Dee Brice

Virtual Assassin

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His Virtual Assassin


Ellora's Cave | ISBN 9781419916625

In His Virtual Assassin, Herma-Frodie interfere in the lives of Venusian healer Kendra and Jovian entrepreneur Connor. Connor has invented a veracity detector that could give the Marsian government unfair advantages over friends and foes. While Kendra and Connor struggle to wend their way through Marsian politics, including an attempt to kill the Marsian king, Herma-Frodie conspire to arouse them to sexual frenzy.

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 An Excerpt

Copyright © DEE BRICE, 2008
All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

“There’s a young woman to see you, Connor.”

“Does this person have a name?” Connor snapped. He’d repeatedly told his temporary secretary to give him a name right away, whether announcing a visitor or a vid caller. So far the woman hadn’t absorbed the message.

Hearing a feminine shriek, Connor reached for the stunner concealed in an invisible drawer in his desk. Before he could close his fingers around the weapon, his outer doors crashed open and a figure stalked toward him.

His mind determined in a nanosecond that, first, the figure carried no visible weapon and, second, the figure was that of a woman—a tall, curvy female wearing skin-hugging black leather and a filigreed gold belt around her slender hips. The belt reminded him of those holsters cowboys wore in old-Earth’s wild west.

Knowing she could still be carrying a weapon, he raised both his hands then placed them, palms down, on the top of his glass desk. Figuring he was as safe as he was gonna get, he risked lifting his gaze from her crotch to her face. And almost swallowed his tongue.

A cloud of ebony curls fell to the woman’s shoulders. Shadowed by thick black lashes, he couldn’t tell the color of her eyes, but memory made them emerald-green and also recalled her straight nose and generous mouth, the lower lip fuller, more pouty than the perfect bow of her upper lip.

His gaze drifted lower, taking in a rounded bust, narrow waist, flaring hips, and go-on-forever legs. Legs that could, would, spread for his tongue, his fingers, his cock, then wrap around his waist and seat him, deep or shallow, in her womb.

Sex, he thought, wishing he’d opted for an opaque desk top instead of glass. That way the woman wouldn’t see his unbidden and immediate sexual reaction to her presence. Shifting his hips to the back of his chair and crossing his arms over his desk to hide his obvious erection, he willed indifference into his voice.

“May I help you?”

Her cat-pink tongue licked her lips. His cock swelled—A husky contralto whispered, “Connor? C-Cousin Connor?”—then shrank.

His secretary inched her head around the left doorjamb, her face chalky white. “I… I… I…”

“If you called Security, cancel them. I know the lady.” Not that he expected his secretary would have called his security team. He’d have fired her weeks ago if she weren’t his cousin’s dama de la semana. He briefly wondered what Kendra had done to make the woman shriek but said, “Close the door.

“Cousin Kendra.” Standing, he shook her hand and felt oddly reluctant to release it. When she’d scarred him, he swore he’d never touch her again. Of course, he had deserved the scars, not that he’d admitted it then or would admit it now.