A Gift To My Readers
This weekend only you can download a FREE copy of my action thriller Against The Current over on the All Romance E-Book (ARe) site. Here's the link (cut and paste into your address bar)
http://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-againstthecurrent-8932-144.html
And here's a copy of the text over there:
Grant Cooper is England 's finest. He's on a four-year tour of duty as an exchange flight officer to the United States Coast Guard. Always the man in control, he's the model of the perfect Search And Rescue pilot.
It's not command that Julie MacKinnon fancies. She dumped him once in protest. After all, there are enough constraints in her life as an Emergency room nurse and volunteer Coast Guard Auxiliary crewwoman. When fate throws the two back together in the middle of a heart pounding emergency, will Grant be able to put the requirements of his position aside long enough to save his crew and their love?
Excerpt:
Sideways rain blew across the windscreen, high intensity searchlights barely penetrated the gathering gloom and the ferocity of the storm threatened the survival of any imprisoned by its rage. Commander Grant Cooper pushed the collective gingerly, the nose of the H-65 Dolphin helicopter dipping beneath the traffic bed on the Golden Gate Bridge in a desperate search for survivors.
"There!" Lieutenant John Manning pointed a forefinger across the instrument panel into the sheeting rain.
"God damned crosswinds." Grant gritted his teeth as he struggled with the collective and the cyclic, trying to keep the pitch of the helicopter stable.
"Okay, Murphy. Time to hook up and earn your pay." John said into the microphone imbedded in his copilot's helmet. "There at two o'clock. He's getting fucking close to the piling."
"Bleedin' idiot. I'll never know what gets into people. Going out when the forecast is rain with gale force gusts. Much worse than this and we'd not be able to stay up." Grant's shoulders tensed and his gut tightened as he hyper-focused on maintaining the integrity of the copter.
John slid a glance toward his commanding officer, approbation warring with worry on his face. But then, this was a hell of a storm. It blew in off the Pacific like a lioness on wounded prey. "It's too windy for the basket. Murphy'll have to go it alone."
"I've got it," Grant calmly answered John's implicit concern.
"God, I love this job!" Murphy's voice came through the crew helmets. "Cowabunga!"
Grant knew the exclamation could mean only one thing. Murphy was out the cargo door, on his way to the frigid waters below. "Easy does it, Murph."
"Piece a cake, sir." The roar of the wind cutting under the bridge distorted Murphy's voice. "Keep it stable for me and I'll have this doofus inside before you can sing the National Anthem."
"Oh say can you see…" First class petty officer Sandy Richards sang out in accompaniment to her partner's descent. The team out of Coast Guard Air Station San Francisco had eighteen months in together. With Murphy as the rescue swimmer and Richards as the flight mech, they worked in tandem as one cohesive unit. Sandy operated the hoist, making sure Murph had a safe journey from copter to sea; Murphy, donned in dry suit, secured the victim's safety.
"It's a bit brisk out here, Commander. Water temp's gonna keep me from performing my husbandly duties for the next week."
"You just keep those jewels intact. I don't want to make any extra stops tonight." Grant kept his tone light, suppressing a shudder at the memory of losing a crewman at flight school in Alabama, where he was a Royal Navy exchange instructor for advanced flight training. It had been early in his two years there, well before transferring to finish his four-year commitment abroad as flight officer out of San Francisco. It hadn't happened on his watch, but the loss affected the entire class at Mobile. It always did. Every time a crewman was lost, it was as if a family member had passed. The cost of freedom.
Not the Department of Defense "freedom" preserved with soldiers and the use of brute force, but freedom of choice. In the case of this rescue, the choice to take a pleasure boat out on the bay at noon when everything looked calm; the freedom to ignore the responsibilities of a civilian sailor to monitor the weather. To believe yourself invincible to the whims of Mother Nature; the freedom to be arrogant and unwise.
From the lowliest petty officer to the Commandant, every member works to support the Coast Guard mission: Police of the Sea, to preserve life and limb on the waters. Grant's drive went further; he also represented her majesty's best of the best. As lead pilot, he was an integral part of the life and death mission assigned to Search and Rescue (SAR) units.
"Hey Sandy, I think that should be 'God save our gracious queen, our great and glorious Queen...'" Murphy's voice shivered through the noise of the storm. "Suppose the North Sea makes this weather look like a picnic, eh Commander?" His tone changed to one of solicitous authority as he addressed the victim in the water. "I'm a Coast Guard rescue swimmer and I'm here to help. I'll secure you, ma'am."
The sound of a woman's voice replying was barely audible. "But my boat…it's gonna…" The rest of her sentence was lost to the wind.
"Geez, that's a woman out there. What the hell…?" John's voice tensed with incredulity.
Grant kept his arms and eyes steady, performing the delicate balancing act of a helicopter pilot. Autorotation into the bay was bad; losing a blade, lethal. "Have you got her?" he barked into his helmet.
"…the land of the free…and the home of the brave." Murphy's voice was winded, the definite thud of bodily impact on the last word, changing 'brave' into something more like 'braumph'. Grant allowed himself a smile at Murph's song, the crew laughing at the inside joke that signaled mission accomplished. "We're aboard, sir."
Grant eased the cyclic forward and collective up. The helo responded, swooping across the frothy grey waters of the bay towards home.
* * * *
Grant pushed into the operations room inside the hanger. Petty Officer Kirk Dietrich reached to take the helmet from Grant's hand, "Welcome back, sir."
