Hero Undercover: 25 Breathtaking Bad Boys Read online

  When not reading, or writing, you can find her knitting, sewing, crafting, or doing pretty much anything to keep her hands busy. She has taken over the dining room AKA craft room, much to her husband’s dismay. In one of her books, an energetic “craftaholic” would find herself over her husband’s knee for losing an important document in a pile of bi-cone crystals and mod podge. Her real life, and the people in them, give her plenty of ideas to work with.

  Katherine has dubbed herself the queen of cheese. Not only is she a former Midwestern Cheese Head; she also loves to incorporate it into her books.

  In her opinion, all romance deserves at least one cheesy scene that makes you cry.

  Visit her blog here:

  https://katherinedeane.wordpress.com

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  Get notified whenever I have new releases, sales, or freebies. Don’t worry. I won’t share your email and promise not to spam you. Thanks!

  http://eepurl.com/b24PeH

  Also By Katherine Deane

  We Need A Little Christmas

  Thirty-three-year-old Ivy Henry seems to have it all. A well-paying job, a new house, and her wonderful HOH/husband, Jack. At her request, they had incorporated Domestic Discipline into their marriage a few years ago and she flourished under his love, guidance, and support.

  But this year's holiday season is wreaking havoc on their calm relationship. Between the stress of work and hosting this year's Christmas Eve party for all the family, Ivy is becoming more and more out of control. To top it off, she has a secret she can't share with Jack.

  Their relationship is wonderful but she wants more—a chance to explore her younger side. Ivy desires to do Age Play but is fighting her needs because it is embarrassing. How can she trust Jack not to laugh when she tells him she wants to curl up on his lap at night and call him Daddy?

  Jack has been watching Ivy slip away emotionally for the past year. His beautiful, sweet wife is now always angry and ill tempered. DD just doesn't seem to be cutting it any longer. He can tell she is unhappy, but doesn't know how to help her until the day he finds her chat sessions on her computer. Discovering hope again, he begins to make plans to escape from this stressful holiday. He will introduce his precious Ivy to her new daddy—him. They both need to reconnect and they both need a Little Christmas.

  12 Naughty Days Of Christmas

  Cold nights? Do you need something to warm you up? This collection of 13 holiday themed stories will be sure to keep you warm. 13 authors, 13 stories!

  Her Drill Sergeant Dom

  ~VOTED BEST MILITARY ROMANCE BY SPANKING ROMANCE REVIEWS~

  Basic training is a killer--in more ways than one.

  USA Today bestselling author Katherine Deane brings you a romantic suspense that will leave you gasping.

  Twenty-four year old journalist Smyth McCullen is following the trail of a killer, right onto Fort Hancock Army training center. After two murders of young women just out of basic, both under the same drill sergeant, Smyth knows she must join the Army to unravel the truth.

  Little does she know that Basic is dangerous in more ways than one. Protecting her battle buddy, working through sixteen hours of grueling training a day, and following a potential bad guy, is nothing compared to falling for a dominant, undercover drill sergeant.

  Hunter Jones is undercover, looking into the potential murders under Drill Sergeant Cage's direction. He's been through many deployments, both public, and some not so public. He's interrogated bad guys, fallen behind enemy lines, and is prepared in every way to act as a drill sergeant and save another potential victim. What he's not prepared for is the sexy, young strawberry blonde who is definitely not eighteen.

  As their attraction grows, they march one step closer to the end of the session, and imminent danger. Can Smyth find the killer in time? Can Hunter protect the next target, especially if it's Smyth?

  Lovers of steamy romance, hot military heroes and plucky heroines will adore Katherine Deane's hot new romantic suspense.

  Dancing With A Dom

  To this day, I’m still not sure which is more embarrassing.

  Being left by your husband who says you are fat, overbearing, and frigid in bed.

  Or having to change partners midway through a season of televised dancing—because your partner can’t lift you.

  Both hurt. A lot. The first made me want to curl up into a little ball and hibernate. Since I had plenty of fat to store away for the winter, it didn’t sound like a bad idea.

  The second left me so angry, I waltzed the man through his own set of moves—straight up to the full mirror. Then I lifted him. Luckily, he didn’t get hurt. And I didn’t get sued.

  But that’s how I ended up over the knee of the hottest man I have ever met.

  After he spanked me, he became my new partner.

  We danced.

  The Scarlet Stiletto

  By

  Maggie Carpenter

  ©2017 by Blushing Books® and Maggie Carpenter

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Blushing Books®,

  a subsidiary of

  ABCD Graphics and Design

  977 Seminole Trail #233

  Charlottesville, VA 22901

  The trademark Blushing Books®

  is registered in the US Patent and Trademark Office.

  Maggie Carpenter

  The Scarlet Stiletto

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

  Chapter 1

  New York 1938

  Patrick McGuire laid back in his rickety chair and kicked his feet up on his desk. A former cop, Patrick never backed away from a fight and had no problem pulling a difficult woman across his knee, but the police force had seen him as a maverick. After many difficult days, he'd turned in his badge and hung up his shingle—Patrick McGuire, Private Investigator.

