|  Just
Breathe
July 2001
Ballantine Books
Mass Market ISBN: 0-8041-1967-8
Trade Paper on demand ISBN: 0-3454-9060-6
• Buy the Book
• Awards and Reviews
• Excerpt
A train, a kiss, and a dead body...
Former CIA agent Matthew Broussard came to Vienna to catch a killer. But when
his only lead is shot dead, he is left without answers and with an injured witness
in his arms. The enticing young woman may be his last chance to resolve the tragedy
that still haunts his past. He cannot let her out of his sight, even if it means
getting close to someone again.
For aspiring travel writer Chloe Nichols, escorting a tour group of wealthy
old ladies through Europe was supposed to be anything but thrilling. Then she
is rescued from an assassin's bullet by a stranger on the train—a perfectly
handsome, charming stranger who saves her life with a kiss and asks her to pose
as his fiancée. Chloe believes Matthew is trying to protect her, until
the seductive charade becomes part of a lethal international conspiracy in which
no one is what they seem—including her captivating hero...
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Awards and Reviews
National Readers Choice Award, Finalist, Best Romantic Suspense
Texas Gold, 1st place, Best Contemporary Romance
Daphne Du Maurier Award, 3rd place, Best Single Title Romantic Suspense
 "A
wonderful, not-to-miss, stay-up-late read." —Philadelphia Inquirer
"JUST BREATHE is, without reservation, the best romantic suspense
story this reviewer has ever read. Ms. Davis has done a superb job in creating
a fantastic plot with magnificent characters.” —Reader
to Reader
"Mission Impossible meets Ally McBeal" —Publishers
Weekly
Excerpt
Prologue
Volksgarten, Vienna, Austria - 1985
The
wind whistled through the trees, whipping the rose bushes into a frenzied dance,
their canes thrashing in the wind, like bony arms reaching for something. Reaching
for me. Lisa pulled her sweater around her, shivering.
The night air was chilly, and laden with the heavy scent of roses in bloom. Masses
of them. She hurried along the narrow pathway, trying to stay focused on the task
at hand. Leaves rustled. She glanced from the path to the roses. In the dark of
the night, they were no more than black on black, ghostly shadows weaving in the
wind.
Stop it.
She shook her head and clutched her sweater even tighter. She really wasn’t cut
out for this cloak-and-dagger stuff, but a good reporter always went to the source,
and, unfortunately, the voice on the phone had been insistent that this was the
source -- or rather that the statue of Elisabeth was.
There was something ironic about it all. A Cold War dead drop and the statue of
a Hapsburg empress murdered by an anarchist. Perhaps the caller had a sense of
humor. Or perhaps this was simply a wild goose chase. Perhaps there was nothing
to find. She left the main trail, stepping into the deeper gloom of the trees.
The pressing question was one of credibility. Could she trust the caller? She’d
damn well better be able to. She’d gone out on a proverbial limb for this one.
Despite the fact that certain people -- very credible people -- thought the promised
information was, at best, a hoax, and at worst, the ramblings of an addled brain.
The path split, one branch snaking off to the right and the other curving left.
She stopped, trying to remember the way. Everything looked different at night.
Sinister. She sucked in a breath, and chose the left-hand fork. This was not the
time for the willies.
If her source was telling the truth, this could be the beginning of a very bright
career. The kind of thing that wins journalism prizes. All she had to do was find
the bloody statue and retrieve its hidden treasure. Proof positive. She shivered
again, this time with anticipation. The trees began to thin a little, the path
twisting out of sight behind a closely clipped hedge.
Almost there.
Something hissed past her cheek. She slapped at it, thinking that it was too early
for midges. Another hiss, this one followed by a burning sensation in her chest.
Her hand automatically covered the site, and she recoiled at the feel of something
sticky.
Blood. Her blood.
Ducking instinctively, she forced herself to run, her mind still scrambling for
an explanation. The crunch of shoe leather on gravel broke the silence of the
night. Someone was on the path. Veering right, she scrambled into the trees, hot
pain searing through her body. She stumbled and fell, the soft spring grass cushioning
the fall.
