In Pursuit of Mr. Sands: Part 4 of a KDG Consortium Story

Mondays are always happier when they start with a cheeky little read, and nobody is cheekier than Mr. Sands. Unless it’s Elise North.  Today is the fourth instalment of In Pursuit of Mr. Sands,  and Elise gets the distinct feeling that Mr. Sands is watching her watch him.  As I said,  I’ve been in pursuit of Mr. Sands for quite some time now, and somehow he always manages to elude me. And surprise me. Just recently he made another titillating appearance, only to lead me on a merry chase. I lost him in North Africa somewhere and ended up recovering in Delphi, where I met up with some unexpected acquaintances. (More on that to come. )Never mind. There are worse places to end up, and I’m sure Mr. Sands will raise his oh so fascinating head again when I least expect him.

But for now, Elise finds Mr. Sands hanging out in Soho, not doing what she expected him to do.

If you missed the last instalment of Mr. Sands, catch up with this link.

 

 

In Pursuit of Mr. Sands Part 4: Watching Me Watch Him

Pretending to be doing a customer relations survey for the airline, I telephoned the woman who had been Mr. Sands’ inflight meal. Sarah Martin was her name, and she managed a bookstore in Brixton. She had scrimped and saved for her holiday in the Big Apple, had gone with empty suite cases and came back with them crammed with bargains. Being upgraded to first class for the trip home was the cherry on top of her holiday cake.

Sadly, all she remembered about her first class flight was that the food was fab, and she’d slept right through most of it. Oh, and the flight attendants had been particularly helpful. Perhaps that one final orgasm had also wiped her memory of events Mr. Sands would prefer she not share with nosy people like me and Magda Gardener. None of the flight attendants who knew about Mr. Sands could be reached for comment. I was informed they’d all made quick turnarounds on other international flights, which I found rather strange since after an international flight, one would have expected at least an overnight layover to rest. Still it was easy enough for me to find their details. I left each of them a message to get in touch when they could.

All this I did by phone. What information I could find on Sands specifically wasn’t much other than he was clearly a regular on the JFK to Heathrow redeye. Magda Gardener suspected he lived somewhere in the Hebrides, but no one knew exactly where. In truth he seemed to be even more of a high class vagabond than I was. Most of the research I did on the flat’s souped up iMac, a lot of it from resources and leads Magda had given me when I took the job. But I had a few good sources of my own. It was my job, after all. Still it seemed that Mr. Sands was a very private, off the grid sort of guy. I had lots of time for research and phone calls because for twenty-four hours, Mr. Sands didn’t leave his flat. Was he ill? Was he like a snake, sleeping for days while he digested his meal. That wasn’t a very sexy thought, was it? There was no other exit from his flat. A. Rivers had given me the floor plans for Sands’ apartment when she’d given me details to my own. Magda definitely had savvy help. But even if there had been some sort of fire escape or back stairs, it was obvious he hadn’t used it. I could see him moving about inside, see the periodic digital light of the telly, or maybe a laptop. He wasn’t secretive about his presence. He never drew the curtains, even when he was fresh from the shower or undressing for bed. Perhaps it was a part of his thrall to hide in plain sight and yet be so irresistibly visible that he was like a peacock fanning his tail. At any rate, he had my full attention, and my PI sense was telling me he knew it.

I was surprised when Magda called me for an update. Every other job I’d ever done for her she had been a totally hands off, ‘my people will get with your people’ sort of client. “Well?” Her voice filtered into my ear as I sat at the big bay window drinking my morning coffee getting bagel crumbs on the floor. I had slept very little. From the looks of it, neither had Mr. Sands, and yet he’d stayed put. Kibosh the snake theory then.

“I’m sure he knows I’m here. He’s just playing with me.”

For a moment there was silence as the woman took a sip of something of her own. “Does that surprise you after your inflight entertainment?”

“I expected as much, and I have the feeling that’s exactly why you put the flat right across from him.”

I took her silence as an affirmative. “What is it you want from me? I don’t need the money you know?” I spoke around a mouthful of bagel.

“Of course you don’t. That means you have no agenda of your own, Ms. North.” Before I could respond to that, she said, “you like the flat?

“The flat’s great, yes, but I don’t like making myself a sitting target to anyone I’m tailing.”

