Wednesday, May 30, 2018

Showcase, A Risk Worth Taking by Bryn Kelly

It's my pleasure to showcase Bryn Kelly's latest, #3 in her Legionnaires series, A Risk Worth Taking releasing today by the publisher that makes the world go round, Harlequin.

ISBN-13: 9781335498298
Publisher: Harlequin
Release Date: 5-30-2018
Length: 400pp
The Legionnaires #3
Buy It: Amazon/B&N/Kobo/IndieBound
He can’t outrun himself…

Legionnaire Jamie Armstrong lives in the shadows. A medic haunted by his mistakes, he knows better than to hope for redemption. But his latest mission brings a threat he doesn’t see coming—an attraction as irresistible as it is dangerous. Hacker Samira Desta is a woman he swore to forget, but as a key witness to a deadly conspiracy, Samira is his to protect.
But the woman he rescues might be the one who saves him
After a year in hiding, Samira’s worst fears come true when her cover is blown and the unlikeliest of allies comes to her aid—the secretive Scot with whom she shared one unforgettable night. Hunted by lethal forces and losing the battle against their desire, Jamie and Samira make a desperate play to take the fight to their enemy—but those at greatest risk of ruin may be themselves…

Read an excerpt:

A Risk Worth Taking by Brynn Kelly 9781335498298

Well after dark, Samira jerked awake. The A-Team theme tune was squeaking out of her phone. She swiped it off, her chest tight. Definitely engine noise, but low. She swallowed. A car in the night was unusual but not unheard of.
Another alarm. The A-Team again. A second car on the road. She silenced it, shot out of bed, slipped on her waiting boots and coat and grabbed her backpack. Two cars on her little road at this hour? One hell of a coinciden—
The alarm shrilled again, followed immediately by the MacGyver tune. Shit. Three vehicles, one already on the driveway. Working on feel, she pulled up the bed­cover, restored the pillows, scattered cushions over top and let herself out of the cottage, as she’d practiced a dozen times, keeping out of scope of her sensor lights. MacGyver started over. Multiple engines purred. Mod­ern, expensive cars—two on the driveway now.
By the next repeat of MacGyver, she was ankle deep in pasture, cows scattering before her. The cold whipped her bare legs. Her heart thumped with the shock of being slingshot out of warmth and sleep. With fumbling fingers, she set the phone to vibrate, blinking fast to force her eyes to adjust. Damn, she should have prac­ticed her evacuation at night. The first engine muted. A car door clicked open. Her breath skittered as she stumbled uphill, looking over her shoulder. Her security lights burst on, flooding the courtyard and driveway, and setting her phone shaking again. A big black SUV had pulled up in the turning bay, headlights doused.
Four darkly clad figures silently fanned out, their arms locked straight and pointed downward. Handguns. An identical vehicle pulled up alongside, leaving one more engine approaching. More people spilled out. Her phone kept vibrating. Or was that just her hand?
A crack, a smash—wood, and glass. Hooves thun­dered, shaking the earth, the cows’ glow-in-the-dark flanks flashing past. Hell, they wouldn’t stampede her, would they? Between their flying bodies she made out the figures of two men down at the French doors, look­ing like they were pulling up from a shoulder charge. White-blond hair gleamed from one guy’s head. He braced for another go. She upped her pace but her foot shot into a hole. Her ankle buckled, pain flashing through it, and she sprawled onto the grass, her cry muffled by a crash as the door gave. She pushed herself up and tested the ankle. Just a strain. Cold dew coated her leg. Focus on what’s right in front. Small steps. If she didn’t capitalize on her scant head start, she was—what? Dead? Despite her efforts to make the cottage look deserted and as pristine as if a cleaner had just left, the goons might feel her body heat in the small bed­room. If they pulled back the covers, they’d discover the sheets were warm…
Her chest pinched. The world tipped, and she planted her feet wide. No. Not now. She squeezed her eyes tight. Don’t do this to me, Brain. I know we’re in danger. Small steps, okay? One foot. Another foot. Another.