She tried to roll over, to get up, but the world went all wobbly, her strength
draining away, pooling beneath her with her blood. She swallowed, trying to force
air into her lungs, but the effort was almost more than she could stand. The wind
whispered through the trees, pulling the branches back like hands on a curtain.
Stars twinkled in the night sky.
Benign magnificence illuminating evil.
A branch snapped, and Lisa turned her head. Moonlight flickered against pale skin
and dark eyes. Knowing eyes. Satisfied eyes.
The eyes of an executioner.
The eyes of a friend.
Sudbahnhof, Vienna - Present Day
“So
tell me, dear, have you ever actually had a multiple orgasm?”
Chloe Nichols’ eyes widened as she pulled her Walkman’s earphones from her head.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I asked if you’ve ever had a multiple orgasm?” Charlotte Northrup tilted her
head to one side, a perfectly penciled eyebrow raised in question.
Chloe’s face heated to lobster red. Great, she resembled a crustacean. Not exactly
glamour girl material. The train rumbled along, its clickity-clacking rhythm seeming
to underscore the question. She struggled to find words, trying not to stare at
her seatmate. Charlotte pursed her lips, obviously waiting for an answer. She
looked so earnest -- so interested.
“I mean these books,” the blue-haired dowager tapped her well-manicured finger
against the cover of her romance novel knowingly, “make it sound so wonderful.”
The last was more of an exhale than a word. “My ex-husband barely gave me enough
time for one orgasm, let alone a whole slew of them.” She leaned forward, eyeing
Chloe as though she were the shaman of sex. “So have you? Had one, I mean.”
If possible, Chloe’s face burned even hotter. She hadn’t had a single orgasm in,
well, ever. And frankly, romance novels depressed her. All those happy endings.
Chloe sighed, wishing their other companions would return. She needed reinforcements.
On the other hand, maybe that wasn’t such a great idea. Wilhelmina Delacroix and
Irma Peabody were cut from the same cloth as Charlotte Northrup. Willie and Charlotte
had been friends forever. Lord, they probably talked about these sorts of things
all the time. And Irma? Well, her Midwestern practicality would certainly shed
new light on the subject. The thought of the three of them, together, discussing
multiple orgasms was simply beyond comprehension.
For better or worse, the compartment door stayed stubbornly closed, and Charlotte
raised an eyebrow again, obviously waiting for some snippet of coital wisdom.
Chloe struggled to think of something to say. Charlotte looked so hopeful. There
was nothing to do but lie. It was the only way. She opened her mouth to answer,
just as the train lurched to a stop.
Static crackled over the loudspeaker, a message blaring in three languages, all
equally unintelligible. Thank goodness, a reprieve. “I think we’ve arrived.” Chloe
glanced out the window at the train platform. It was an underground station, and
the dim lighting made it hard to see anything clearly.
“We’d best hurry.” Charlotte closed her book with a snap and stuffed it into her
bag. “You know what Thomas said about getting off the train quickly.”
Chloe nodded and gathered her luggage, tucking the Walkman under her arm. Thomas
Hardy -- obviously a man with a literary mother -- was their tour director. She
smiled, thinking of his dour face and neatly trimmed beard.
He reminded her of someone’s butler, or what she imagined a butler to be like.
She’d never had any firsthand experience with that sort of thing, but definitely
if there was a butler type, Thomas fit the mold. And right now, the memory of
his clipped accent was ringing in her ears, warning them that European trains
didn’t stop for long. “Look sharp, ladies, and move quickly.”
Chloe followed Charlotte, stopping at the compartment door to adjust the strap
of her bag, balancing it against the weight of her overstuffed backpack, and wondered
what in the world had made her decide to carry all this stuff when there was a
perfectly good porter assigned just to them.
Chloe sighed. She’d blame it on all those years as a Girl Scout. Be prepared.
Or was that the Boy Scouts? Well, either way, a girl never knew what she might
get into. Chloe winced. She was certainly walking proof of that statement.
