Marked by Passion

"What the hell were you doing out there?" Rhys asked through clenched teeth.

The way he stared at me—angry and knowing and possessive—made me uncomfortable. I fought the urge to fidget by getting pissy right back. "So are you going to tell me why you were looking for me or what?"

His eyes narrowed, and something shifted in the car. He didn't move an inch, but suddenly he crowded me. I felt my power flare, panic following close behind. Oh God—if something happened to Rhys, I'd never forgive myself. I desperately tried to pull it together, but the more I struggled to keep it in my grip, the more it slipped away.

Rhys's fingers lifted my chin, and I opened my eyes just as his mouth touched mine. I gasped at the slow warmth that filled me, head to toe.

"Gabrielle," he whispered. I felt his hot breath intimately, and he gazed into my eyes as he brushed his lips against mine for one more delicate kiss.

More. His sweet kisses didn't satisfy my need. In fact, they only whet my appetite....

* * * * *

"A sexy world of kick-ass action! You'll want to immerse yourself in MARKED BY PASSION, the first in a thrilling new series, complete with a smoldering hero and the toughest, sassiest heroine around."

—Veronica Wolff, author of
Sword of the Highlands

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

Much gratitude to...

Holly Root. She says she's an agent, but she's really a superhero. I'm positive she's got a cape and mask stashed in her desk.

Latoya Smith. She brought this story to life. All authors should be so lucky as to have an editor like her.

The kung fu gang. They unknowingly helped me choreograph the fight scenes. Special thanks to Andre Salvage (who teaches me to fight despite it all) and Jon Chintanaroad (who spent one long car ride brainstorming Gabe's powers with me).

Julie Linker. She loved this story even when it was a germ of an idea. Although I don't know how she'll feel when she finds out I didn't give Gabe a motorcycle.

Veronica Wolff. The gods were smiling on me the day I met her. She always has a shoulder and a glass of wine waiting when I need them. I'd be a blathering heap if it weren't for her unwavering support and awesome critiques.

Katie Salvage. A good friend understands when you need to disappear for weeks because of a deadline. A great friend will join you while you work, even if you can't socialize, just to spend time with you. Katie is a great friend.

Parisa Zolfagari. She answered the phone every time I called, even though she knew the conversation was going to start with "What if Gabe..." She's a smart woman who always knows when to suggest a cupcake pick-me-up. Words can't convey what she means to me.

Nate Perry-Thistle. Nate is love. I'm blessed he's mine.

Also, thanks to Loren Cheung for help with the Chinese lingo (mistakes are my own).

And a special shout-out to the crews at Café Reverie and Coffee Bar, who so cheerfully fed and watered me while I was hammering this story out. If you're ever in San Francisco, stop by and visit them.

G
abrielle Sansouci Chin?"

I
froze. In the twelve years I'd been bartending at the Pour House, no one had ever called me anything but Gabe, much less pronounced Sansouci correctly—
sahn-soo-si
—with a French accent, to boot. But what startled me most was the use of Chin, the last name I'd dropped fifteen years ago.

Eyes narrowed, I stopped stocking the refrigerator behind the bar and turned around. A tall hulk of a man stood on the other side of the counter with a package in his hand.

It had to be the contract—I wasn't expecting any other deliveries. My stomach lurched as I stared at the thin box. Probably nerves.

I looked at the guy again. He was more well groomed than your typical deliveryman. Custom suit and manicured nails. More like Lloyd's of London than FedEx. Weird for a courier. Gallery 415 must employ a higher-quality service than most.

His brow furrowed. "Are you Gabrielle Sansouci Chin?"

"Yeah, I'm Gabrielle." How did the gallery know my real last name? I only went by Sansouci, my mother's maiden name. Whatever. As long as they sold my paintings, they could call me whatever they liked—even Chin.

He nodded. "Sign here, please."

"No 'I've got a big package for you' or anything?" He gazed at me flatly. I couldn't resist a glance at his crotch. "You don't think your package is that big?"

His eyebrows arched, but he remained impressively silent.

Some people just didn't appreciate humor. I waved my hand. "Give it to me."

He held out his clipboard, and I scrawled my name on the line he indicated. As I reached for the slim box, he pulled it back. "Sign here, too."

I shrugged and did as he commanded. The gallery really took pains with security. Nice—it made me feel like I was in good hands.

"And initial here. And here."

"A little overkill for just a contract, don't you think?" I glanced up at him as I scribbled "GS," but he just stared back implacably. He waited until the last flourish of the pen before handing over the box.

A shiver ran up my spine the moment I touched the box—so strong I almost dropped it.

He chuckled mockingly. "Good luck," he said, then he strode out the front door.