Fighting for every breath, she reached the fence to the olive grove, squeezed between the wires and scraped through the trees. Below, they’d switched on one set of headlights, aimed outward. Another set clicked on, directed into the field she’d just left. The cows bolted again.
Yep, use those lights, people. They’d be blind to any­thing outside the reach of the beams.
She pitched forward, groping in her coat pocket for the Fiat key. It rasped as it went in the lock. She eased the door open. The interior light flicked on. Shit. She scrabbled to disable it, panting. She threw the backpack on the passenger seat and her butt on the driver’s seat. Her hand shook as she jabbed the key at the ignition. Come on, come on. After a few wild misses, it slid in.
She froze. Oh God, she couldn’t start the car—they’d hear it. She covered her nose and mouth with both hands, which only amplified her struggling, squeak­ing breath. Her airways felt like they were narrowing. No. Why screw this up for yourself? Her assailants had to be fanning out. They’d find her in minutes. Her phone was still vibrating. She snatched it from her pocket and switched off the alarm. She was well alarmed.
She stilled, staring at the screen. She forced her trem­bling hands to navigate the unlock pattern. The Blue­tooth signal was faint but it might be just enough. Lights zigzagged across her vision as she scrolled her playlist.
“I Knew You Were Waiting.”
“She Works Hard for the Money.”
“Because the Night.
No, no, no, no.
Oh. She paused, scrolled back up a few tracks. Yes.
Swiping quickly, she hooked into the cottage speakers, slid them to full volume and pressed Play. From down­hill, a snare drum hammered. She tapped along on the steering wheel—eight quick counts—and shakily started the engine as the drum and bass guitar joined, followed by the rhythm.
She automatically went for the headlights, stopping herself a second short of stupidity, and navigated out of the rutted driveway and onto the road, eyes open so wide they hurt. Joan Jett launched into her lyrics, echoed by half a dozen ghostly Joans glancing off the surrounding hills, half a second off the beat. The con­nection would cut out at the end of the track. Two min­utes and fifty-five seconds. One song. One chance.
“I Love Rock ’n’ Roll,” the hillsides sang.
“So do I, Joan,” Samira muttered. “But now what do we do?”
After a couple of minutes of driving, the tinny phone speaker kicked in, as the next song on the playlist up­loaded. Out of range. The cottage would have silenced. Advantage over. Was it enough? She was in the next valley, so the car sound would be difficult to pinpoint. No movement or lights in the rear-vision mirror, and her preplanned escape route had enough twists and turns they couldn’t easily track her. First chance she got, she’d contact Tess, nail down a new plan.
“Time Has Come Today,” squeaked out of the phone.
Indeed. Time to come out of hiding and end this, whether she liked it or not—and she definitely did not. But Hyland had just made her decision for her.
“Yes, Joan,” Samira said, swinging into a side road. “The time has come.”

The Series so far

Connect with Brynn- Website - Facebook - Twitter

Meet Bryn:
After an award-winning twenty-year career as a print journalist, Brynn Kelly abandoned fact in favor of her first love, fiction.
Now she spends her days in a bubble of delicious words and fiendish plots, writing action-packed romantic thrillers for HQN Books, a Harlequin/HarperCollins imprint.
Brynn is a RITA® finalist and an RT Awards nominee for her high-octane Legionnaires series, which follows a band of broken brothers-in-arms who each meet the right woman at the worst possible time.
Her debut novel, Deception Island, was a finalist for a Golden Heart Award® and won a Koru from Romance Writers of New Zealand. She has also won Romance Writers of Australia's Valerie Parv Award and the Pacific Hearts Award.
She has a journalism and communications degree and is a bestselling nonfiction author in her native New Zealand, as well as a mother of two medium-sized children.
In her (guffaw) spare time, she murders Italian arias studies classical singing, is a theatre geek (because real life is over-rated), and doesn’t do nearly as much yoga as she should.
Represented by Nalini Akolekar of Spencerhill Associates.

No comments:

Post a Comment