup and hers, his several times more, although she understood. Feeling keyed up was both a symptom and an urge with PTSD.

  When she stopped eating, he waved his fork at the remaining pancakes and bacon. “Go for it,” she said, pleased he was enjoying breakfast, more pleased she’d banished her wildly inappropriate feelings. This is just a job. End of story.

  “I’ve forgotten what real food tastes like.” Upending the platter, he slid the rest of the pancakes and bacon on his plate, picked up the pitcher of maple syrup and, mid-pour, looked up. “How did you know I like Wolcott’s maple syrup?”

  “You had six bottles behind y
our pots and pans. I put them on a more accessible shelf.”

  He stopped pouring, his hand arrested, his brows tight. “Don’t move stuff.”

  “You didn’t even know you had syrup.” Or coffee, or a freezer, she could have said if a muscle hadn’t been twitching in his jaw.

  “Are you hard of hearing?” he said, flatly, dropping the pitcher on the table with a thud. His nostrils flared, a glittering anger shone in his eyes. “Don’t. Move. Anything.”

  Putting up both hands, she nodded. “Message received.”

  He blew out a breath, gazed off into the distance for a moment, then pushed his chair back and stood. Picking up his plate, he shoved his fork in his pocket, grabbed his cup of coffee and walked out.

  She didn’t know if she was shaking from shock or surprise. Or fear. His gray gaze had been arctic. It was a wake-up call. Regardless his moments of affability, he was unmanageable, his emotions high-strung and unstrung, and while no one had ever called her petite, Bodie Rourke was too big and powerful to antagonize.

  He didn’t come out of what she assumed was a bedroom suite for the rest of the day, which was perfectly fine with her. She cleaned the kitchen, careful not to displace any items, and once the kitchen was immaculate, she tackled the living room. At the end of the day, she carried thirty-five trash bags out to the garage, admired Bodie’s fancy cars and marveled at the lifestyle of the rich and famous before walking out to her ten-year-old sedan.

  Sliding behind the wheel, she struggled with the troublesome ignition until it finally started. Pulling away from the curb, she drove home, wondering how long she’d last with the moody, unpredictable Bodie Rourke. One foot wrong and she’d be gone like all the rest.