Chapter One
Prague, Czech Republic
Saturday night
THE CLUB REEKED OF SEX, DRUGS and rock-n-roll.
If you can call that god-awful noise rock, Morgan Cantrell thought, wishing she’d brought along a set of earplugs. Though she was
hardly an expert, the female Watchman doubted the techno trash blaring out of the club’s sound system at 100 decibels could even be
classified as music. Torture seemed a more fitting description. Her eardrums—far more sensitive than a human’s—were probably
bleeding in protest, but she tuned out the pain, focusing instead on her target. On the man, or werewolf, that she’d specifically come
there to track down.
Filled with every kind of depraved vice imaginable, the dark, trendy establishment was the last place on earth she ever would have
expected to find fellow Watchman Kierland Scott. And yet, Morgan knew the tall, auburn-haired hunk wedged between two willowy,
scantily dressed swan shape-shifters was Kierland. Even with the distance of the massive, strobe-lit room between them, she
recognized the hard, rugged angles of his gorgeous face. Recognized that tall, racehorse lean body that looked as lethal as it did
delicious. He wore a faded pair of jeans that hung low on his hips, scuffed leather boots, and a soft white shirt that perfectly showcased
his sun-darkened coloring and muscled physique, though she knew he would have chosen the clothes solely for comfort. Despite his
outrageous good looks, he wasn’t vane or pretentious. He was just pure, mouthwatering male animal. Beautiful. Dangerous. And built
for sin.
Morgan’s breath shortened just as her pulse quickened, and she burned under her suddenly too-tight skin, feeling as if she’d swallowed
something hot and thick. It didn’t matter how they felt about each other. Didn’t matter that they couldn’t stand to be in the same room
together. Despite how much she disliked him, he always made her feel as if she’d been injected with an overdose of sex hormones…or
some kind of head-spinning aphrodisiac.
Don’t you mean how much you wish you disliked him?
Pushing the heavy curtain of her hair over her shoulders, Morgan tuned out the irritating voice in her head and focused instead on her
surroundings, instinctively searching for any signs of danger. The establishment was obviously geared toward non-human clientele,
seeing as how it was packed with wall-to-wall clansmen. A dynamic, diverse collection of paranormal species, the ancient clans had
lived hidden among human society for centuries, the secret of their existence guarded by the organization of shifters she and Kierland
worked for, called the Watchmen.
When Morgan had first walked through the door, leaving the howling January winds behind her, she’d been overwhelmed by the
strong, thick scents of the varying species all roiling together on the dance floor, their sweat-slicked bodies moving in a kind of
hypnotic, sexual frenzy. There were Lycans, witches, various shifters, and even a few Deschanel vampires, though they looked over
the crowd with the same cocky expression as Kierland, as if they found all the writhing madness a bit beneath them.
Wearing jeans and boots herself, along with a tight black turtleneck sweater, Morgan had more skin covered than any other woman
there, which suited her just fine. She hadn’t come to join the meat market. She just needed to talk to Kierland and tell him why she was
there.
So get on with it, then. Don’t just stand here gathering dust.
“Right,” she whispered under her breath, and yet, she didn’t move, her heartbeat picking up speed while her skin went cold and
clammy, even with that sensual burn of heat still smoldering inside her. There were too many people, without enough space, and she
could feel that familiar flare of panic that had haunted her for the past decade creeping up on her.
Taking a deep breath, she struggled to maintain control. It would be deadly to lose her cool in a place like this. There were too many
predators who might seize on the opportunity to bully her. See her as easy game and move in for the kill, for no other reason than that
she was weaker than they were.
Descended from a freethinking line of shifters who had bred with various species from generation to generation—lion with fawn, wolf
with lamb—Morgan was unable to take the shape of any specific animal, and was therefore considered “lacking” by most of the shape-
shifting breeds. The prejudice sucked, but it was the nature of the beast for many of the clans. And she hadn’t let it hold her back from
what she’d wanted, which was to become a Watchman like her paternal grandfather had been. She’d simply trained longer and harder
than her peers, tirelessly honing her skills to compensate for the fact that she could only manage a small set of fangs and short claws,
and had ended up a damn good Watchman as a result. She no longer even thought of her inability to shift as a weakness, but used it to
her advantage, knowing her adversaries often underestimated her.
