Linda Howard

“...a kid, maybe eight years old, ran up and poked her in the ribs with a plastic laser weapon, making electric zinging noises as he repeatedly pulled the trigger. “You’re dead,” he said victoriously. His mother came hurrying up, looking harassed and helpless. “Damian, stop that!” She gave him a smile that was little more than a grimace. “Don’t bother the nice people.” “Shut up,” he said rudely. “Can’t you see they’re Terrons from Vaniot.”The kid poked her in the ribs again. “Ouch!” He made those zinging noises again, taking great pleasure in her discomfort. She plastered a big smile on her face and leaned down closer to precious Damian, then cooed in her most alienlike voice, “Oh, look, a little earthling.” She straightened and gave Sam a commanding look. “Kill it.” Damian’s mouth fell open. His eyes went as round as quarters as he took in the big pistol on Sam’s belt. From his open mouth began to issue a series of shrill noises that sounded like a fire alarm. Sam cursed under his breath, grabbed Jaine by the arm, and began tugging her at a half-trot toward the front of the store. She managed to snag her purse from the buggy as she went past. “Hey, my groceries!” she protested. “You can spend another three minutes in here tomorrow and get them,” he said with pent-up violence. “Right now I’m trying to keep you from getting arrested.”“For what?” she asked indignantly as he dragged her out of the automatic doors. People were turning to look at them, but most were following the sounds of Damian’s shrieks to aisle seven. “How about threatening to kill that brat and causing a riot?” “I didn’t threaten to loll him! I just ordered you to.”

“Don’t kiss me,” she said warningly.“I don’t intend to,” he replied, smiling a little. “I don’t have my whip and chair with me.”

“I’m Sam Donovan.” “I know who you are. Mrs. Kulavich told me. I’m Jaine Bright.” “I know. She told me. She even told me how you spell your name.” Now, how on earth had Mrs. Kulavich known that?”

“...We have seven people who knew the skewers were there: the wedding planner, the reception hall manager, the dressmaker, the florist, the veil-maker, the cake-maker, and the caterer. I haven't ruled out the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker, either. ”

“I loved you when you were a snot-nosed kid, into so much mischiefit's a wonder my hair didn't turn prematurely gray. I loved you when youwere a teenager with long, skinny legs and eyes that broke my heartevery time I looked at you. I love you now that you're a woman whomakes my brain go soft, my legs go weak, and my dick get hard. Whenyou walk into a room, my heart damn near jumps out of my chest. Whenyou smile, I feel as if I've won a Nobel Prize. And your eyes stillbreak my heart.”

“You were happy last night. This morning is a different story.""You think I have a hangover. I don't. Well a little headache, but not much. Just let this be a warning to you if you keep me from sleeping again tonight.""I kept you from sleeping? I kept you from sleeping?" he repeated incredulously. "You are the same woman who shook me out of a sound sleep at two a.m. yesterday morning, aren't you?""I didn't shake you. I kind of bounced on you, but I didn't shake you.""Bounced," he repeated."You had a hard-on. I couldn't let it go to waste, could I?""You could have woke me up before you started not to let it go to waste.""Look," she said exasperated, "If you don't want used, don't lie on your back with it sticking up like that. If that isn't an invitation, I don't know what is.""I was asleep. It does that on its own." It was doing it on its own right know, as a matter of fact. It poked her in the stomach.She looked down... and smiled. It was a smile that made his testicles draw up in fear.With a sniff, she turned her back on him and ignored him as she finished showering."Hey!" he said, to get her attention. Alarm was in his tone. "You aren't going to let this one go to waste are you?”

“Sweeney: I can just see all you tough young soldiers cuddling together.Richard: Not cuddling, huddling. There's a difference.”

“What are you doing?” she cried in protest.“Playing,” he said, the single word rough, almost guttural.”

“I thought you were a drunk.""A drunk?""Bloodshot eyes, dirty clothes, getting home in the wee hours of the morning, making a lot ofnoise, grouchy all the time as if you had a hangover… what else was I to think?"He rubbed his face. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking. I should have showered, shaved, and dressed in asuit before I came out to tell you that you were making enough noise to raise the dead.”

“At the moment, he kinda knew how the male praying mantis felt when hewas approaching Ms. Mantis, knowing the sex was going to be great but he was going to gethis head bitten off.Ah, well. Some things were worth losing your head.”

“He lifted the arm covering his eyes and turned his head to glare at her. "I knew you were trouble the first time I saw you.""What do you mean, trouble?" She sat up, glaring back at him. "I am not trouble! I'm a very nice person except when I have to deal with jerks!""You're the worst kind of trouble," he snapped. "You're marrying trouble.”

“He snorted. "They were probably scared.""Scared!" For some reason, that hurt, just a little. She felt her lower lip wobble. "I'm not that bad, am I?""Worse," he said cheerfully. "You're hell on wheels. You're just lucky I like hot rods”

“His mouth was hot and hungry, and he kissed the way no man should kiss and still be allowed to run free.”

“Honey, the only experts in PMS are men. That's why men are so good at fighting wars; they learned Escape and Evade at home.”

“Is it time for your period, or something?" With unerring instinct, he'd found a great big red button, and pushed it. Wyatt fights to win, which means he fights dirty. I understand the concept because that's how I fight, too, but understanding it didn't stop me from reacting. I could practically feel my blood bubbling with steam. "What?" He turned around, all controlled aggression, and damned if he didn't push the button again. "What is it about having a period that makes women so bitchy?" ... It was an effort, but I said as sweetly as possible, "It isn't that we're bitchier, it's that having a period makes us feel all tired and achy, so we have less tolerance for all the bullshit we normally SUFFER IN SILENCE." By the time the sentence ended the sweetness was long gone, my jaw was clenched, and I think my eyes were bugging out. Wyatt took a step back, belatedly looking alarmed.”

“Do you want to know why men name their penis? So the most important decisions in their life aren't made by a stranger.”

“I'm not holding you against your will; I'm holding you against your car.”

“Are you making fun of my hero complex?'Yeah.”

“Women were always complications, bless their perverse little hearts.”

“Death isn't peaceful; it is just nothing. Everything is gone. No more sunrises, no more hopes, no more fears. Nothing.”

“She should have remembered her past experiences in the relationship wars and not let herself get so excited. Evidently her hormones had overruled her common sense and she had become drunk on ovarian wine, the most potent, sanity- destroying substance in the universe.”

“Oh, is that what's in the box? You threw my engagement ring at me?”