In Her Company: Death's Relentless Dance (A Reverse Harem Romance), #1

By AJ Sinclair

How does an ordinary woman measure up when she's named after a legendary hero?

Dr. Indiana Jones has spent her life working to make the world a better place, so when the Scarlet Infection seizes Denver in its bloody, fevered grip, she fights back with her microscope. The city falls apart under quarantine, and Indie is trapped in her lab. She finds the cure. Now she has to get it out.

Only four strong, intelligent, dangerous men have survived of the one hundred fifty the Army sent to keep order. They arrest Indie, but she enlists their company to help her escape the quarantine. Their task is impossible and failure after failure send them spiraling into despair. But among the ruins, reckless love grows. Not just once but five times over. Can they make their unique relationship work? And will they live long enough to try when death's relentless dance goes on and on…

Warning: Graphic Content, Sexual Situations with MMMMF interaction, For Adults Only

• Language: English
• Publisher: AJ Sinclair
• Release date: May 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386317685

Book preview

Prologue

INDIE

Of all the holidays Indie’s family insisted on celebrating together, Independence Day had to be the most irritating. Loud, hot, and sticky. The relentless Colorado sun turned her mom’s potato salad into a festering science project that rivaled Indie’s most bizarre lab experiments. In past years, her dad and her brother spent all afternoon gathering fireworks and organizing them in order from annoyingly mild to explosively wild, building to a grand finale that had put the city’s display to shame and left the neighbor’s trees smoking. Recent droughts had put that tradition to an end, thankfully, leaving them with nothing but wimpy sparklers and smelly smoke bombs.

Indie pushed a patio chair further into the shade and sat down. The ice cubes in her Coke had melted to slivers, watering down her warm drink. She groaned and fanned her face with an unused paper plate, but only succeeded in spreading the heat around.

Come on, Dr. Jones. Dallas, Indie’s younger sister, jerked the plate from her hand and tossed it in the trash. Get off your butt and join the living. She angled her head at the gathering of relatives tossing water balloons at each other on the crunchy, browning lawn. You need some sun.

Indie rolled her arm and peered at her chocolate brown skin, the same shade it had always been. I’ve had plenty.

Dallas rolled her eyes and ducked as an errant water balloon flew over her head. She whirled and glared at their brother, Montgomery, who doubled over laughing. You did not! She snatched a handful of ice cubes from the cooler and chased after him.

The balloon had smacked the side of the house, barely splashing Indie. She grabbed another plate and tipped her head back, fanning her neck and chest. God, what she wouldn’t give to be back in her air-conditioned lab. She’d almost stayed. Even though the university had closed for the holiday, Dr. Julian Francis, her supervisor and mentor, kept piling on the work. He’d even forbidden her to leave at one point.  He was always trying to keep her from having a social life except for that one time he’d asked her out, which was odd. But he’d taken her to a symposium on viral mutation, which fit his agenda. Dinner afterward had been the weird part.

She’d ignored his order to work through Independence Day, even though she preferred the company of her rats to people. He’d rolled his eyes—people did that in her presence all too often—and told her to get out and get some sun.

Why is everyone so obsessed with the sun? She gave up fanning and abandoned her chair to grab an ice cube from the cooler and drag it along the back of her neck. Ahh...that helped.

Indiana, baby. A woman’s voice carried through the screen door.

Indie cringed at hearing her full name. Yeah, Mom?

Gloria Jones called out. Bring the potato salad inside. I’m afraid it’s gone bad.

Finally, an excuse to go in the house! Indie picked up the bowl and scrambled into the kitchen. I’m afraid it’s gone worse.

Her mother wrinkled her nose. Ew. Toss it.

Indie dumped the forgotten salad into the trash. You know I love this stuff, but you need to stop making so much. It never lasts.

Nothing ever lasts, dear. Gloria turned on the faucet and rinsed the empty bowl.

Where had that come from? Mom, are you okay?