Her chuckle was whisky and honey smooth. “Not even someone as enticing as a handsome incubus.”

“Leaving myself exposed has cost me often enough that I’ve learned when to walk away, Ms. Gardener.”

“Yes I know the cost, Ms. North, it even ended you in the hospital a few of those times, if I’m not mistaken.” The woman clearly had more complete information on me than I had on her, but I was doing what I could to even the odds in that department. There wasn’t much else to do except watch and wait until Mr. Sands gave me another little peek.

“Look, Ms. North, I’m interested to see how our Mr. Sands responds to you. Don’t you think he’s as intrigued by the woman his magic can’t affect as she is by him? I certainly am. There’s a great deal to be learned about our Mr. Sands from more than just his eating habits.”

“Of course I’m intrigued, but being intrigued could cost me a lot more than even you can afford to pay.”

“I understand, Ms. North, but if you could just hold tight for a couple more days, watch him watch you, as it were. If at any time you feel you’re in danger, then by all means leave. You’re too valuable to risk, and I think no one is more ideally suited to learn about Mr. Sands than you are.”

By the second morning I was battling with lack of sleep that even caffeine wasn’t helping, and I was certain he knew he was being watched. Of course he would, wouldn’t he? I was betting he’d even feed on that exhibitionism. He’d get no nourishment from me, but as I said sex is its own magic, and no one is immune. His interaction was playful, teasing. I never thought for a moment that I was in danger. He was, after all, just an incubus. I’d dealt with worse.

He slipped from the bathroom in a wave of steam with only a towel tucked low around his hips. I nearly spilled coffee down my shirt at the exquisite view he afforded me. I watched with heart racing as he disappeared momentarily and returned with a cup of coffee of his own and a copy of The Guardian. Then he parked himself in the wing backed chairs smack dab in front of the big bay window and, as he sipped and perused the paper, folded for an easy one-handed read, his other hand strayed to his lap. As though he were barely mindful of the act, he opened the towel and cupped himself absently. Any man might sit in the privacy of his living room on a Sunday morning and, without giving it a second thought, reach for an adjustment of his junk, perhaps a fondle, maybe a caress. Something about Mr. Sands indulging in such an ordinary act of maleness made it extraordinary. And very arousing. I certainly wasn’t about to tell Magda Gardener that in my report though. By the time he laid the paper aside, I couldn’t have looked away if I wanted to. And then he did the unthinkable. He simply stood and walked away, leaving the towel behind, but as he did, he glanced over his shoulder and blew me a kiss.

He couldn’t see me. I was sure of it, and yet he had known. Still fighting off my own arousal, which now left me feeling like an embarrassed teenager, but the implications of what I was feeling were huge. Damn, I had been in therapy so long that I had become self-analyzing. I took a couple of deep breaths and made myself a strong coffee with the very expensive coffee maker, all the while keeping one eye on his flat.

It wasn’t long before I saw movement in his flat. He returned to sit in front of the window with a book in hand, a detective novel. He was fully clothed this time, in jeans and a loose-fitting blue shirt that somehow made me only more aware of what was underneath. This was a man truly comfortable in his skin. But then he wasn’t just a man, was he?

 

In Pursuit of Mr. Sands: Part 3 of a KDG Consortium Story

Mondays are always happier when they start with a cheeky little read, and nobody is cheekier than Mr. Sands. Unless it’s Elise North.  Today is the third instalment of In Pursuit of Mr. Sands,  and Elise finds herself in the perfect set-up to keep an eye on our Mr. Sands.  As I said,  I’ve been in pursuit of Mr. Sands for quite some time now, and somehow he always manages to elude me. And surprise me. Just recently he made another titillating appearance, only to lead me on a merry chase. I lost him in North Africa somewhere and ended up recovering in Delphi, where I met up with some unexpected acquaintances. (More on that to come. )Never mind. There are worse places to end up, and I’m sure Mr. Sands will raise his oh so fascinating head again when I least expect him.

But for now, Elise finds Mr. Sands hanging out in Soho, not doing what she expected him to do.

If you missed the last instalment of Mr. Sands, catch up with this link.