The only true weakness she had was this nauseating fear of being crowded in by people, the sensation worse when she was indoors,
without the freedom of the skies over her head. She wanted so badly to turn tail and return to the wide open spaces of the night, but
there was no turning back. Though she hated the situation, she would have to fight through it. Would have to force herself into that
massive, swirling crowd if she was going to make her way to Kierland on the other side.
“Just do it,” she quietly growled, her hands flexing at her sides as she took a step forward, and then another. Her vision swam and her
throat started to close up as a trickle of sweat slipped down her spine, but she pushed on, refusing to back down.
Don’t look at anyone but Kierland. Just stay focused on him.
It was easy to follow the mental instructions, seeing as how the Lycan was so big. So…satisfying to watch, and she wasn’t the only
one who held that opinion. More than a few hungry, covetous stares covered his tall, muscle-sculpted form, drinking him in, coming
from women and men alike. You could literally feel the power emanating from him. The strength and deadly potential that he held under
such masterful control. It was mesmerizing, drawing you closer like a spell, until you just wanted to press up against him. Touch his
dark skin with the sensitive tips of your fingers, just to feel that hypnotic power pulsing and buzzing beneath his surface.
As she watched, he leaned back against the long bar, his stance casual as the blonde shifters pressed in close to his sides, their looks so
similar Morgan figured they must be sisters. Maybe even twins. They were exceptionally beautiful, but then swans always were, their
pale skin and nearly white-blonde hair denoting their species. They were also, in Morgan’s experience, all a bit bird-brained…and well
known for their jealous rages. They weren’t going to like her moving in on their territory—and she knew, without any doubt, that the
hardheaded Lycan would be less than thrilled to see her.
He always is.
It was odd, how much that particular truth still bothered her. After a decade of discord between them, during which they’d avoided one
another as much as possible, she really should have gotten used to it by now. Frustrating that she hadn’t been able to master that simple
concept, no matter how hard she’d tried.
She’d last seen him a week ago at Harrow House, his family estate in England and the house where his Watchmen unit had recently
relocated from Colorado for protection purposes. Though Morgan herself had been a part of the Watchmen compound in Reno for the
past five years, she’d joined up with Kierland’s unit a month ago, after his brother Kellan had called, saying that he and the others could
use her help protecting a little girl named Jamie Harcourt from a group of Casus monsters who were hunting her. Together, Morgan and
the others had made it to England, where they’d met up with Kierland. He’d stayed at Harrow House with them until all the necessary
security upgrades had been made to the previously abandoned mansion, but the second he’d been able to leave, he’d run. Though his
friends had wanted him to stay, he’d claimed he still had unfinished business in Prague, where he’d been in negotiations with the
Consortium, the governing body of officials who ruled over the remaining ancient clans.
Or maybe he’d simply been itching to get back to his girlfriends.
Shaking off the disturbing thought, Morgan was trying to decide the best way to approach him, when Kierland’s head suddenly shot up,
and she knew he’d scented her. Strands of dark auburn hair fell over his brow, and the full, sensual shape of his mouth compressed
into a hard, tight line the moment his pale green gaze zeroed in on her. Although severe irritation was carved into his fierce expression, it
was that piercingly sharp, almost violently intense gaze that made her shiver.
What? Like I expected him to be happy to see me? Get real. He’d rather cozy up with a rabid chipmunk.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded in a low rasp, the instant she was within hearing distance. “Are you alone? Where are the
others?”
She wasn’t surprised by the rapid sequence of questions, considering how dangerous it was for the Watchmen at the moment to be out
on their own. After all, they were at war.
Although the Watchmen weren’t meant to interfere in the world of the clans, unless ordered to do so by their superiors, times had
changed with the return of the Casus—and the awakening of the once formidable Merrick clan.
Though the Merrick had once been one of the most powerful of the ancient clans, their numbers were decimated after years of war,
and they eventually took human mates. For centuries, the clan’s unique traits had remained dormant within their human descendants—
until the recent return of the Casus and the beginnings of the war.
A sadistic race of immortal creatures who were imprisoned over a thousand years ago for their crimes against humanity and the
Merrick, the Casus had finally discovered the means to escape from their metaphysical holding ground. Needing the power that came
with feeding upon their longtime enemies, they began to hunt down the awakening Merrick, determined to destroy them once and for all.
