Mal's Books
By Mal Olson
An FBI agent risks his career when he collaborates with a haunting young widow desperate to prove herself and her husband innocent of diamond trafficking with the terrorist who killed his Delta Force team three years ago.
Five minutes after Shannon's houseguest headed for the shower, she meandered down the hallway and hesitated before knocking on the bedroom door.
"Hey, Crazaniak, you want me to send your shirt and Jockeys through a quick cycle in the washer and dryer?" And how about sending your pants and jacket out to the cleaners? She rolled her eyes, knowing she had no intention of doing any such thing, or of actually meeting a crazed gunman alone. Maybe she could convince Crazaniak to lurk in the background while she interviewed the Hulk and pushed for more information about his claimed connection with Tyler.
Meanwhile, the only reply from Crazaniak's neck of the woods was the sound of water flowing noisily through the pipes. Since she'd already decided it would be a nice gesture to "tidy his whiteys," she turned the knob and tentatively stepped in. It was her bedroom.
The gun she came across at the bottom of a neatly folded stack of masculine attire on her bed shouldn't have surprised her. She'd seen the Glock earlier. Intrigued, she reached for the pistol, an object that seemed so out of place in her bedroom. As though she were familiar with handling firearms when she wasn't, she wrapped her hand around the grip then jerked her head toward the bathroom door, conjuring up thriller fantasies.
But she didn't have to conjure anything when she noticed a letter poking out of his inside jacket pocket. Nor did she have to imagine the fact that the closet door stood slightly ajar. Her stomach clenched, a mix of anger and unease. Had the FBI agent been nosing through Tyler's belongings?
Tit for tat--the urge to sneak a peek overwhelmed her. Her heartbeat ratcheted up as she shifted the gun to her left hand and reached for the letter.
At that instant, she sensed a presence behind her.
Even as the sound of water pounded the walls of the tub enclosure, Shannon knew in her heart of hearts that six-foot-plus of dripping wet, naked man stood not relaxing under the water jets, but hovering five heart-palpitating feet away.
"Want to toss me my clothes?" he asked.
Unwilling to face him, she remained quick-frozen like a pillar of salt.
"Tell me you weren't snooping in my things," he rumbled.
"Tell me you weren't snooping in my closet."
"I wasn't snooping."
She eyed the edge of the letter. "I thought I'd treat your duds to some suds. You want to hang out in my robe for a few?"
"Not enough material there to cover my manly attributes. I'll settle for day-old Jockeys, and what the hell were you going to do with my pistol?"
"Nothing." She almost turned around.
Her chest thumped. The thought of Crazaniak au natural not only spiked her pulse, it titillated her imagination. She waited for a chord of guilt to strum across her heart. It didn't happen. Instead, discord fluttered low in her abdomen, and she sensed him moving closer.
Adrenaline Rush
By Mal Olson
While attending a gala D.C. benefit dinner, fashion designer Annastine Jacobson sees a ghost--or at the very least a look-alike for John Trek, the only man she ever loved, the father of her four-year-old daughter, a man who was killed five years ago. Unwilling to shirk her duties as a naturalized American citizen, she agrees to assist Alpha Dogs operative Eric Cavelli, her lover's dead ringer as he and his team set a trap for a dangerous arms dealer.
