short stories by award-winning, best-selling author Suz deMello, including
contemporary, multicultural, New Adult, historical, paranormal, shapeshifter,
medieval Scottish, vampire and power exchange.
Travers was fourteen, Dave Madsen, then age seventeen, rescued her
from a snowy death. They later met at an end-of-term party at their college and
lost their virginities to each other before Dave left the country.
spending her teenage years mooning overDave, Linda has moved on with her life. Being left pregnant and alone
will force that on a gal. Age twenty-five, she lives in their hometown with
their six-year-old, Mac. Then botanist Dave reappears. A vicious snakebite has
left him needing rehab from the only physical therapist around—Linda.
Their college lovemaking was the
first time for both, so Linda and Dave remember each other. She’s amazed to
feel the same old anger, hurt, and need. Less emotional, Dave’s curious about
Linda, wondering why she didn't leave her address and phone number for him when
what they’d shared had been so good. Neither totally believes the explanations
the other offers.
Since the rescue, Dave was always
Linda’s hero, but she doesn’t know him anymore. Is he worthy of fathering their
son? And what of their love? Can they create a future…together as a family?
This book has received many five star reviews on Amazon, with comments like:
"Be sure to read this great book!"
"I loved this book... It hooked me quickly and wouldn't let go.."
My story in this set is For My Master, romantic suspense with a touch of BDSM. Or maybe it's BDSM with a touch of romantic suspense!
This story is about agent Kathie Belmont, who's long lusted after her boss, Ross
Guerrero, but has never even flirted with him. Could he be the strong but
tender Master she craves?
Ross wants Kathie in his life—on her knees. But the
constraints of their jobs with an ultra-secret US security agency have come
between them. Will their undercover roles as a sex slave and her Master bring
Here's a snippet to pique your interest:
from Chapter One
Station chief Ross Guerrero tapped a pencil on his
blotter and scrutinized Kathie Belmont, seated on a straight-backed chair on
the other side of his wide, government-issue desk. A soft-faced young woman,
she had the healthy good looks of a college student or a California beach
cutie, common here in San Diego. Her mink-brown hair with tasteful gold
highlights was blunt cut at her chin, masking a strong jaw line. Wide,
long-lashed eyes regarded Ross with openness and candor.
With multiple piercings in each ear and a silver
toe ring peeping from her sandal, she looked like any girl attending San Diego
State, UCSD or even Chula Vista High. In reality, Belmont was twenty-nine years
old, had graduated with honors in criminal justice from Pepperdine, then gone
on to a short but successful career as a police officer in Los Angeles. She’d
joined the agency, performing well during training and in her first
assignments. Now he’d find out if she was ready for more demanding tasks.
Her appearance was as useful as her black belt and
her Glock. Living proof of the maxim “you can’t judge a book by its cover,”
Agent Belmont, who’d been orphaned as a teen, had capably cared for her two
younger siblings, fighting to keep her family together. She was as competent an
operative as any he’d encountered during his thirteen years with the agency.
situation.” Ross leaned forward. “There’s a group of baddies selling drugs just
over the border. Mostly steroids, but some crystal, crack, horse … you name it,
they’ve got it. Because they’re in Mexico, the usual law enforcement agencies
can’t go in.”
Her hazel eyes gleamed. “But we can.”
can. But there’s a twist.”
She shrugged tanned shoulders, revealed by her sleeveless
pink blouse. “Isn’t there always?”
their drugs and whores out of a party house.” He eyed her, wondering if she was
up for the job. “An orgy house.”
Her brows lifted. “They still exist in the age of
“They do. This one is in a chi-chi area called the
Zona Rio, on the south side of the Tijuana River.” He paused, tapping the
pencil on the blotter. “I can’t go in without a woman.”
She cleared her throat. “Exactly what would this
mission entail, sir?” Her voice was crisp and professional.
Even so, Ross noted the signs of nervous
excitement. A slight sheen of perspiration between her breasts, where their
tops were displayed by the scooped neck of her shirt. She fiddled with her hair
and didn’t meet his eyes. She crossed her suntanned knees, exposed by a blue
denim mini-skirt, then recrossed them, giving him a brief glimpse of pink
panties. His pulse jumped. Had she intended to flash him?
He cleared his throat. “They won’t know you
understand Spanish," he continued. "You’d listen as well as watch my
back. This is a group of evil bastards with absolutely no morals. They’re even
selling to steroids to minors, school kids with a dream of getting out of the
slums as athletes.”