Now the Watchmen were acting on their own orders and fighting to stop the return of the Casus, their efforts organized by Kierland’s
unit. They were being aided by three newly awakened Merricks from the Buchanan family—Ian, Saige and Riley— who each possessed
a mysterious power that had helped them in the search for a collection of ornate crosses called the Dark Markers. In fact, it was Saige
Buchanan who had discovered the set of encrypted maps that led to the Markers’ hidden locations, her unique “power” enabling her to
decipher the code in which the maps were written. As the only known weapons capable of killing a Casus and sending its soul to hell,
the Dark Markers were invaluable in the fight against the Casus—and time was of the essence, because the Casus wanted them, too.
They’d even managed to steal the maps for a short time, no doubt making copies while they had them in their possession. Copies
everyone had hoped would prove impossible for them to decipher.
The war, to that point, had been bloody, and the Casus hadn’t taken kindly to their defeat in England the month before, when the
monsters had attacked Kierland’s unit in an attempt to get their hands on three-year-old Jamie Harcourt. Since then, they’d assaulted
several members of the unit who had left to go and search for the Dark Markers, and there’d been some close calls, a few of the
injuries serious enough that they could have turned fatal.
And then there were the Death-Walkers. The Watchmen had wondered what effect their war with the Casus would have on the world,
and now they knew. The gypsy legends that had foretold the return of the Casus and the awakening of the Merrick clan had been based
on the fundamental belief that everything in the world was interconnected—and they were only now realizing just how true that belief
was with the arrival of this newest enemy.
Each time a Dark Marker was used against one of the vile monsters hunting the Merrick, a portal would open into hell. Unfortunately, as
the Casus’s soul was forced through, something else was able to crawl out. Thanks to one of Kierland’s sources, the Watchmen now
knew that these strange, corpse-like creatures were called Death-Walkers, and they were bad news. Once the condemned souls of
clansmen and -women who’d been sentenced to hell for their crimes, they were now maddened creatures driven insane by their time in
the pit. Their only goal seemed to be the creation of chaos among the clans, for no other reason than that they wanted to watch the
world slip into madness along with them. And their first order of business was to destroy the Watchmen, since the highly trained
shifters acted as the eyes and ears of the Consortium.
Kierland might not like her, but he wouldn’t be keen to lose another soldier, especially when so many Watchmen had already fallen
victim to the Death-Walkers, another streak of deaths taking place in the past few weeks, which brought the toll up to nine. The Lycan
and his friends had been arguing for a month now about what was considered an acceptable risk when it came to leaving the safety of
Harrow House—which was protected from Death-Walker attack because of the surrounding moat that had been salted and blessed by
the village priest, making it impossible for the creatures to cross—and Kierland was constantly stressing the need for safety in numbers.
Which meant that he was going to be pissed as hell at her for coming alone.
“I’m not a child, Kier. I don’t need a chaperone,” she told him, surprised by the huskiness of her voice as she finally got around to
answering at least one of his questions.
“So you’re here by yourself?” Kierland asked, the steely note of frustration in the graveled words testament to just how pissed he really
was. Known as a master of self-control, it wasn’t often that the Lycan lost his temper—but when he did, it was always a dangerous,
yet fascinating sight, like watching a natural disaster erupt right before your eyes.
“I came alone for the same reason you did. The fewer of us who leave the safety of Harrow House at this point, the better,” she replied,
the sickly sweet scent of the swan-shifters burning her nose as she stepped closer. Morgan might not have been able to completely
shift, but her senses were even more highly developed than a predator’s, which meant that her sense of smell was exceptionally acute.
It was a great asset in the field, but sucked when forced to breathe down the cheap stench of Kierland’s dates.
He opened his mouth, looking as if he was about to say something ugly, but the blonde on his left beat him to it. “You actually know
this woman, Kierland?”
“Yeah.” He turned as he muttered the word, and reached for a thick glass that sat on the bar just to his right, its glistening amber
contents smelling like Scotch. As he gripped the glass in his large, battle-scarred hand, Morgan had to admit that she liked the way his
cuffs were casually rolled up a few inches, since it revealed the thick lines of sinew that roped his powerful forearms, his skin darkened
to a warm gold from the countless hours he spent training beneath the sun.
