Friday, August 16, 2013

Just a little tidbit, a beginning, from something I am working on.  I hope you enjoy it!

When the crowd parted at the intersection, the air was cooler than Sabine had expected.  The bodies surrounding her must have been insulating and now they were gone.  She pulled her sweater tighter around herself.  Past some the fence, she glimpsed something.  Aly!  She waved an arm and held up the white bag, but no strong, freckled arm returned the gesture.  She moved her head to the left and right, trying to see around the few remaining bodies blocking her view of the lawn.  Then she found him.  The red hair and tall, massive build were hard to miss, even from a distance.  Sabine’s face crinkled into a bright grin.  She waved again.  He didn’t see her.  He was crossing the lawn with the long, fast strides of intention.  A strong gust of wind lifted Sabine's fine pale hair off of her shoulders and wrapped its icy fingers around her neck.  She coughed, choked, as her mind processed what she was seeing across the sidewalk.  White heavy paper slipped from her fingers and fell down to the stones below.  A fruit tarte rolled out of the bag and then fell to its final resting place before a brown boot smashed it to bits on the hard ground.  

Sabine snapped her rich brown eyes shut reflexively, trying to block out the sight.  But it was still there when she opened them.  Alastair.  Bastard. Arms wrapped around some girl…yes, definitely a girl…much younger and thinner than she.  Sabine couldn’t gauge the face of Alastair’s accomplice because he was devouring it so completely.  But she did have thick, exotic black hair that fell just above a tiny waist that sat atop long, slim legs.  Sabine tried not to immediately compare them to her own thunder thighs, which were currently cased like sausages in the tight, uncomfortable jeans Alastair had claimed to love her in.  Tears stung in her eyes.  Stupid freaking tarte.

A shiver coursed through her body.  She was unsure whether it was from the low temperature and the fine mist so typical of Scotland in the springtime or if it was a side-effect of spotting Alastair and that raven-haired vixen snogging in the middle of the quadrangle.  Her eyes narrowed as she glowered at them.  If she really thought about it, she should probably be glaring at herself.  After all, it was her idea to hop on a plane and chase after him.  No—that’s entirely unfair.  He had asked her to come, begged, more like.  He probably thought she wouldn’t.  But alas, here she was...abandoned in St. Andrews.  
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Thursday, August 15, 2013

“You must be the local crime scene team,” the deep voice interrupted her daydream.  Emily realized she had wandered away from Sarah, who was still pulling her equipment from the van.  Embarrassed, Emily looked around searching for the voice’s owner.  

“Over here.”  

There it was again, that rich baritone. But this time, she saw a hand waving off in the periphery on her right side.  Emily’s eyes zeroed in on the hand and then scanned down the navy blue jacketed arm up to broad shoulders where an exceedingly handsome face was waiting.  And what’s more, it was smiling right at her.  Emily sucked in a quick breath with surprise.  I thought feds were, well, not that hot, that’s for sure, she thought.  She raised a hand slightly, acknowledging her collaborator.  

Ethan Clarke eyed the small, exquisite woman in the enormous crime scene suit with amusement.  He’d been watching her for the past few moments; studying her copper-colored hair, those luminescent evergreen eyes, the smattering of freckles on her perfect nose, and her luscious rosy lips.  To his surprise, he found himself wondering about the rest of her beneath the gigantic suit.  He unfolded himself from his crouched position on the ground, standing tall, his athletic, near six-foot-frame towering over the woman.

She had accidentally stepped a bit too close to him, so she was forced to look up at an awkward angle.  But even from that vantage point, his chiseled jawline and muscular form caused her skin to tingle with goosebumps.  She looked down quickly, directing her stare toward the forest floor.

He thrust a tan hand toward her.  “Ethan Clarke, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he said, his intense expression fixed on her. 

“Emily Fox,” she said quietly.  She tried not to look up, but she could feel his eyes on her.  Her heart raced at the prospect.  Whatever that prospect might be.
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