  Dropping his hat over his eyes, he let out a contented sigh. He loved his hat. It served many purposes, most notably, it helped to shield his eyes from the pink and blue light that flashed through his window from the neon sign across the street. It had been a busy week and he was weary. Jimmy's bar, around the corner, was beckoning, but he needed a quick snooze before heading out. He was nodding off when he heard the sharp clip-clop of a woman's high-heels. He loved the seductive sound, and a smile curled the edges of his lips. His secretary, Gladys, had already left, so he knew, at any moment, there would be a tentative knock on his door. He'd slip off his hat, straighten his tie, then invite the good woman in and listen to her story, doubtless another cheating husband. How many would that make it? Three hundred and forty-two? It was a private joke. He had no idea. Husbands suspected their wives more than wives suspected their husbands, but perhaps that was because—

  "You need to help me!"

  There had been no knock, and he hadn't heard his door open! Abruptly jolted from his thoughts, he sat up and hastily pulling off his hat, he looked up at his visitor. Swallowing hard, he told himself not to stare. It wasn't easy. A tall, willowy blonde with bright blue eyes brimming with worry was gazing down at him, but it was her pouty, crimson, kiss-me-now lipsticked lips that were grabbing his attention.

  "You are Patrick McGuire, aren't you?"

  "Yeah, that's me."

  Her perfume began to linger around him. It was warm and sensuous and floated around his nostrils, threatening to lure him into an erection,
one that would prevent him from standing up.

  "You have to help me," she repeated. "I'm in terrible trouble."

  "What kind of trouble?"

  Her voice was soft and feminine, and his eyes kept falling to her ridiculously irresistible mouth.

  "Terrible!" she repeated.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Terrible. I'm in terrible trouble."

  Patrick coughed. It wasn't a real cough, but it was what he did when he was rattled. A huge fan of Sherlock Holmes, he considered himself a master of deduction, with sharp instincts and an eye for detail, but he was finding it difficult to focus.

  "Sit down and tell me who you are and why you're here," he managed, doing his best to sound like the confident, competent private detective he was, or at least claimed to be.

  "I've already told you why I'm here," she exclaimed, dropping into the chair in front of his desk and looking at him urgently. "I'm in—"

  "Terrible trouble, yeah, I got that part, but you're going to have to be a bit more specific. Let's start with your name."

  "Ruby. My name's Ruby Rose."

  "Ruby Rose? That's quite a name," he remarked, thinking how well it matched her mouth. "Would you like a drink? It might help to settle your nerves.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he opened his desk drawer and retrieved his flask of scotch and two small tumblers. She might not want a shot, but he sure did, and taking his eyes off her for a minute would help him think. She was wearing gloves, but he could still see the impressive bump on the ring finger of her left hand. She was married. Of course, she was married. How could she not be? A gorgeous creature like her had to be married, and there was money. The fur collar on her thick wool coat appeared to be mink, but she'd left home in a hurry. Her makeup wasn't fresh, though she'd applied a coat of lipstick before entering his office.

  Splashing the amber liquor into the glasses, he placed one in front of her, and as she picked it up and lifted it to her luscious lips to take a sip, he downed his in a single gulp.

  "Now then, details."

  "This will explain it," she announced, her voice tremulous as she lifted a brown paper bag and placed it on his desk. "But prepare yourself."

  He hadn't noticed her carrying it. He chided himself. How did he miss it? He knew exactly how. He'd been so taken with her baby blues, wavy blonde hair, and that pouty scarlet mouth, she could have brought a suitcase into his office and he wouldn't have seen it. He hesitated. Based on her frantic demeanor, the innocuous brown paper bag could contain anything from a body part to a gun. Pausing to take a quick breath, he unfolded the top and peered inside.

  "Am I looking at a shoe wrapped in plastic?"

  "A red stiletto, to be exact."

  "You need to explain," he said, lifting his gaze and staring at her across his desk. "Why did you bring me a shoe?"

  "I didn't know what else to do. I didn't know where to go."

  "Mrs.—"

  "Ruby. Call me Ruby."

  "Ruby, I need more than that," he said patiently. "What's so special about this shoe, and please, tell why you need my help?"

  "Take it out. Take it out and look at it."

  Her voice was growing shrill, and hoping she wasn't on the verge of hysteria, he reached in and pulled it out. The shoe was glossy patent leather with an unusually high narrow heel. His reaction was immediate. He could easily imagine slipping it off her foot, then sliding his hand up her shapely legs to unhook the suspender holding up her black silk stockings. As a surge of energy rippled through his loins, he splashed some more scotch into his glass.

  "Look! Can't you see it?" she demanded, breaking into his salacious thoughts.

  "See what? It's a red shoe with a very high heel. It's clearly expensive, and—"

  "Blood! It's covered in blood!" she exclaimed, cutting him off. "It was sitting next to my husband when I found him."

  A sudden chill rippled down his spine. Doing his best to look beyond her beauty, he studied her face. What was it he was seeing? Fear? Confusion?