Gloria shut the water off and gave her a weak smile. Yes, she sighed. I guess I’m just feeling my age today. Streaks of silver touched her once ebony hair and wrinkles gathered at the corners of her eyes, but other than that, her mother didn’t look much older than Indie.

Is Montgomery being an ass pain again?

A pointy-eyed glare was all Gloria needed to disapprove Indie’s word choice. Lord, that boy’s the reason I have gray hair. Do you know he handed me an iced tea and told me to sit on the porch with Aunt Elena and your grandma? She always referred to her mother-in-law as someone else’s responsibility. Like I belong with the old women drinking weak tea? ‘Families belong together,’ he said. Family, my ass. In-laws are spawned by the devil.

Your what? Indie couldn’t help smiling. You could’ve spiked the tea.

Don’t think I wasn’t tempted. Not enough alcohol in this house to deal with those two.

Did you tell him what he could do with his suggestion?

In no uncertain terms.

Indie grinned. We get it from you, you know.

All of my children got my stubborn nature. Fortunately, you, Indiana, got your father’s brains.

Why did you name me that? She’d asked the question before, and her mother gave her a different answer every time. Once, she’d confessed to an undying crush on Harrison Ford.

A sweet smile crossed Gloria’s face. So I’d always remember where you were conceived.

Good God, TMI, Mom. Was that story true? A wave of heat smacked Indie in the face. Why don’t you have the air conditioning on? It’s ninety-eight degrees outside.

Gloria shivered and hugged herself. Is it hot in here? I turned it off because I was freezing. And then she coughed. Again. She’d been coughing all morning.

Indie set the empty bowl in the sink and pressed her hand to her mother’s forehead. Clammy heat swamped her palm. You’re burning up.

Gloria shook her head. I’m fine.

The hell you are.

Language, young lady! I didn’t raise a foul-mouthed– Gloria clapped her hand over her mouth and coughed, great body-wracking spasms that brought her to her knees.

Mom! Indie dropped to the floor in front of her mother, her virologist brain kicking into high gear. What the hell is this? Blood spurted from between Gloria’s fingers and sprayed Indie’s face and chest. Daddy! Indie screamed, but no one heard her. I’m going to get help.

Gloria managed a nod then fell to the floor, coughs seizing her body.

Indie ran outside. Daddy! She spotted him across the yard, trying to wrestle a Frisbee away from her brother. She cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled. Emerson Jones!

Both he and Montgomery stopped and stood, gaping at her. The rest of her family stared too, screams erupting at the blood on her shirt.

Call an ambulance! Indie shouted as she turned and ran back into the house.

Silence descended. No coughing. Mom? No response. She’d left her mother in the kitchen, but a trail of smeared blood showed she’d crawled to the living room. Indie found her on the carpet, breathing shallow and fast while blood flowed from her glassy eyes. No!

Oh my God! Emerson dropped down beside them. What happened? He reached for his still wife.

Indie batted his hand back. Don’t touch her!

Montgomery burst in, grabbing onto the doorframe and retching at the scene. The ambulance is coming.

Indie stood. The doctors can’t help her. Viruses of every kind filled her lab. She worked with them every day without fear. But this shook her to the core. I’ve got to get to my lab.

Dallas grabbed Indie’s arm as she scrambled toward the door. You can’t leave!

I have to. Indie pulled free. I’ll do more good there than I can here.

***

What are you working on? Dr. Francis gripped his clipboard against his chest and glared through the observation window toward Indie’s microscope.

Indie sighed and sat up, stretching out the kinks in her neck from unending hours peering through the lens. The virus that’s killing my mother. She’d isolated herself and her work in the lab’s biohazard facility.

What? Dr. Francis scowled and checked his notes. That’s not your assigned project.

She blinked back at him. I don’t give a shit about my assigned project. My mother is in the hospital, bleeding to death. This is my only project.

Where did you get a sample of her blood?