 

 

In Pursuit of Mr. Sands Part 3: Nice Digs

Safely tucked into my booth in the first class lounge, I observed Daniel Sands observing his victim. The word victim didn’t really feel right under the circumstances. The glow in the woman’s face spoke of a well-satisfied lover rather than a victim. And if I wasn’t mistaken, Daniel Sands observed the woman with true affection and more than a little bit of pride. I knew Magda Gardener had at least one vampire on her consortium, and there was a succubus. Both could drain a life away easily and without batting an eye to satisfy their hunger, but they didn’t. Clearly Mr. Sands didn’t either, though I didn’t know if that was always the case or simply because it was not wise to leave a string of dead bodies on a commercial airliner, not when he obviously had a good thing going. As I watched him watching her, I couldn’t help but bask vicariously in a little bit of their afterglow, of the strange afterglow he’d left me with at the shock of finding myself feeling alive inside again after all this time. On the one hand it felt as though the very idea was a betrayal of Dru, on the other it felt like the sun had just come out. I didn’t know what to feel.

I followed him following her to the car park. Oh they didn’t notice. I have a way of going unnoticed when I want to. It’s one of the skills Magda hired me for. I watched him watching her from beside a black Audi, and I felt the exact moment when he chose to let her see him. She had just settled into her Mini, but she didn’t start the engine as I knew she wouldn’t. Instead, she looked around her in nervous anticipation. She wouldn’t have seen him either if he hadn’t wanted her to. Being able to hide in plain sight was one of his survival techniques just as it was mine. At the moment when her heart rate had accelerated just so — you know that moment I’m talking about — when the serious gallop of foreplay isn’t enough any longer, when the body demands more. At that moment when her anticipation was palpable and so was his, he took from her once more. It was just one little nibble. I suspected from a distance he could do no more, but that was another question to add to my growing research list. With his taking, he offered her one last little reward before he freed her completely from his thrall. He raised his hand to rest on his chest, and with a slight flexing of his fingers, she came. As his magic swirled around her, I felt the pulsing of her orgasm deep in my chest. And him, well there was a sense of euphoria that radiated off him like heat waves. If it were even possible the glow of good health and maleness at its prime that he exuded grew even stronger. And then he got into the Audi and drove off.

I picked up the car Magda’s people had arranged – an apple red Merc AMG that fit me like a glove. Inside I pulled up Magda’s number on the blue tooth.

“He touched me,” I said when she picked up. “On the plane when he was making his rounds. I had to let him. I had no choice really.”

“And?”

“Why yes, I’m fine, thanks for asking and no he didn’t hurt me. Obviously, he knew something was up when I couldn’t offer him even a little nibble.”

Her silence told me in no uncertain terms she was unimpressed with my sarcasm. “And?” She repeated.

“He’s staying at a flat in Soho.” I recited the address I’d got found by taking a peek at his landing card in the Passport control queue.

Her chuckle was like fur against bare skin, her magic oozing through my device as though she stood right next to me. It was not the mink and whisky feel of Mr. Sands’ magic, but something far more wild and dangerous, it was a warm kissed with just a hint of arctic ice. I’d heard that she could be very charming, hypnotic, in fact. But mostly I’d heard she was flat out terrifying, and she liked it fine that way. It left no doubt as to who was in control of her consortium. Other than that I knew little about her but what my research had come up with, which I figured out pretty quickly was only what she wanted me to know. I’d never met her personally. I don’t know how she got my details, since my business is strictly word of mouth, though I have speculated on which of my clients told her about me. In the few times I’d worked for her, I’d not spoken to her at all until I was assigned to tail Daniel Sands. Him, for some reason, she took a personal interest in, so I was given a phone with only her number programmed in. It was equipped with several other high tech upgrades that made me feel a bit like 007. I knew it was as much her way of tracking me as it was mine of finding her, but then I did have a subcutaneous chip for that. So, what I could glean from the situation was that Magda Gardener had a very serious interest in Daniel Sands, that Magda Gardener had very deep pockets – which I already knew, and that I was not nearly as expendable as she might have me believe. Listening to her voice and even knowing what I knew, I still had a hard time imagining that she could be more terrifying than some of the nightmares I’d come up against. Besides working for her was always interesting, and the pay and the benefits were great.

“You’re a resourceful little shadow, aren’t you,” she all but purred in my ear.

“I do my best.” I smiled at my reflection in the mirror above the visor as I refreshed my lippy.

“You’ll be texted the address of your flat in Soho as soon as we secure you one. It’ll be ready when you arrive.”