  "What do you mean, found him?"

  "My husband, dead," she replied in a hushed whisper. "In our library. His head w-was really messy."

  Had she just said, really messy? This was going from the sublime to the ridiculous, but much to his dismay, his member didn't care. It was now standing at full attention.

  "The fireplace poker was there," she breathed. "Right next to my perfectly wonderful scarlet stiletto!"

  Patrick downed his fresh drink in a swallow. The beautiful blonde sitting in front of him seemed to care more about her shoe than the fact that someone had smashed in her husband's skull with a fireplace poker. As the burn of the spicy liquor glided down his throat, the obvious question popped into his head.

  "What did the police say? Why didn't you give the shoe to them?"

  "Are you insane? How could I call the police?"

  "How could you not?"

  "Isn't it obvious? What kind of detective are you?"

  She was staring at him with wide eyes, ostensibly incredulous at his suggestion, but a healthy dose of skepticism was beginning to creep past her allure.

  "Apparently, the kind that needs things spelled out," he replied, a frown creasing his brow. "Why were you afraid to call them?"

  "Because they'd think I'd killed him, of course! Obviously, someone is trying to pin it on me. Why else would my shoe be there? You need to find out who, and you need to find out why."

  He paused, dropped his eyes to his desk, and decided, at least for the moment, to play along.

  "Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt your husband?"

  "Sure. There were plenty of people who didn't like him. He was a businessman."

  "Ruby, you're worried about calling the police and concerned about your shoe being at the scene, but you don't seem very upset that your husband has been murdered."

  "How can you say that? My poor Al," she said woefully. "He was such a kind man."

  Patrick rose to his feet, and turning his back to her, he stared down at the blinking pink and purple neon sign. Everything about her was distracting. Her beauty, that mesmerizing mouth, not to mention the confounding conversation. If she'd been worried about her shoe, why didn't she just get rid of it and then call the police? She was coming across as completely ditzy, but his instinct was telling him she wasn't. It was an act. She'd been sucking him in, and she had almost succeeded.

  Chapter 2

  Turning away from the window, his erection having somewhat subsided, Patrick walked slowly around his desk and perched on the edge directly in front of her. Ruby shifted in her seat, then crossed her legs and gazed up at him. It was a subtly seductive move, and to his chagrin, one that had an effect; a fresh wave of energy moved through his cock.

  "Ruby, how did you find me? Did someone suggest you come here?"

  "Rhoda. Rhoda Greenberg. You helped her last year, when she thought Harry was having an affair. Harry, that's her husband, but silly me, of course, you would know that. Was he? Having an affair, I mean? They seem to be happy now, but I've always wondered about that. She'd come over almost every day to talk my ear off, poor thing, but I didn't mind. Harry is such a handsome guy; I'm not surprised she was worried. He was always smiling, always so friendly."

  She was rambling. Was she trying to pull the conversation away from his question, or was it nerves?

  "Just so I understand correctly," he continued. "You arrived home, found your husband dead, and called Rhoda."

  "Yes, that's right. I called Rhoda."

  "What did you tell her?"

  "That I was in trouble and I needed help."

  "You didn't say what kind of help?"

  "Uh, no, I just said I wanted to reach you."

  "You must have been extremely upset."

  "Sure."

  "Didn't she ask you why?"

  He saw the flicker of hesitation, the what do I say now moment.

  "Ruby?"

  "Sorry, I was just thinking about how terrib
le this has been."

  "Terrible. You love that word, don't you?"

  "But it was!"

  "What did you tell your friend, Rhoda, when she asked why you were upset and needed to reach me?"

  "What does it matter? I don't remember, I just asked for your number."

  "Did she suggest you come over here in person rather than call, or was that your idea?"

  "I, uh, honestly, I don't remember. I think I was just so—"

  "I think you remember very clearly," Patrick said sternly, cutting her off. "And I think your bubble-headed blonde act is just that, an act."

  "What? How can you say that?" she demanded, righteously indignant. "I came here for help and you're insulting me!"

  "You could have called me, first, you could have thrown your shoe away, you could have contacted a lawyer, you could have done many things, but you put that red stiletto in a bag and came over here. How did you even know I'd still be in my office?"

  "Why are you being so mean? I'm suffering. My dear sweet husband is on the floor of the—"

  "Cut the crap," he said sharply. "You're lying. I don't know why, but you'd better start telling me the truth, and I mean right now."

  "You can't speak to me like that!" she exclaimed, jumping to her feet and glaring back at him. "Just who do you think you are? A desperate woman comes to you for help and this is how you treat her?"

  "You know what I did to the last woman who tried to pull a fast one on me?" he asked, lowering his voice as he locked her eyes in a steely gaze.

  "I'm not trying to—"

  "I spanked her!"

  He could see the shock as she stared back at him. An awkward silence descended, floating in the air like a strange odor, and Patrick had no problem allowing it to linger.

  "I don't believe you," she finally sputtered. "That's…that's—"

  "That's what I do with a wily woman who thinks she can get the better of me. I put her over my knee and I spank her."