She stepped into the crowded aisle of the train, squeezing between other departing
passengers. Charlotte had already disappeared from sight and the rest of the group
was nowhere to be seen either. They’d probably already disembarked. She’d best
get a move on. Thomas was a stickler for punctuality. And given the circumstances,
she didn’t want to do anything else to annoy him.
The woman directly in front of her was obviously a devotee to the Chloe Nichols’
plan for lugging luggage. She was loaded down with three suitcases, and trying
to juggle them as she struggled along seemed to be more than she could handle.
With a muffled and rather unladylike curse, the woman fumbled her burden, two
of her suitcases tumbling to the floor. Chloe skidded to a stop, and something
hard and solid slammed into her back. She looked over her shoulder directly into
a pair of amused gray-green eyes set into a wonderfully masculine face. Chiseled
was the word that came to mind. Chiseled and gorgeous. Her heart actually did
a half-gainer into the general region of her stomach.
His hand steadied her elbow as the overloaded woman scrambled to retrieve her
fallen luggage, the one piece still remaining in her possession swinging precariously
as she struggled to maintain her balance. “I don’t think she understands the meaning
of ‘pack light’.”
His whispered words sent tremors of heat chasing through her, adding to the electricity
of his touch. At this rate, she would be answering Charlotte’s provocative question
affirmatively without ever removing her clothing -- or even knowing the man’s
name. She smiled at the ridiculous turn of her thoughts.
Another passenger stepped out of his compartment, pushing between them before
she could respond. A surge of disappointment rocked through her, surprising her
with its intensity. Luggage lady finally moved forward, and Chloe followed, pushing
all thoughts of the handsome stranger firmly out of her mind.
The steps down from the train were daunting, and she paused, trying to figure
out the best way to approach them. The last thing she needed was to wind up sprawled
on her butt in a pile of her unmentionables, especially with Mr. Make-Her-Heart-Sizzle
somewhere back there.
A ferret-faced little man, cursing all women and their suitcases, shoved past
her, pushing her off balance as he descended the steps. She teetered, then fumbled
for footing, hanging onto her luggage like a lifeline. Not that it was doing a
bit of good.
She felt her stomach drop three stories, and then she careened downward, something
stinging her arm as she collided with the pushy man. He broke her fall, but did
nothing to preserve her dignity. She ended up straddling him, blood staining the
sleeve of her blouse, her skirt hiked up to her thighs, her self-respect taking
the next train out of the station.
Amazingly, the platform had cleared and there were only a few people milling about.
She grabbed an errant lipstick and comb, stuffing them into her purse, then fumbled
for a CD that had managed to escape its case, sighing when she saw the condition
of her Walkman. It was doubtful it would ever play again. Except for the throbbing
in her arm, she seemed to be unhurt, and she was thankful no one was staring.
At least there were no witnesses to her latest debacle. It seemed even Mr. Wonderful
had disappeared. She breathed a sigh of relief.
As if on cue, he materialized, kneeling beside her, his face a scant two inches
from hers. She could smell his aftershave. Feel his heat. Charlotte’s words slid
down her spine again. Multiple orgasms.
“Move.”
Her addle-brained daydreaming vanished in an instant. She slithered off the ferret-faced
man, noticing for the first time how still he was. “Are you all right?” The little
guy didn’t move. In fact, he hadn’t moved since she fell. Concern spiked through
her, and she reached out to touch him.
“Come with me. Now.” Mr. Wonderful, who was rapidly turning into Mr. Bossy,
yanked her to her feet.
She turned to face him, meeting his steady, green-eyed gaze. “He needs help. We
have to do something.” Her voice wavered, uncertainty battling with common decency.
Mr. Bossy started to move, pulling her with him, his eyes sweeping across
the platform, looking for something. “I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do for
him now.”
“Of
course there is. It’s my fault that he fell. The least I can do is call for some
help.”
He urged her forward as he increased the pace. She struggled to hold onto her
luggage, grateful when he took it from her. “Right now, the most important thing
we can do is get you out of here.”
“But the man -- ” She looked back over her shoulder.
“Is dead.”
Excerpt from JUST BREATHE by Dee Davis, Copyright ©2001
by Dee Davis. All rights reserved. Reprint only with permission from author. Please
contact
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