I was practically drooling at the thought. Magda Gardener had expensive tastes, and she treated me as though I did too. Having said that, I was sure she would have no qualms about making me stay in a crack house if that’s what it took to secure what she wanted, and I’d certainly stayed in worse.

I’d barely made it to the motorway before I got the text from one of Magda Gardener’s PAs, an A. Rivers, with the address of my temporary digs. I was impressed. Clearly, I wasn’t the only savvy person who worked for Magda Gardener. The place was right across the street from Mr. Sands’ flat with a perfect view of his big bay window and the entrance to the building, and it was equipped with all the right surveillance equipment to enhance that perfect view. The fridge was fully stocked and the closet full of clothes. We’re talking high-end designer stuff that I knew would fit me like a dream. Often I’m called upon to travel at the drop of a hat. There’s seldom time to pack. I receive a passport, credit cards and cash, whatever I needed for my cover. Can’t count the number of gorgeous outfits and expensive jewellery I’ve had to leave behind because of time restraints and other … more pressing issues. The necessary accoutrements are usually waiting for me when I arrive. As I said, Magda Gardener has expensive tastes. I made a quick sandwich, drank a gallon of water and, after a hot shower, I went to work.

 

In Pursuit of Mr. Sands: Part 2 of a KDG Consortium Story

Happy Monday, my Lovelies! Last week I began a brand new tale for your Monday morning reading pleasure.  As I said,  I’ve been in pursuit of Mr. Sands for quite some time now, and somehow he always manages to elude me. And surprise me. Just recently he made another titillating appearance, only to lead me on a merry chase. I lost him in North Africa somewhere and ended up recovering in Delphi, where I met up with some unexpected acquaintances. (More on that to come. )Never mind. There are worse places to end up, and I’m sure Mr. Sands will raise his oh so fascinating head again when I least expect him.

But for now, let’s return to the inflight meal service on Mr. Sands’ redeye flight form JFK. This is the story of my first vicarious encounter with Mr. Sands. It is also an introduction to the equally intriguing PI, Elise North. I hope you enjoy her account.

If you missed the last instalment of Mr. Sands, catch up with this link.

 

 

In Pursuit of Mr. Sands Part 2: PTSD

There was no lingering over dinner in first class. Everyone fell asleep almost immediately after they’d eaten, and the attendants made themselves scarce. What I hadn’t expected was that as soon as everyone was asleep, Mr. Sands rose from his seat and walked among the passengers touching each of them lovingly. My plan had been to discretely remove myself to the lavatory as soon as dinner was over hoping that he’d think perhaps I had a friend or family member back in economy class and had gone back for a chat. I knew incubi liked to linger over their meals, but it wasn’t expressly necessary. At least that was what all the texts in the archives said. Since this was a transatlantic flight, Mr. Sands had plenty of time to enjoy his inflight dinner service. It was my plan to watch from just beyond the curtain. But when his tender ministrations, which had begun almost immediately, were interrupted by the unexpected appearance of the blonde flight attendant, I knew I’d have to go for plan B.

“Oh you’ve begun already.” The attendant’s voice was a squeaky whisper. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

His response was to take her face in his hands and kiss her. I’ve felt the magic of seduction many times, from demigods, vampires, even demons, and it always slides right over me like oil over water. Mr. Sands’ magic was no different. I could feel it swirling around me unable to touch me. So I can only attribute the arousal I was feeling to his genuine skill as a lover well versed in the art of seduction, which was something different altogether wasn’t it?

He didn’t simply take what he wanted and send her away. He tasted and tested and teased her mouth like she was the best dessert he’d ever had, and she responded as though the kiss was the best fuck she’d ever had. With a deep intake of breath, he released her. She gave a little sigh then turned and walked away shutting the curtain behind her as though nothing had happened. The whole act had taken only seconds, and yet within those few seconds, Mr. Sands had somehow woven a complete, sizzling night of sex. I was intrigued. Perhaps shocked would be a better word. I realized I would have to guard myself carefully because sex, even ordinary sex, is its own magic, magic I thought I’d been immune to. Since Dru’s death, even the thought of sex ended with me shivering on the floor and whimpering. PTSD is a bastard. Well, any shivering I was doing now had nothing to do with PTSD or demons. I was definitely feeling the love, and while my therapist would have called it a major breakthrough to feel any kind of arousal, now was not exactly the best time.

