Mary Sullivan - Beyond Ordinary

Angel’s soft hair brushed his chin, tantalizing him, reminding him of his adolescent hopes and dreams, always of her. He experienced a moment of disbelief that the one he’d wanted was here, now…with him.

She gripped his biceps, her hands warm through his cotton shirt, her fingers tight. Her nails bit into his skin, bringing him firmly back into the moment.

He pressed closer. Her hip, firm beneath his other hand, burned his palm. With his eyes closed, he feathered the skin above her jeans, and it was softer than anything he’d ever felt.

He was drowning in her scent and her heat. He had to touch her more.

Dear Reader,

Most people wander this earth wearing hard outer shells to protect their vulnerable cores. But those exteriors don’t reflect who they really are. The problem is that the world assumes what they see on the surface is all there is. What a shame. I wanted to explore this idea and look at what kinds of problems it can cause.

Angel Donovan has been forced into a certain role by fate and, no matter how hard she tries, can’t get her hometown to see her differently, to recognize that she is not the same person on the inside as the beautiful face and killer body lead people to believe. I liked the idea of a woman breaking free of preconceived perceptions to show the world that she has depth, that the person on the inside is every bit as beautiful as the one on the outside.

Timm Franck has the opposite problem. He is a decent, smart, nerdy guy who was burned and still carries the scars. He has no problem showing people who he really is on the inside. He just doesn’t want to show them his chest full of scars.

I know of too many people who worry about their outer shell not being beautiful enough and fail to show that what they have in their cores is much more worthy than surface beauty. Revealing ourselves to others can turn out to be the best thing we’ve ever done! May you find the courage to do it.

Happy reading,

Mary Sullivan

P.S. I do love to hear from readers! Please contact me through my website at www.marysullivanbooks.com.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Mary likes to break through the shells of new people she meets, discovering the pearls of their personalities. We all seem to have so much to give to each other. She has enjoyed meeting so many great people through her writing career, especially readers. This is her fourth Harlequin Superromance novel. Mary loves being part of the Harlequin family!

To my mum,

who enjoyed reading her daughter’s books.

Love always.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

ANGEL DONOVAN LIMPED home to Ordinary, Montana, on her wounded Honda Gold Wing, pulling to a stop on the shoulder of the highway a couple of miles shy of town.

Out of gas.

She’d been gliding on fumes for the past quarter hour.

She tugged off her helmet and brushed sweat-dampened hair from her forehead, then dismounted.

The hot breeze outrunning nightfall across the prairie feathered her hair around her arms and her back, in the space between her vest and the waistband of her jeans. She should cut off every last black inch of it.

With one strong swing of her arm, she heaved the helmet into the closest field where it rolled across dry soil beneath yellow wheat, its red gloss disappearing under the dirt it picked up.

She unhooked her saddlebags and laid them down a few feet away, took out the can of lighter fluid she’d bought in Bozeman and sprinkled it over the bike.

It glowed golden in the horizontal rays of the setting sun, its chemical scent a counterpoint to the dry, earthy aroma of the fields.

When a pickup truck flew past, its rush of air pushed her toward the bike. Farther down the road, it slowed.

Whoever you are, keep moving. I don’t need you meddling.

Striking a wooden match on the tight denim across her thigh, she threw it onto the bike and the lighter fluid ignited with a satisfying whoosh.

It crackled and whispered, spoke of things best laid to rest, smoked like a demon and obliterated the scratches and dents on the nearly new bike.

Neil, baby, this is for you.

The heat rising off the burning bike distorted the horizon in shimmering waves.

The pickup reversed down the road and came to a stop ten feet away. A man exited the vehicle with a fire extinguisher in his hand.

“No,” Angel screamed, and tried to head him off, but he scooted around her.

He sprayed the bike and the fire sputtered, the flames hissed then died. Acrid smoke swirled into the air, choking her.

“Stop.” She threw herself at the man and sent him staggering. His finger slid off the trigger, but not before he sprayed both of them.

Angel coughed. Her eyes watered.

“You want this to burn?” he asked. She didn’t recognize him, or care who he was.

“Go away,” she cried. “Mind your own business.”

“I can’t.”

“Leave,” she ordered. “I have to do this.”

“The county’s under a fire ban.” He pressed the trigger to spray the bike and Angel launched herself at him again. She scratched his neck above the collar of his shirt and slapped his face.

He pushed her away, but she attacked again. His arms busy with her, he dropped the extinguisher and it rolled into the ditch.

It could rot there.

“What the hell? Back off, woman.”

“You back off,” she cried. “You’re ruining everything.”

“You haven’t changed a bit, have you? Still as self-centered as ever.”

He knew her?

He grabbed her arms, wrapped them across her body and hauled her back against his chest. Her struggles were useless. The guy was stronger than he looked.

“Listen to me,” he said close to her ear. “We’re in the middle of a heat wave.”

He thought she didn’t know that, with sweat dripping down her back?

“I don’t care why you need to burn a perfectly good bike,” he said, “but we’re under a fire ban. You think the ranchers want you starting a wildfire, burning up their crops and their homes?”

He was right, damn him. She’d come close to screwing up again.

She’d failed.

TIMM FRANCK HAD ALWAYS dreamed of holding Angel Donovan, but not like this. Not with anger and frustration. Not as though they were wrestling.

She breathed hard.

The full breasts that probably half the men in town had had wet dreams about at one time or another rested on his forearm where he’d wrapped it across her ribs to hold her still. The other hand cupped her stomach and held her steady against him. On her abdomen, above her jeans, his thumb touched a strip of bare skin that felt like velvet.

She squirmed. Air hissed between his teeth. “Stop it.”

An erection threatened. Thirty-one-year-old men weren’t supposed to behave like randy teenagers. He wasn’t a trigger-happy guy. But then, this was Angel.

When enough of the fight left her that he thought he could let her go, he eased his grip and stepped away. There was only so much he could take.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you home. I assume you’re heading to your mother’s?”

She nodded, her attention on the foam-covered bike.

For a minute, Timm could only stare.

Disheveled dark hair fell to her waist. Red spots rode on her cheeks. One pale blue vein at her temple beat beneath her translucent skin. The deep V of her black leather top showcased a mile-long neck and the sweetest cleavage this side of the Rockies.