“How…unfortunate,” the other blonde said with an exaggerated pout, her free hand playing with the gilded tips of her high ponytail,
while she inspected Morgan with a cold, calculating gaze.
“Funny,” Kierland offered in a tight voice, staring into the contents of his glass. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“Then let’s just ignore her,” suggested the one on his left again.
“If only it were that easy,” he rasped, throwing back his head as he took a long swallow of the alcohol. His hair was damp at his
temples, making the red seem almost black, his body throwing off a scorching wave of heat that made Morgan feel burned. Her own
body temperature was on the rise, but she honestly couldn’t say if it was from the heat in the club…or the searing intensity of
Kierland's pale green gaze as he stared at her. Eyes that were such a light shade of green should have looked washed out and cold, but
they didn’t—and within the dark fringe of his lashes, the outer rim of his irises were already beginning to glow with a bright, unearthly
light, signaling the rise of his beast.
Oh, he’s pissed all right.
“So what exactly are you doing here?” Clipped, hard-edged words, but she still enjoyed the way they rolled off his tongue, the barest
trace of a British accent molding the individual syllables. There was something inherently male about the way his mouth shaped words
when he spoke, the almost cruel curve of his lips adding a wicked, sinful element to his rugged masculinity. What made it even sexier
was the fact that it wasn’t an act or something he worked for. It was just Kierland.
“We need to talk,” Morgan said, wishing her voice didn’t sound quite so breathy.
The blonde with the ponytail slid her a haughty, condescending smile. “Actually, he’s here with us tonight, so you’ll have to run off and
find your own. I should think something like a poodle might be more your style.”
“Or maybe a guinea pig,” the other one snickered. “She might have a chance of keeping it interested.”
Ignoring the women, Morgan kept her gaze focused on Kierland. “We have a problem.”
“Wrong,” he bit out, the deep shades of his auburn hair gleaming beneath the club’s pulsing lights as he tossed back the rest of his
drink, his strong, corded throat working as he swallowed. For a split second, she had a fantasy flash, imagining how good it would feel
to press her mouth against that hot, male skin and scrape him with her fangs, but then she quickly shook herself back to sanity as he
said, “You and I have nothing, Morgan. Never have. Never will.”
The caustic words would have stung, if she’d been stupid enough to let them. But she’d prepared herself to hear that and worse
tonight, knowing he was going to get nasty. He always did…with her. It was just the rest of the world who thought he was one of the
most righteous, charming badasses around.
Crossing her arms over her chest, she took a deep breath and tried talking some sense into the jerk. “Look, I get that I’m not your
favorite person, Kier, but do you really think I would have come here if it wasn’t important?”
“If there was a problem,” he argued, setting his glass down, “the others would have contacted me.”
“We decided this was something best explained in person.” So that he couldn’t go running off before she had a chance to find him.
“And you’re acting like a real bastard.”
“What could possibly be so damn important that they would send you?” he suddenly growled, pushing away from the bar so quickly
that his two companions toppled on their spiked heels, forcing them to clutch onto his powerful arms for support. Despite his attempt
to appear casual, he was obviously seething with fury, all of it directed at Morgan. “What the hell do you want with me?”
“It’s not what I want that brought me here.” She craned her head back so that she could still see his face as he came closer, looming
over her. “It’s what you’re going to need. From me.” His expression darkened with rage, but she held up a hand, speaking rapidly,
before he could cut her off. “It’s about Kellan.”
He made a thick sound in his throat, and scrubbed one hand over the bottom half of his face. “What? You finally break his heart? Did
guilt send you scurrying after me so that I can put him back together again?”
Frustration drew her brows together. “No matter how many times we tell you, you refuse to listen. But I’ll say it again anyway. Kellan
and I are just friends.” It was the truth, not that Morgan expected him to believe her. He accused her of sinking her claws into every
man she came into contact with. His brother was no exception.
“It’s time you ran along now,” the blonde on his left snapped, pulling ineffectually on his arm.
Tired of their bitchy interference, Morgan slanted each woman a hard look of warning. “And why don’t you try minding your own
business?”
Arrogant blue eyes narrowed with outrage. “You’d better watch how you speak to me,” one woman hissed. “My family owns this club.
I’ll have you tossed out on your ass before you know what hit you.”