Not only was I still in danger of being found out, but I was in danger of falling victim to my own arousal and becoming distracted, something I promised Magda Gardener would not be a problem for me. All I could do was pretend to be asleep and watch through a sliver of vision while one by one he kissed each person in first class, as though he sought something out. Each one of them writhed and moaned and sighed in his kiss as though they desperately hoped he’d find that something in them. Still, I sensed that same hint of fear I had with the attendants. The mix of fear and lust is such an intriguing blend. I slammed that door shut in my head immediately. I wanted no fear with my lust. I wanted neither. I wanted simply to watch objectively and when the time came return my report to Magda Gardener and collect my paycheck.

When he came to me, I felt that cold clench of terror, laughing demon eyes burning into me, eyes that had been Dru’s, eyes I loved. It took all the control I had not to shove up from my seat and lock myself in the bathroom in a wave of nausea and clammy sweat. I was on a job, for fuck sake! I was no coward. I could do this. I forced down the nausea. There was nothing I could do about the cold sweat, but I did my best to pretend to be asleep. Meditation technics! I tried to remember the meditation technics that my therapist had taught me when I needed to work through a panic attack, but nothing. I could think of nothing other than the incubus whose feet made a soft schuss schuss on the carpet.

Count backwards from ten. Finally the words from the meditation slammed into my brain. Breath in the fresh sea air, listen to the gulls calling overhead. And then I felt his closeness, felt the humidity of his breath against my lips. When he cupped my cheek with a large palm, when he mantled me with the heat of his body and all but pulled me into his arms, for a terrifying moment, I was sure if I opened my eyes, he would look back at me through a demon’s gaze. I might have whimpered and shivered, but then so did everyone. They were afraid too, I reminded myself.

Still, I was working, and I needed a clear head. As he leaned in so close I could taste the nutmeg and coffee of his breath, the kiss I expected didn’t come. Instead, his warm lips moved against my earlobe, his tongue snaking out to trace the seashell shape and he breathed into my ear. “Such a rare treasure you are.” Another kiss to my ear. “But sadly, one of no use to me right now. Too bad, really. You and I could have had such fun together.” His hand snaked down my neck, skimming my ribs to rest low on my hip, and just like that, my terror vanished. I opened my eyes to his stormy sea gaze. “I have no objection to a bit of exhibitionism. I promise I’ll make it good for you.” He bit my earlobe gently and gave it a tug between his teeth. “But don’t get in my way.” His last words the low warning growl of a predator.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed at knowing I was one appetizer he wouldn’t get. One of the downsides of my little gift is that I never actually experienced the magic that I can see and sense and watch going on all around me. Though to be honest, most of the time, that’s not a downside at all. Most of the time that saves my life. In this case, however, I was more of a voyeur than Mr. Sands knew, and my body was again assuring me that I would very much enjoy this show. He settled me back in my seat, blew me a kiss over his shoulder and walked away with a soft chortle, turning his attention to the blonde who was to be his main course.

My job often requires me to do unpleasant things. I do the work even the best PI wouldn’t touch with a barge pole. In fact, most would laugh my clients out the door if they were approached with such cases. It’s just as well really. It keeps them safe. Me, I don’t laugh. I never laugh. I know it’s no laughing matter. That’s why my rates are so high.

I took the job for Magda Gardener mostly out of curiosity. I expected it to be far more interesting than dangerous, and Magda Gardener paid on time, always with a bonus for work well done. I’d never encountered an incubus before, and while I knew they could be dangerous, I didn’t expect my presence would attract much attention since they could get nothing from me, and I was no threat to Mr. Sands’ little red-eye feast.

I’d had a proper invite to the show, so I watch unhindered. I observed what appeared to be nothing more than him laying one hand low on the woman’s belly while he breathed in her breath in a deep lingering kiss. But I knew by the mink and expensive whisky feel of magic swirling around me, it was so much more than that. No one else could have seen as I did. Anyone else would have been drawn into the experience, a vicarious little nibble on the side, if you will. Or, he could have simply rendered them oblivious, as the rest of first class now was. Me, I remained unaffected. At least by his magic. But I was well aware that Mr. Sands was not only getting what he needed, he was making sure I did too. Perhaps it was about more than just feeding for the man. As I struggled not to squirm in my seat, I couldn’t help wondering if he had any idea how happy he’d just made my therapist.

