“You’re not?” He pulled back slightly. “If you want metostop…”
“No. I don’t want you to stop. But I’m not sure what thismeans.”
“It means we’re two, hot-blooded people who need each other right now. If you can’t handle meaningless sex, I get it. I’ll stop. But…” He traced the edge of her breast with his fingers. “…I don’t wanttostop.”
“I don’teither.”
“Then don’t,” hechallenged.
She reached up and tangled her fingers in his hair and drew his face toward hers. When their lips met, the all-consuming need to forget everything but the play of his tongue across her mouth won. Every last thread of restraint unraveled as she gave herself over to himcompletely.
The Cowbear’s Mail OrderBride
Paranormal WerebearRomance
Copyright© 2016 LivBrywood
All rightsreserved
No partof this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in areview.
This book isa work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirelycoincidental.
Chapter1
Cindy’s fingerstrembled as she closed the laptop and stuffed it into a bag. Lies. All lies. After successfully telling thousands of little lies to Drew Grant, was she ready to pull off the biggest deception of all? Could she actually go through with what amounted to a mail-ordermarriage?
She’d only known him for three months and hadn’t even talked to him on the phone. The whole situation was insane, but what other choice didshehave?
She slid off the rust-colored comforter and crossed the motel room. The dingy brown chair she’d propped up against the door handle hadn’t moved during the night. On the run for almost a year, she was sick of moving every two weeks. But if she didn’t move… she shook her head. It was better not to think aboutthepast.
When she grabbed her suitcase from inside the closet, the flap opened. A pile of fake IDs spilled onto the mottled carpet. As she spread the driver’s licenses and birth certificates across the floor, she glanced at the tightly drawn curtains. She dug through the pile until she’d located the correctdocuments.
“Hello, I’m Sharon Blythe from Miami, Florida.” Saying the words aloud helped her remember who she was supposed to be. “Sharon, not Cindy.Sharon.”
She carried the open bag to the bed. If she left immediately, she could drive all night and make it to a motel on the Wyoming/Montana border bymorning.
As she bent over to finish packing, a few strands of black hair fell forward. She tossed the silky locks back over her shoulder. At least the more expensive hair dye hadn’t shredded the ends. Eventually, she’d be able to grow out her natural color. She couldn’t wait to return to her California-blonderoots.
After she’d shoved the last sweater into the bag, she paused. She didn’t want to look at the photograph. Not again. Not right now…but she couldn’t resist the compulsion. She felt along the lining until she found the hidden slit. As she pulled the small picture out, her breath caught in herthroat.
“Brooke,” she whispered as she ran a thumb across the slick photo paper. The six-year-old little girl peering back at her with golden hair and dimpled cheeks broke her heart. “If I could do it all overagain…”
Cindy choked back a sob. Her complacency had cost her the only thing that mattered in her life—her daughter. As an obstetrician, she should have known better. If she’d swallowed her pride and had left sooner, she wouldn’t be on the run now. But she’d been toostubborn.
For a moment, she contemplated making the call. Would they even put Brooke on the phone? Did she want to go through the pain of hearing her daughter beg for her mother again? After the last call, the agony in her chest was so acute that she’d thought she was having a heart attack. The emergency room doctor had diagnosed her with a panic attack. She’d burned through a perfectly good ID fornothing.
But the longer she fought the urge, the more she wanted to make the call. She finally slumped down onto the side of the bed closest to the phone. Her hand hovered over it for a second before she caved. After snatching up the handset, she punched in the phone number on the back of the anonymous calling card, then dialed her parents’house.
“Hello?” Her mom’s voice pierced herheart.
“Mom,it’sme.”
“I told you not to call here,” her mom said in an agitated whisper. “You know it’s not safe. Haven’t you already put her in enoughdanger?”
“I know. I’m sorry. I just need to talk to her,”Cindysaid.
“I can’t let you do this to her again. Do you know how long she cried after the last time you called? Until you can come home for good, I can’t let you talktoher.”