Morgan arched her brows and smiled, a warm jolt of satisfaction flaring through her system when she saw Kierland’s eyes widen a
little, as if he knew what was coming. “Is that meant to impress me?” she asked in a soft voice. “Because you should really let them
know that the place could do with a bit of class. I could smell the sleaze the instant I stepped inside.”
“You bitch,” the woman sneered. She almost surprised Morgan with a swift, open-handed slap, but instinct kicked in and Morgan’s
hand whipped up, her fingers wrapping around the woman’s wrist.
Rule number one. Never underestimate your enemy.
She smiled grimly as the words played through her mind in Kierland’s deep baritone, a memory from the days when she’d been a
young, idealistic Watchmen trainee and he’d been her instructor. But she wasn’t that awkward, gangly teenager anymore—and she sure
as hell wasn’t going to let Blondie here get the better of her.
“What are you?” the blonde snarled, yanking her hand from Morgan’s grip and giving her wrist a shake.
She smiled wide enough to bare her fangs. “A little bit of everything.”
Silicone-injected lips curled with disgust. “Mongrel.”
Morgan lifted her brows. “Make that a mongrel who can kick your ass,” she offered in a dry tone, almost hoping the blonde would try
to hit her again.
“Enough!” Kierland growled, grabbing hold of Morgan’s arm and yanking her back around. She crashed into his chest so hard that her
breath rushed out, her senses suddenly overwhelmed with hard, hot, aggravated male. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Me?” she gasped, blinking up at him. “The swan started it!”
Though the music continued to blare through the room, the dancing had stopped, everyone moving closer as word of the “almost”
catfight spread like a flame lapping at trails of spilled gasoline. From the corner of her eye, Morgan could see the blondes talking with
their heads close together, and listened as one of them told the bartender to summon their bodyguards from downstairs. Judging from
their prima donna attitudes, she thought it figured that the Barbie twins would have their own professional set of bullies. She also figured
it was time they got out of there.
Locking her gaze with Kierland’s, she stated the obvious. “We should go.”
“You mean before you cause any more trouble?” he snapped, glaring down at her, six and a half feet of pure, enraged male.
“Don’t sound so bent out of shape,” she muttered. “You were just worried that I might break one of your new playthings.”
“Save your ridiculous jeal—” Morgan heard him start to say, but she lost track of the guttural words when a beefy hulk of a guy broke
through the crowd and launched himself at her, slamming her to the ground. She could hear Kierland’s outraged shout, followed by an
eruption of sound as more guards showed up, attacking the Lycan, and chaos broke out all around them. The brute lying on top of her,
who smelled like a sweaty cross between a grizzly and a badger, was obviously one of the blondes’ bodyguards. The swan-shifters
were goading him on, shouting things like “She’s the one!” and “Show her a lesson, Frankie!”
“Oh yeah. I’ll show you a lesson,” he sneered, his stale breath nearly making Morgan gag. His beady eyes focused on the shape of her
breasts, a lascivious smile curling his damp mouth as he crouched over her, trapping her arms against the floor. Deciding to fight dirty,
Morgan hiked her knee and watched his expression turn to one of comical horror as he clutched his abused testicles with both hands.
She’d just started to shove him off, when Kierland was there, already having dispensed with the guards who’d jumped him. Growling a
deep, guttural sound that was pure animal, he hauled the guy off her, his expression one of savage outrage as he tossed the heavy
bastard behind the bar.
“Thanks,” she rasped, moving back to her feet, but Kierland had already turned, exchanging blows with yet another thick-shouldered
grizzly-shifter, and Morgan began to wonder just how many bodyguards the blondes carted around with them. Then again, considering
their personalities, they probably pissed a lot of people off, so maybe she shouldn’t have been so surprised.
“God, you still know how to cause a scene, don’t you?” Kierland muttered, once he’d managed to knock the guard out.
She grimaced, knowing he was referring to the time when he’d taken her academy class out to celebrate after they’d completed their
combat training. They’d been having a great time at a local pub, when a group of Regan—one of the ancient clans who were well
known for their troublemaking—had shown up and started hitting on Morgan and the other girls in her class. When one of them had
groped her backside, she’d responded with a cracking punch to the guy’s long nose that had resulted in a huge bar fight that Kierland
had been forced to drag her out of.
“Wasn’t my fault then, and neither is tonight,” she argued, sounding suitably outraged. “All I asked for was a chance to talk to you!”