 

OUT NOW—Not That Kind of Witch, A Brand-new M/F Steamy Contemporary Romance by Lucy Felthouse (@cw1985) #contemporaryromance #romance #steamyromance

The latest release from Lucy Felthouse, Not That Kind of Witch is a M/F steamy contemporary romance filled with fun and steam, which also tackles some serious topics. So if you’re looking for a hefty dollop of realism in your romance, then check this one out!

Blurb:

Can Willow let go of her fears and begin living her life again, or will her issues get the better of her?

Willow Green is having a hard time of it. Losing her job at the beginning of the pandemic and her elderly grandmother’s ‘clinically vulnerable’ status have resulted in her becoming housebound. While her entrepreneurial, hard-working spirit and the knowledge passed down through generations of green witches in her family mean she has solved her employment problem, her fear of going out, of allowing the dreaded virus into the house she shares with her grandmother, is far from resolved. In fact, it seems worse than ever.

That is, until Joe Lane comes along. The handsome care worker turned delivery driver does Willow a favour, gaining her attention and reluctant admiration. He’s got plenty of baggage of his own, but he also has the skills and temperament to help her with her problem—and he really seems to care.

The question is, will she let him get close enough to try?

Available in eBook and paperback formats: https://books2read.com/ntkow

Add to BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/books/not-that-kind-of-witch-a-contemporary-steamy-romance-novel-by-lucy-felthouse

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*****

Excerpt:

Willow Green had just stepped into the kitchen from the back garden when there came an almighty hammering on the front door. Panic and irritation flared in equal measure and she dumped her loaded wicker basket on the huge farmhouse-style table before hurrying through the house towards the source of the noise.

Another hammering. The irritation started to outweigh the panic. Whoever was there was in danger of waking the dead, never mind disturbing mostly-deaf Grandma Annie, whom Willow had left happily knitting in the conservatory with a cup of tea on the table at her side before she’d headed out to the garden.

Willow cast her gaze to the ceiling and grunted with frustration. The whole point of installing the smart doorbell and having it set to only sound an alert on her phone had been to prevent Grandma being tempted to get out of her chair and make her way to the door, putting her at risk of a trip or fall along the way, or placing her in a vulnerable position with a complete stranger. The added bonus being, Willow could be at the furthest reaches of the garden, and her phone would cleverly let her know someone was at the front door.

Had this person not seen the sign? Smack dab in the middle of the door: Please use doorbell. With an arrow pointing to it. Couldn’t they read?

Then she remembered. The last time this happened, which had been a while ago, prior to getting the doorbell camera in the first place, it had been kids at the door. Kids who, once she’d opened up, backed off down the path and began flinging jibes and questions at her from what they considered a safe distance.

Hey, witch.

Been out flying on your broomstick?

What’s bubbling in your cauldron?

You gonna turn us into toads?

Did your ancestors get burned at the stake?

Where’s your black cat?

Her heart sank. She sighed and prepared herself for more of the same. It was unlikely, after all, they’d have come up with something new or more original—despite the astonishing wealth of information the human race had at its fingertips these days. Perhaps they hadn’t bothered to look, to educate themselves, or simply thought it was fun to torment a forty-year-old woman who’d never harm anything or anyone—not even if it was possible to turn people into toads. Though, admittedly, if she were a lesser woman, she’d be sorely tempted to throw out a few fake incantations to scare them, make them think she’d cursed them.

Maybe she should. Yes, it was stooping to their level, but if it stopped them coming back…

No. I’m not going there. She briefly considered not answering the door at all. She could access the doorbell speaker and tell them to clear off from the safety and comfort of her hallway, but she didn’t want them to think she was weak, or frightened. That’d just enhance the thrill for them, encourage them to harass her more often. Not happening. Not on my watch. I don’t have time for that kind of idiocy.