"Can't suffer you ASMer's looking after everything. I do appreciate it, though." As he gave up the helmet, he flashed a dimpled smile. Air Survival Man Dietrich was charged with maintaining the myriad of equipment necessary for Search and Rescue air operations.
"So no snafu's this trip, sir?"
Grant rotated his shoulders, trying to release the knots built up in his muscles. His thighs felt like he'd just completed a marathon and he wobbled a bit on his feet. "Miraculously, not even an injury."
"That's why you're back so quick. No stops at S.F General tonight."
"No. Not to say we shouldn't be takin' the woman in for other evaluation. She must be a real nutter."
"A taco short of a combo plate?"
Grant lowered his chin, shooting a look that encapsulated "duh".
"So where've you stashed her?" Dietrich queried.
"I expect she's in the women's head at the moment, getting sorted out."
"You got Petty Officer Richards with her then?"
"Yeah. She'll get her into a dry flight suit to save her from any further threat of hypothermia. At least she was bright enough to have donned a wet suit before being tossed into the bay. Wouldn't surprise me to hear that the jib had knocked her in."
"Lifevest?"
"Yes. It seems our victim had at least portions of her logical brain still functioning properly." Grant peeled off his dry suit, and reached into the locker for his civvies.
"So who is she?"
"Don't know. Haven't laid eyes on her yet. I asked Sandy to escort her to my office for an interview. Have to hear what she has to say…for my report."
"Of course, sir." The corners of Dietrich's mouth hiked into a knowing smirk.
Grant cocked his head, momentarily questioning, then realized the inference. "Don't worry…I'll be fair."
Dietrich pursed his lips and returned his focus to the personal locator beacons he seemed to have a sudden inordinate interest in examining.
Opening his mouth to respond, Grant caught himself. That was just what Dietrich would be expecting. Taking the offense in his defense. Not worth the effort. Dietrich was a great bloke, but not an officer. He didn't need to be involved in the regulations governing the paperwork required after each mission. Grant was getting just a bit tired of the 'good natured' ribbing he received from his fellow pilots. Now it seemed to be filtering into the enlisted ranks. Shit. All he needed was for the support staff to think he was tight assed. He shook his head. Better that than losing the respect of command. Grant yanked on the top of his tube sock, carefully folding it down to form a neat cuff. He blew out an unconscious puff of air.
"Do you need anything else commander?"
He looked into Dietrich's face. "No, nothing," he said with an edge of irritation. Hearing the strain in his voice, he quickly added, "Thank you Petty Officer." That didn't sound much better, but at least it maintained professional respect.
Dietrich left, leaving Grant alone. He tucked the tails of his crisp white shirt into the sharply creased kaki trousers. "Watch the gig line," the voice of D.I. Blankenship from basic training echoed in his memory. "No Irish pennants." Demerits off for any uniform deviations, no anomalies allowed. Every aspect of the uniform squared away and meeting standards. The steely glare of Blankenship's grey eyes pierced Grant as if it was yesterday. Never so much as a nose hair out of place, his English Drill instructor had been the bane of his company's existence.
"Good man," Grant said under his breath as he appraised his uniform in the sliver of mirror on the door. Buttons, belt buckle, fly all in alignment, check. Shirtfront smooth, he scrolled a circumspect eye down to his shoes. A line of caked mud was wedged between sole and topside. He leaned over and pried it loose with a flick of his thumbnail. Swiping a soft rag from the shelf of his locker, he wiped the crease and folded the cloth back into a square. As he laid it carefully on the shelf, his mind wandered to a more domestic version of the same scene, almost a year ago.
"People don't fold their jockey shorts in squares, Grant," Julie giggled as she toweled her hair, peering over his shoulder into the chest of drawers. "I mean, just look at that," she gazed into the cedar lining of his underwear drawer. "They look like rows of little soldiers, or some teenager's teeth just after the braces came off.
"Well, now you're talkin' about socks, lass. Let's not mix chalk and cheese." He braced his hands on the top of the dresser as she put her arms around his waist, her cheek resting on his back.
"I won't make you do a single push up, and I forgot my white gloves." Her voice was muffled, but the mirth was clear. She squeezed, then continued on her way to the kitchen.
Eyeing her retreating form in the mirror above the dresser, he slipped the last of the y-fronts into place and closed the drawer. Beads of water still glistened across her shoulder blades, refulgent with the yellow light of the night table's lamp. One corkscrew tendril of hair flirted with her neck, escaped from the knot haphazardly twisted at her crown, held in place with an ebony chopstick. Her hips swayed in that curious combination of little girl enthusiasm and womanly allure that only Julie seemed to possess. He pushed away from the dresser and bolted after her.
Scooping her from her feet, the towel so carefully wrapped about her loosened as he cradled her against his chest. He 'suffered' at the sight of her, the scent of her, the feel of her soft and warm in his arms.
He fused his mouth to hers. The remnants of a small chuckle still vibrated through her. Molten desire surged through him. It coiled like a clock spring in his gut, spreading heated honey through his chest, so thick and sweet he thought he'd suffocate.
......
and there is more that's a bit too hot for this venue...
Did I mention it is FREE??????
In addition, ARe http://www.allroman..ceebooks...com/ and OmniLit http://omnilit...com/ is offering a massive sale this weekend. This weekend, you can get 50% off all e-books using the code SBTBARe1
Happy reading!
