What if your family had a
big secret . . . a life changing secret. My dad, the bigwig CIA agent, was
always on the run, whether he was being chased or doing the chasing. I missed
him. Then my mom passed away, and my sister was murdered. I turned my solitude
to strength because the alternative was too bleak.
But my luck seemed to
turn: I met Tango. And while I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything in
my twenty-two years, danger lurks around every corner and I simply can’t take
the chance of it finding me. But his tattoos, his smell, his darkness, and his
body— that marine has taken over my every thought. But, what if he too isn’t
what I think? A ticking time bomb isn’t going to leave me much time to waver.
Even the bravest person can be in need of a miracle.
Before she was gone, my
mom warned me to know everyone and trust no one. But what was I supposed to do
when I found out I am the one not to be trusted? Turns out, I was always the
bait in this conspiracy.
I've been seated among the dozens of other
passengers for the past two hours, watching the gate times change a number of
times before I see the plane actually arrive. Just as I'm powering my phone
down, preparing to board, an awful stench burns my nose from a few inches away.
A middle-aged man with greasy black hair and a thick lip-covering mustache who
smells exactly like the inside of a port-a-potty has found a reason to sit
directly beside me in a row of empty seats. When my eyes unfortunately meet
his, he takes the opportunity to speak to me. "Heading to Boston?" he
asks. I raise my eyebrows and force a tightlipped smile. I simply follow that
with a nod and give him a no shit look. "I heard winter's coming early
this year," he continues.
"Cool," I mumble with a sigh.
I pull a magazine out of my bag and open it in front of my face, hoping to
block my vision of the man's blackened-stained grin. But it's only seconds
before I'm taken back when his finger sweeps down the bare skin of my
collarbone.
"What does that mean?" he
asks, pointing to my tattoo.
With a smooth motion, I lay my magazine
down onto my lap and place my hand over his, giving him the false notion that
I'm a gentle person. I take the opportunity to offer him a slight smile before
I twist his forefinger backwards as far as it will go before the expectant
snap. "I'm sorry," I say sweetly. "Did I tell you it was okay to
touch me?" I pull down a little harder, and he smiles in response to the
pain. But as I hold my hand there, I see the smile begin to fade.
"It's a free country,
chicky," he sputters as his tongue knocks around between his bare gums.
"Why would you think it's okay to
touch me?" I ask again, keeping my voice calm, yet stern. He licks his
lips and looks me up and down, responding with only a look. "Do you go
around touching girls half your age because you feel it's okay?"
He clears his throat and looks around
to see who's watching or listening, but I don't move my eyes from his.
"Why not?" he says, shrugging his bony shoulders. "Besides,
you're definitely asking for it."
He thinks I'm asking for it? I'm
wearing a fucking scoop neck, black long sleeve shirt, jeans, and combat boots.
"The only reason it's okay, is because no one has ever probably told you
no. But it occurs to me that after I snap your finger off your hand, you won't
be able to touch people inappropriately anymore, will you?"
He hoots with laughter, dragging in
attention he probably shouldn't want. "You think you could break my
finger, little chicklette?"
I pull his finger a
little further, and his smile grows. "Ow, stop. You're hurting me,"
he puckers his lips and winks at me.
"Oh, look, it's your right hand.
You a righty?" I turn his hand over and see deep callouses bubbling on his
palm. "Yes, you are. So, if I rip this thing off, you wouldn't miss it,
right?" I turn his hand back over and glare into his beady eyes. He's
questioning my words. He's unsure of my capabilities. And that's fine.
"Sound okay to you? Or are you going to leave and stop touching
people?" His smile fades and his eyes widen. I release his hand and offer
him a smart-ass smile. "Oh, and the tattoo means death. It's a Maori
Warrior symbol. They used to eat their enemies once they slaughtered them.
Cool, huh?"
I see his Adam's apple struggle to
move. He lifts his bag from the ground and nearly trips over his own feet,
darting away.
I reopen my magazine to the page I was
reading and refocus my attention on an article as I hear a soft chuckle coming
from the other side of me. I turn to see who was enjoying the free
entertainment and I'm faced with a man who looks to be either a wrestler or in
the military--black shaven hair, stiff jaw and bulging muscles on every inch of
his arms. His eyes are currently focused on a book, and I suppose he could have
been laughing at that, rather than me. But as I question it, his large shamrock
green eyes lift and look right at me. A slight grin tugs on the corner of his
lips, and he winks so quickly I'm questioning whether it was me who might have
blinked. Before I can react, he stands up and walks away.
I swallow hard and refocus my attention
on the magazine once more. Stupid attractive man causing a moment of
feebleness. I didn't react, though. He winked at me. I think. And I didn't make
a snide comment or scowl. Weakness.
I let out a few short breaths,
regaining my composure. He's gone. It's fine.
Bestselling author, Shari
J. Ryan, hails from Central Massachusetts where she lives with her hubby and
two lively little boys. Ryan has published the 3-book Schasm Series for
Romantic Suspense/Thriller fans. TAG is her first book written solely for the
Romantic Suspense audience, and she is hard at work on Red Nights, a standalone
coming this spring. To learn more, visit her at: www.sharijryan.com
Tag sounds great and i love the cover!
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