Her lips firmed. “Let’s get ’em, sir.”
“Your life could depend upon unswerving obedience
to my commands. Truthfully, Belmont, I’m not sure you can do it.”
She bristled. “Why not?”
“Remember that Mexico is mostly a third-world
country. The status of women…” He shrugged. “You’d come with me as my
submissive. My slave.”
Her elegant jaw dropped. “You’re shittin’ me.”
He wagged a finger at her. “Language, young lady.”
“Pardon me, sir.” She shut her mouth with an
audible snap, then said, “Is this plan sanctioned by HQ?”
He evaded, saying, “You know that they give me
Her eyes narrowed. “In other words, no, but you
think you can get away with it.”
“So why?” she asked, her voice dropping to a shaky
“I think you know why, Belmont.” He walked around
the barrier of his desk and knelt next to her chair. His face was now level
with hers, and his gaze fixed on her eyes, her wide, nervous, expectant eyes.
He read fear there, as well as blatant feminine curiosity.
He’d have her exactly the way he wanted, but he’d
have to take care. A single wrong move, and she’d bolt.
He leaned closer, inhaling her cologne, a fresh,
bright scent he didn’t recognize but suited her perfectly. He let his lips
brush her neck, and watched the tiny hairs shift in subtle response. “You know
why,” he murmured into her ear before nipping the lobe.
She gasped, and he chuckled. “Just let go,
Belmont. Just…let go.”
She turned her head to shoot him a steady look
from those compelling hazel eyes. This time, their gazes met and clashed. Her
eyes were bold, unflinching, utterly unafraid.
My story is Alice's Sheikh, something I've been working on for a long time. While you might think that a sheikh story is too cliched/romance-y for the wild and wicked Suz deMello, you'd be wrong. In my mild-mannered persona of Sue Swift, I sold two sheikh books to Silhouette Romance, a now-defunct division of Harlequin--and they were both bestsellers. I am not the most canny of businesswomen, but even I understand that success leaves clues, and two bestselling sheikh books could mean a third bestselling sheikh book.
Alice's Sheikh is part of a projected trilogy called A Fortune to Win. The premise of the trilogy is contained in the Prologue to Alice's Sheikh:
LORD DARLINGSIDE AND WIFE MARA
DRUG OVERDOSE SUSPECTED
[ROME] The jetsetting couple known as ‘Marvey,’ Harvey
Winningham, Lord Darlingside and his supermodel wife Mara Tove, were found at
three a.m. today (local time) drowned in the historic Trevi Fountain. An
autopsy is planned, which many fear will confirm the initial assumption that
the couple’s known heroin addiction caused their deaths. Reportedly, used
syringes were found on the fountain’s marble balustrade… They leave three adult
children: Peter, age 26, the new Earl Darlingside; daughter Alice, 23, a
teacher; Sophia, 19, a model.
CONTENTS OF ‘MARVEY’ WILL REVEALED
[LONDON] …Though the Winningham family solicitor, Rabbie
White of White, Cheshire and Queen (Lincolns Inn Fields) remains closemouthed,
an unidentified source close to the family states that the Winningham fortune,
encompassing a manor house in Kent, a mansion in Hampstead, and invested monies
totalling some 50 million pounds, will be divided between ‘Marvey’s’ children. However, the ‘Marvey’ trust requires the heirs make a substantial non-monetary
contribution to society. Whether each child’s acts are sufficient to inherit is
a decision left solely to White’s discretion. Apparently Lord and Lady Darlingside
wanted to ensure that their progeny did not follow the same dangerous path they
here's a snippet to whet your appetite...
ort Sudan Airport,six months later
The clatter of gunfire shocked Alice Fortune into brief
immobility. Dropping everything, she ducked for cover under the nearest row of
shabby seats. The terminal’s interior lights went out, leaving a blackness so
absolute that it warned of a widespread power outage. Even the car park’s
lights had ceased twinkling through the grubby windows.
Shouts in a language she didn’t recognize pierced the air,
but otherwise, the little terminal was deathly still. She wondered if airport
personnel knew of an impending attack, for she was alone. Her heart banged
against her ribcage, and she told herself to stop inventing tales to scare herself
more. Wasn’t the situation frightening enough?