She doubted he even heard that last part, since another guard came after them, though Kierland managed to knock the guy out with one
powerful blow to his jaw. Unfortunately, she could see that five more behemoths were right behind their fallen comrade, pushing their
way through the crowd. Calls of encouragement were coming from the drunken, drugged-out, bloodthirsty group of onlookers, and the
blonde with the ponytail shouted, “What are you guys waiting for? Rip her guts out!”
“Wow, those are some classy chicks you’ve got there,” Morgan drawled when Kierland moved closer to her side.
At the edge of her vision, she watched a flat smile twist the corner of the Lycan’s mouth as he rolled his head over his shoulders, his
narrow stare locked on the approaching guards. “What can I say? After spending the last few weeks around you, they fit my mood.”
Before she had a chance to respond to his comment, she was busy defending herself again. Although Morgan didn’t have a lot of meat
on her bones, what she did have was pure, lean muscle that had been trained for combat. She was used to fighting opponents who were
bigger than she was, as well as stronger—but it was the crush of people that was messing with her mind.
She pressed her lips together and tried to control her growing sense of panic as the crowd seemed to pull in closer around them. While
Kierland took on the brunt of the guards, two of the massive shape-shifters separated them and drove her back, coming at her hard and
fast, their claws and thick, deadly incisors fully extended as they forced her deeper into the crowd on the dance floor.
“We don’t have to fight, little one,” one of them called out over the music, leering at her with a slick, sharp-toothed grin.
“That’s right,” the other one snickered. “We can go somewhere and play instead.”
As they began to circle around her, Morgan’s sense of fury finally overrode her panic. She wasn’t going to let these assholes bully her.
Knowing she could take them off guard by taking up the offensive, the female Watchmen flew into motion, whipping her right leg
around with a high, powerful roundhouse that cracked against the jaw of the stockier guard. She immediately pivoted, driving a swift
sidekick into the other one’s groin. The first had already recovered from the jaw strike, and she swung her body in a graceful dip to
miss the sharp slash of his claws, then struck him with a hard jab to his kidneys that brought him to his knees. Breathing hard, damp
with exertion, she then parried a savage onslaught of blows from the one she’d just nailed in the groin, nearly losing her footing as he
got in a cracking backhanded hit across her face. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, the inside of her lip broken open from
where it’d been smashed against the sharp point of her fang.
“You little bitch,” he growled, grabbing hold of her while she was still reeling from the blow to her face. Damn it, she was screwing up,
the effort it took to hold back her panic making her slow, making it too easy for this jerk to overpower her. She could no longer hear
the music or the waspish shouts of the blondes, the thundering of her heart and racing pulse the only sounds that filled her head, as loud
and thrashing as a ground-quaking storm. The shifter pulled her too close for her knee to be effective, and her lungs constricted at the
feel of his heavy body mashed against hers.
Oh hell. Here I go…
Her vision darkened…going hazy, the panic growing, swelling, just seconds away from crashing over her in a black, suffocating wave.
Morgan opened her mouth, ready to scream for Kierland, her pride willing to take the blow if it meant getting free…getting out of that
closed-in hellhole and away from the jerk-off who was about to do God-knew-what to her, when a fist suddenly shot past her head,
connecting with a hammering blow against the bastard’s thick nose. Her assailant immediately let go, sprawling unconscious on the
floor, his partner crawling away with the rest of the guards, and a new pair of hands grabbed onto her, spinning her around. In her
confusion, she continued to struggle, but the muscular chest she was suddenly pulled up against smelled warm and delicious, the gaze
that snared her wide eyes burning the brightest, most breathtaking green she’d ever seen.
Kierland.
His big hands were like manacles around her biceps, nearly lifting her off the ground, his body so close that she could feel the violent
pounding of his heart pressed hard against her breasts. For a split second she was trapped in the scalding, fiery violence of his gaze,
thinking he would shake her or shove her away in anger. But he did neither of those things. Instead, he made a rough, animal-like sound
low in his throat, and then he was…kissing her.
Kissing? Me? Oh my God…
From the book: TOUCH OF SURRENDER by Rhyannon Byrd
Copyright © 2010
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher.
The edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
For more romance information go to: http://www.eHarlequin.com/
An Unedited Excerpt from Rhyannon Byrd’s
TOUCH OF SURRENDER
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