Weird. I hadn't been so nervous about this showing before. Not that I didn't have cause for the nerves—it wasn't often the premier art gallery on the West Coast offered a one-woman show to a virtually unknown artist. Only the artist that had been booked fell through, and Chloe Evans, the gallery's director, had been desperate to fill the empty spot on her calendar. She'd seen some of my older work, but it was the first two paintings in my
Enter the Light
series that convinced her to take the risk.

Now I just had to produce the last three paintings in the series, and I had seven weeks to do it. I suppose there was a possibility of failing, like if the paintings sucked or I choked.

A very distant possibility. No way was I going to fuck this up. This was what I'd been working toward for the past fifteen years. This was how I was going to make my mark on the world.

Yeah, confidence wasn't an issue for me—not once I set my mind to something. Which made the sudden flare-up of nerves all the more strange. I frowned at the box.

The broadsword-shaped mark on the inside of my right hipbone prickled.

"Hey, Gabe," Jerry called from the end of the bar. "Who was the stiff?"

I held up the box. "Courier."

"Is that what I think it is?" Milo, who sat a couple seats away from Jerry, asked.

My grin was wide and triumphant. "Hell, yeah, it's my contract."

They cheered, clapping and whistling shrilly. My heart warmed. I'd known them from the beginning of my stint here. They'd seen me struggle to make it as an artist— they knew what this show meant to me.

I didn't want to think what it said about me that the closest I came to family were two construction workers who frequented the bar I worked in. Or that my biological family wouldn't have been half as proud of me. Except for Mom, but she was dead.

I blinked away the uncharacteristic moisture that gathered in my eyes as I thought of her. Fifteen years didn't make me miss her any less. It didn't erase any of the guilt over her death, either.

The front door swung open, and a shaft of light broke the bar's afternoon dimness and my dark thoughts. Clearing the emotion from my throat, I turned to greet the newcomer. But then I saw him, and the casual hello I'd been about to say stalled on my tongue.

He walked in tall and broad, his medium-length brown hair fluttering from the wind outside. He moved like a warrior bent on conquering—I half expected to see him clutching a sword. His focused stare made my breath catch in my chest. His vivid eyes were the same blue as my favorite glass sculpture at the de Young Museum—bright and clear but with amazing depth.

The first thing that struck me was this feeling of connection—like I knew him. Absolutely ridiculous—I'd never seen him before in my life. Trust me, I would have remembered.

My second realization: he wasn't what he appeared to be. He wore a fabulous suit. A businessman? No way. Businessmen didn't ooze danger, and he wore power as casually as the custom-made clothes.

And all that power was headed straight for me.

For some reason, the damned birthmark on my hip tingled again. Rubbing it absently, I met him down the bar, away from Jerry and Milo. For privacy.

Being private with him would be fun. A lot of fun. I would have liked to indulge, but with all the work I had to do it'd be foolish to get distracted by a man.

Too bad, though.

"Get you something to drink?" I asked.

He studied me for a long, silent moment before he said, "A finger of scotch, please."

Oh, God—he had a British accent, too. Like James Bond, the ultimate bad boy, come to life.

Did I mention my weakness for bad boys? The flutter of interest I had before flared into all-out lust. I tried not to imagine him rolling around in silky sheets, whispering naughty words to me in that delicious voice of his. Unfortunately, being an artist, my imagination is pretty active.

Focus, Gabe. I resisted the urge to ask him if he had any impressive toys he'd like to share with me and got out a bottle of fifteen-year Laphroaig—the best scotch we stocked.

I poured some into a crystal tumbler Johnny, my boss, kept for himself, covertly studying him under my lashes. He had a scar I hadn't noticed on first inspection—a thin, raised line that bisected the left corner of his mouth. How did a businessman get a scar like that? Trip and fall against his desk?

Intriguing.

As I handed him the drink, our fingers brushed and a wave of heat rolled through me, languid and steamy and seductive. Like it was feeling me out. Or feeling me up. I gasped and jerked my hand away.

His gaze sharpened, its intensity searing. I expected him to say something, some comment about the weirdness that just occurred. He just dropped a bill on the counter and walked away to a table in a dark corner.

I watched him settle in the shadows. I couldn't see more than his outline, but I knew without a doubt he still watched me.

Bizarre. Maybe it was just me. Maybe I was subconsciously stressed because of the gallery show and was looking for an outlet. Had to be it.

"Hey, Gabe." Jerry held out his pint glass. "Before you go all hoity-toity on us, can you get me a refill?"

"Sure thing." I nodded at Milo's glass. "Another pale ale? On the house. We're celebrating."

Milo knocked back what was left of his beer and pushed his glass toward me. I drew their beers and poured a Coke for myself. "For the record, I'm not going hoity-toity. I still plan on working here." It wasn't like this one show was going to make me set for life. But it was the solid start I needed.

"So what does this contract entail? And have you had a lawyer look at it?" Milo's face took on an angelically calculated look. "Because my nephew Murphy is a lawyer."