Ours to LoveA Wicked Lovers novel featuring billionaire brothers
In 1981, author Sandra Brown's husband challenged her to write a novel. She did, and then never stopped. Fifty-seven Sandra Brown books are New York Times bestsellers, including Tough Customer (2010), Smoke Screen (2008), Play Dirty (2007), Ricochet (2006), Chill Factor (2005), White Hot (2004), Hello, Darkness (2003), The Crush (2002), Envy (2001), The Switch (2000), The Alibi (1999), Unspeakable (1998) and Fat Tuesday (1997). Author Sandra Brown began writing romance books and mystery books in 1981. Since Mirror Image in 1990, each Sandra Brown book has become a New York Times bestseller. In 1992, the Sandra Brown book French Silk was made into an ABC-TV movie. There are now seventy million copies of Sandra Brown books in print worldwide, and they have been translated into thirty-three languages. Sandra is much in demand as a writer of mystery books and romance books, and has appeared at the National Book Festival in Washington, D.C., and the Texas Book Festival in Austin, Texas, as well as charity functions. Other awards include the 2007 Texas Medal of Arts Award for Literature, the American Business Women's Association's Distinguished Circle of Success, B'nai B'rith's Distinguished Literary Achievement Award, the A.C. Greene Award-and the Romance Writers of America's Lifetime Achievement Award for her romance books. Sandra was also named Thriller Master for 2008 for her mystery books, the top award given by the International Thriller Writer's Association. She is a member of Author's Guild, Mystery Writers of America, Novelists, Inc., Literacy Partners, and a founding member of International Thriller Writers.
“There’s a man in the yard.”
The four-year-old came to stand at the corner of the kitchen table and gazed yearningly at the frosting her mother was applying to the top of the cupcake. “Can I have some, Mommy?”
“May I have some. When I’m done, you can lick the bowl.”
“You made chocolate.”
“Because chocolate is your favorite, and you’re my favorite girl,” she said, giving the child a wink. “And,” she added, drawing out the word, “I’ve got sprinkles to add as soon as I’m finished with the icing.”
Emily beamed, then her face puckered with concern. “He’s sick.”
“In the yard.”
Emily’s statements finally penetrated that innate mom-screen that filtered out unimportant chatter. “There’s really a man outside?” Honor placed the iced cupcake on the platter, returned the spatula to the bowl of frosting, and absently wiped her hands on a dishtowel as she stepped around the child.
“He’s lying down because he’s sick.”
Emily trailed her mother as she made her way from kitchen to living room. Honor looked through the front window, turning her head from one side to the other, but all she saw was the lawn of St. Augustine grass sloping gradually down to the dock.
Beyond the dock’s weathered wood planks the waters of the bayou moved indolently, a dragonfly skimming the surface and causing an occasional ripple. The stray cat, who refused to take Honor seriously when she told him that this was not his home, was stalking unseen prey in her bed of brightly colored zinnias.
“Em, there’s not—”
“By the bush with the white flowers,” Emily said stubbornly. “I saw him through the window in my room.”
Honor went to the door, unlocked it, slid the bolt, stepped out onto the porch, and looked in the direction of the rose of Sharon shrub.
And there he was, lying facedown, partially on his left side, his face turned away from her, his left arm outstretched above his head. He lay motionless. Honor didn’t even detect movement of his rib cage to indicate that he was breathing.
Quickly she turned and gently pushed Emily back through the door. “Sweetie, go into Mommy’s bedroom. My phone is on the nightstand. Bring it to me, please.” Not wanting to frighten her daughter, she kept her voice as calm as possible, but hurriedly took the steps down off the porch and ran across the dewy grass toward the prone figure.
When she got closer, she saw that his clothing was filthy, torn in places, and bloodstained. There were smears of blood on the exposed skin of his outstretched arm and hand. A clot of it had matted a whorl of dark hair on the crown of his head.
Honor knelt down and touched his shoulder. When he moaned, she exhaled with relief. “Sir? Can you hear me? You’re hurt. I’ll call for help.”
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