Really Unusual Bad Boys. MaryJanice Davidson

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      “YOU ARE EXTREMELY BEAUTIFUL.”

      She laughed at him. She hadn’t meant to, but it was an absurd comment. She was built like a fire hydrant—dense and practical, but hardly the curvy, willowy blond specimen so popular in American society. She had no waist, and her legs were too long, and her tits were only so-so—she’d been a B cup for years. Plus, she had multiple scars from years of street scuffles—knife wounds, bullet wounds, even a permanent rope burn a junkie, high on acid and Jack Daniel’s, had given her. Her hair was the nicest thing about her, and it was too curly, too wild, too out of control in humidity, and the color of a tar pit.

      He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around. Even through her shirt, she could feel the heat from his hands. This was alarming, yet delightful. She was facing the sun—a small, white orb—and in the distance she could see a castle.

      “My home is there. May I keep you?”

      REALLY UNUSUAL BAD BOYS

      MaryJanice Davidson

      KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

       http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

      For the fans of Canis Royal,

       who wanted to know how it ended.

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      Many thanks to Officer Lynn Ristau of the Superior Police Department, for patiently answering all my questions, and Jessica L. Growette, the greatest pharmacist in the world. Her bosses should worship her. Any mistakes you see are mine, not theirs.

      Oh that the desert were my dwelling place,

      With one fair spirit for my minister,

      That I might all forget the human race,

      And hating no one, love but only her!

      —Lord Byron, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage

      A thousand fantasies

      Begin to throng into my memory,

      Of calling shapes, and beck’ning shadows dire,

      And airy tongues that syllable men’s names On sands and shores and desert wildernesses.

      —John Milton, Comus

      Like sands through the hourglass,

      so are the days of our lives.

      —Days of our Lives

      CONTENTS

      BRIDEFIGHT

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      MATING SEASON

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      GROOMFIGHT

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

BRIDEFIGHT

      Chapter 1

      Minneapolis, Minnesota

      Iwish I were dead.

      It was 1:08 A.M. on the morning of September 17, and Lois Commoner was thinking thoughts that for her, of late, were typical.

      As she was lying on the alley pavement, listening to the victim’s broken sobbing, she thought, Would I go to hell? No chance. This is hell. There’s gotta be something else. And if there isn’t, what do I have to lose?

      She banished such thoughts—now was not the time—and rolled over onto her stomach. She took a deep breath, put her palms flat on the filthy street, and pushed herself up until she was standing. This took six minutes and was just short of excruciating. Her knee was screaming. Her back had a kink in it. Her knuckles were bleeding. And she had a splitting headache. The headache bothered her more than anything else.

      “I don’t suppose you have any Advil in your pockets?” she asked the vic, who was crying and holding her purse strap. The purse itself was, of course, long gone. “Or even a Tylenol?” The victim had probably been a nice-looking woman when her evening began. Now the carefully coiffed blond hair was in disarray, her mascara was running down her cheeks, her dress was torn, and her shoulder probably hurt almost as much as Lois’s knee. “How about just aspirin?”

      The vic shook her head and kept crying. Lois’s headache worsened. She considered telling the vic to cut the shit, then decided against it. She herself had become pretty jaded about this stuff, but that was no reason to be an unsympathetic jerk. At least not out loud.

      Sirens wailed in the distance, which was a distinct relief. Blondie would be off her hands, and on some beat cop’s. Well, that’s what she—they—were paid for. Even better, the patrol unit would have aspirin.

      “What happened?” Blondie finally asked. She held up her purse strap and stared at it like a betrayed lover. “Why didn’t you stop him? Aren’t you a cop? You told that—that jerk who took my purse you were a cop.”

      “Not anymore. I mean, I am, but I’m on desk duty now.” Boy, did that admission taste bad. She actually spat to clear her mouth, then continued. “I got hurt a while ago. I’m off the streets.” Her knee throbbed agreement, as if to say, Damn right, chickie, and what’d you take off after him for, anyway? You must’ve known you couldn’t have caught him. Couldn’t resist playing hero again, sap?

      But it wasn’t that simple. She’d seen someone in trouble, that was all. Heard the shriek and limped to the rescue. “Lois,” her dad said before he choked to death on that Dorito, “boy, was that a bad choice for a name. You’re nobody’s sidekick, and you sure as shit never need rescuing.”

      That was then.

      The black-and-white pulled up. She didn’t recognize either of the officers who got out and approached them. They were as alike as two peas in a pod: both tall, stocky, and blond, with blue eyes—typical Minnesota stock. Lois, with her wild curly black hair and brown eyes, always felt like a gypsy among her Scandinavian coworkers.

      “Good evening. I’m Officer Ristau, and this is my partner, Officer Carlson. Miss, do you need an ambulance? Either