She shook her head, unlocked the door and yanked it open, her annoyance already spilling forth. Generally speaking, she was an incredibly placid person, and slow to anger. But she didn’t want these kids to think this house was an easy target. She’d kept the previous incident from Grandma, not wanting to worry her, and had hoped the addition of the doorbell camera might deter them from returning. “Have you horrible toerags seriously got nothing better to do? You should be ashamed of yourselves, pestering people like this! I’ve a mind to contact your parents—”

She stopped dead as the door swung wide enough to provide a view of who was on the other side of it. Not kids—horrible or otherwise—but a man. With a large cardboard box at his feet, bearing a familiar logo. Uh-oh.

A glance past him to the gravel lane leading to her house confirmed her fears. A white Transit van sat there.

She cringed and forced her gaze back to the man. A navy-blue T-shirt bearing the delivery company’s logo was stretched over his muscular biceps and chunky abdomen—a dad bod, she supposed it’d be classed as, though she didn’t really agree with the terminology—as well as a pair of tan shorts and some beat-up looking trainers. He was tall, well over six feet, and she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. “I’m so sorry. The last time someone hammered on my door like that, it was a bunch of kids shouting abuse. I thought you were them. If you’d just rung the doorbell, like the sign…”

The frown that appeared on the man’s face as she spoke made her shift her attention to her right, a sinking feeling taking over. Where there should have been a sign attached to the centre of the door, were now only six evenly-spaced blobs of Blu-Tak.

Heat flared into her cheeks, and she let out a groan and closed her eyes momentarily. “Well, there was a sign. It’s obviously fallen off. I had no idea. Or I wouldn’t have… never mind. I’m really sorry. And now I’m waffling.” She gave a pained smile, her face threatening to burst into flames. “Anyway. You have a parcel for me?” Her voice went so high at the end she was surprised she hadn’t summoned the neighbourhood dogs.

To his credit, the man simply shrugged. “No worries. I’ve been called worse. You’re…” he consulted the screen of the smartphone in his hand, “Willow Green?”

Given the circumstances, she let the slight waver of amusement in his voice at her name slide. “Yes,” she replied resignedly. “That’s me.”

“Great. It’s a tracked parcel, so I need to take a photo to prove I’ve delivered it…”

“Okay. Go ahead.”

He tapped his phone screen a few times, then lifted the device and stepped back, presumably ensuring he got the right angle so his image would contain both the parcel and her feet inside the open doorway. Pressed the button. “Got it. Thanks. Do you want me to bring it in for you? It’s pretty heavy.” He pocketed the phone.

“No,” she said quickly, recoiling as he approached and made to pick up the box. “I mean, no thank you. I’m fine. I need to find the sign before I go indoors, anyway. Don’t want to shout at any more undeserving delivery drivers, do I?” The chuckle she let out sounded forced, even to her own ears.

“Guess not.” He backed off and clasped his chin, then stroked his thick beard, more grey than black—the colour of his thick, plentiful hair, which had only a dusting of grey at the temples. He glanced at the doorbell and wrinkled his nose. “Should’ve spotted that, really. Especially when no one answered after I knocked a few times. The Blu-Tak should have provided a clue that maybe there was a sign there, and I could have put two and two together. I’m sorry. Such an idiot. Won’t make that mistake again though, will I?” Despite the weakness of his smile, it transformed his face enough that Willow’s stomach flipped. Goodness, he’s handsome.

Available in eBook and paperback formats: https://books2read.com/ntkow

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*****

Author Bio:

Lucy Felthouse is the award-winning author of erotic romance novels Stately Pleasures (named in the top 5 of Cliterati.co.uk’s 100 Modern Erotic Classics That You’ve Never Heard Of), Eyes Wide Open (winner of the Love Romances Café’s Best Ménage Book 2015 award), The Persecution of the Wolves, Hiding in Plain Sight, Curve Appeal, and The Heiress’s Harem and The Dreadnoughts series. Including novels, short stories and novellas, she has over 175 publications to her name. Find out more about her and her writing at http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/linktree

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In Pursuit of Mr. Sands: Part 1 of a KDG Consortium Story

Happy Monday, my Lovelies! After last week’s final instalment of The Bet, I didn’t want to leave you bereft of a bit of Monday morning reading candy.  I’ve been in pursuit of Mr. Sands for quite some time now, and somehow he always manages to elude me. Just recently he made another titillating appearance, only to lead me on a merry chase. I lost him in North Africa somewhere and ended up recovering in Delphi, where I met up with some unexpected acquaintances. (More on that to come. )Never mind. There are worse places to end up, and I’m sure Mr. Sands will raise his oh so fascinating head again when I least expect him.