Sticky sweat poured off her body while the terminal, without
air conditioning, rapidly became sweltering. She huddled deeper behind the
dubious sanctuary of the chairs. After her eyes adjusted, she dimly perceived
lumps in the darkness—her luggage, including her satchel. She reached for the
satchel with a hesitant hand, but it was inches beyond her grasp. Sprawled
beneath the chairs, she wondered if she could take a chance, scoot out and grab
her most valued bag.
I am not a ditherer, she told herself. Fortunes do not
dither. We fling ourselves headlong into whatever fate tosses our way.
A distant motor rumbled, the sound growing louder, coming
nearer. She wriggled out from underneath the chairs, reaching for the satchel’s
sturdy leather strap.
A door flew open and whacked the opposite wall. Bright
lights stabbed through the thick gloom, streaming through open double doors
opposite the terminal’s street entrance. Silhouetted against the light was a
man, tall and muscular. He strode into the room, grabbed her questing wrist to
haul her out from under the chairs and onto her feet. “Hurry! We haven’t much
time!” he shouted over the beat of a helicopter’s blades, the growl of its
She stumbled, and her ankle twisted. With a yelp, she
regained her footing and jerked her wrist away. “Who are you?”
“Harry Ashraf. I came to pick you up. You’re Alice Fort,
aren’t you?” His firm, commanding voice reflected an Oxford education and much
Harry Ashraf. She peered more closely at him and, despite
the dim and shifting light, recognized him from photos she’d seen: Sheikh
Haroun ibn-Ashraf al-Aghiba, her employer. Hot Harry, the tabloids called him.
The appellation was beyond apt. Large dark eyes, fringed with lashes a woman
would kill for, plus cheekbones higher than Everest and a mouth made for deep
A masterful attitude that made her think of hot sex and
multiple orgasms. Not that she’d ever experienced either, but she read a lot.
And hoped. And dreamed.
“Er, yes,” she managed.
“So come on. We haven’t much time. The rebels have cut the
power lines and they mean to take the airport.” He seized her again, and wisdom
told Alice not to resist his strong grasp.
But Fortunes tended to be impulsive, not wise. She tugged
her wrist out of his hold and went for her satchel.
“Leave your bags. Everything you need is at my palace.”
“How do you know what I need?” she shouted at him, straining
to be heard above the helicopter.
“Listen to me! Are these objects, these bags, worth our
“Just this one!”
He threw up his hands. “Fine, fine! But come on!” He
sprinted toward the doors.
She grabbed her satchel by its strap and stumbled after him,
passed through the double doors and into a tunnel, the illumination provided by
the helicopter’s lights at its end. He was far ahead of her, and she feared she
was slowing him down too much.
Without warning, he turned and tackled her, shoving his
shoulder into her midsection. He straightened. Grunting, she folded over his
shoulder, draped over him like a poncho.
He ran for the helicopter. Alice clutched her satchel’s
strap with one hand and a loose bit of Harry’s camo flight suit with the other.
Upside down, she squeezed her eyes shut to avoid getting nauseated, and found
herself overwhelmed by other sensations. The hardness of Harry’s body. His male
scent. His strong arm wrapped around her thighs, holding her securely.
Desire thundered through her, but how could she be thinking
about sex? She squirmed. His grip tightened, and need rushed through her in
hot, unwelcome waves. Control yourself. She
breathed deeply, hoping she’d calm.
He raced through the tunnel, out of the terminal, and
pounded across a short stretch of tarmac to the waiting bird. His arm loosened,
and he slid her down the length of his muscular body, then set her on her feet.
A wave of dizziness that assailed her. She swayed.
He caught her around the waist. “Hang on.” His arm was
around her, secure and strong.
She gulped and grabbed onto the front of his flight suit.
His chest was solid beneath her scrabbling fingers. She looked up, meeting his
He smiled into her eyes, and her heart jumped. Then she
remembered who he was—her boss—and let go of him. He opened the door of the ’copter
and said, “Get in.” Gunfire popped, a little closer, and she gasped. He boosted
her up and into the small round cockpit, seemingly without effort. After he ran
around to his side of the ’copter and jumped in, she noticed he wasn’t panting,
didn’t show the slightest sign of exertion even though he’d just carried a
fifty kilo woman fifty feet and lifted her another ten.
She slid into the ’copter’s seat, then set her satchel on
the floor next to her feet, relieved to hear no clink of broken glass or scrape
of shattered pottery. Fumbling at the unfamiliar, many-strapped seat belt, she tangled
it completely while Harry secured himself and lifted the bird into the air.