But for now, this is the story of my first vicarious encounter with Mr. Sands. It is also an introduction to the equally intriguing PI, Elise North. I hope you enjoy her account.

 

 

In Pursuit of Mr. Sands Part 1: Choosing an Inflight Meal

I followed him at a safe distance. He was fast tracked through passport control at Heathrow, as was I, and neither of us had luggage. He was my job. I wasn’t about to lose him. Once through customs and in the arrivals hall, he made his way to the first class lounge, where he got himself a coffee, and I did the same, discreetly watching him watch the woman who was ushered in by one of the first class flight attendants, who settled her into a booth and ordered her up a full English breakfast. The woman looked dazed, and her hands shook with her first bite of food.

She had good reason to be shaky, and she had good reason to be half-starved. I knew exactly what the attendant was explaining to her in hushed whispers, and so did he. He was the reason for her weakened condition. The flight attendant knew that and so did I. The thing is no one knew that I knew.

My name is Elise North. I’m a PI. At least that’s what Magda Gardener calls me, and that’s what my business card says – the one I almost never hand out. Most of the time I work under cover, and my ID changes with the job. I don’t carry a gun. It would hardly do me any good with my clients. I work on cases that need a delicate hand. I do, however, own a silver-tipped stake … more of a stiletto actually, but I know how to use it. I’m athletic, I’m fast and well trained in martial arts because, in a field as specialized as mine, if things ever go south, about the best I can hope for is to escape and run like hell. None of those skills, however, are the reason Magda Gardener hired me. I have other gifts, gifts that in the kinds of circles Magda and her people run in, are highly coveted.

Those particular gifts are the reason I was just off the night flight from New York’s JFK to London Heathrow after paying an enormous sum of money to sit across from Daniel Emerson Sands in first class. Before we were even off the runway at JFK, all the flight attendants made time to pay the man homage. A big name celebrity couldn’t have drawn more solicitous, yet quiet attention. Each one, whether male or female, approached him with a fan girl flutter of excitement. I observed the flush in the cheeks, the quickening of the pulse in throats, in temples, the moistening of lips with a flick of the tongue, the acceleration in the breath.

He kissed the fingers of the female attendants, so delicately caught up in his strong grip. Each of the male attendants he offered a warm handshake, then a clasp of the shoulder as they bent forward, almost as though they were about to share a secret … or a kiss. It came as no surprise to me that each attendant responded with a little gasp and then a grunt and a shudder of the body that would have been almost undetectable to someone less observant. Neither did it come as a surprise that with each encounter, Daniel Sands inhaled deeply and sighed as though he had just past a bakery with an open door. What also came as no surprise, and yet I still found disturbing, was the frisson of fear that accompanied the ritual. Each attendant came to Sands eager and willing, but fear was as much a part of the formula as lust. They all knew what he was. If they didn’t, he couldn’t do what he does on this flight … repeatedly.

While we taxied and took off, Daniel Sands sat quietly perusing a complimentary copy of The New York Times as though he were any other passenger in transit just wanting the journey to be over with and to arrive safely at his destination. But I knew better. I’ve known better since Magda Gardener assigned me to follow him, to learn all about him that I could. But even without the information she had given me on the man, I would have known exactly what he was the second I sat down across from him. Daniel Emerson Sands is an incubus, a particularly powerful one, and one Magda Gardener has set her eyes on. It’s a very dangerous thing to have Magda Gardener sets her eyes on you. Mr. Sands had no idea he was up against a master huntress. All he wanted was his special in-flight meal service.

The flight attendants and the woman at check-in, and all the others that Sands had contact with before boarding, they were nothing more than nibbles, appetisers, if you will. There were only seven of us in first class, but just one would be his chosen main course. As with all his inflight meals, she was upgraded from economy. I stood behind her in the line at check-in, I watched while Mr. Sands subtly bumped into her all apologetic for being so careless. I watched the way he rested a solicitous hand at the small of her back to steady her so she wouldn’t fall. I watched the way he smiled at her. I watched, and I knew from my research, that she was the one, that she would have a visit in the dream world she’d be very unlikely to forget. And she would wake up weakened and confused. But oh, the dreams. She would revisit the dreams for the rest of her life.