I don’t have one. This is mine. She coughed blood right on me, but I’m not infected.

You’re immune?

I see some abnormalities here, but there’s no sign of active infection. Maybe I’m immune, but it’s too soon to say for sure. She bent over the microscope again, ignoring the pain in her neck. I need to go to the hospital and try to get an infected sample and compare the two.

The pain in her ass protested. You’re not leaving this lab. This side project of yours has put use far behind schedule.

I don’t care. Indie stood suddenly, butt muscles screaming against the shift from load bearing to purposeful motion. I’m going to see my mother, and you can’t do anything about it. Except complain, which she ignored as she put the slide away and grabbed her lab coat. Medical doctors seemed to accept her easier when she looked like one of them.

A hot gust of wind blew her hair back over her shoulders when she stepped outside. She hopped onto a light rail train, riding the E Line from the university to the hospital past the constantly busy interstate. The quick trip ended a few blocks from her destination, so Indie walked.

Denver residents went about their daily routines—drinking overpriced coffee, standing in line for a crowded lunch, laughing as they crossed the street—completely unaware that a killer virus stalked the city. Indie rolled her eyes at her overly dramatic thoughts. Her mom’s illness was an isolated case, not a global pandemic or even an epidemic at this point. A woman coughed, startling the man next to her. He jumped aside and placed his hand over the opening of his travel mug.

Too late for that. Indie hid a smirk as the wind tossed her hair in her face. Another woman pulled a surgical mask from her purse and placed it over her mouth and nose. That’s not going to help. The woman coughing should’ve been wearing the mask to protect those around her.

The hospital entrance bustled with activity. An ambulance sat at the emergency room doors while paramedics argued with a nurse about admitting the patient they were transporting. The nurse refused them, but the paramedics insisted, and the conversation went nowhere. Red numbers stood out on the ambulance’s white side panel. Unit 327. Now that number would stick in Indie’s head.

Inside, the hospital staff scrambled to accommodate the mass of people waiting to see a doctor. Every seat in the waiting room was filled. Children glowing with fever whimpered on their parents’ laps, a pregnant woman stood with her back against the wall, and an Indian man bent over the reception desk, coughing while attempting to give his insurance information. The cringing nurse tried to avoid scooting closer to understand his heavily accented English.

Coughing surrounded Indie, loose, wet sounds from deep inside the lungs. The hairs on the back of her neck rose as she approached a computer directory. She winced at the smudged touchscreen and cleaned it with the anti-bacterial wipes in her coat pocket, grateful she always carried them, though it wouldn’t do much good against a virus. She typed in her mother’s name, found her room number, and headed for the elevators, tapping the up button with her sleeved elbow.

The arrow pinged, and a moment later, the elevator doors slid open and two doctors jumped out, rushing past Indie. Shivers ran down her spine as their anxious words carried down the hall. Contact FEMA. We can’t handle this.

Handle what? Indie stepped onto the elevator and forced a smile at the nurse shaking in the corner and biting her fingernails. Silence accompanied them as the elevator lurched upward.

The overpowering smell of bleach smacked Indie in the face, stinging her eyes as the doors slid open on the fifth floor. But even that couldn’t cover up the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of bile emanating from the rooms. Indie swept past them with her arm pressed over her nose and pushed open the door to room 537.

Dallas jumped and spun to glare at her. "Where the hell have you been?’

Well, look who finally decided to show up. Montgomery snarled as Indie rushed to her mother’s bed.

Shut up, Monte. Indie barely acknowledged him, pressing her palm to Gloria’s humid forehead. Mom, how are you? Her mother’s eyes remained closed. Can you hear me? It’s Indie.

Gloria’s eyes fluttered open and a weak frown creased her lips. Indiana. Then she smiled at her daughter.

She’s still here. Indie sat on the bed beside her. Why did you name me that?

Gloria’s smile widened even as blood trickled from her eyes. You’re my hero.

Obviously feverish. Indie shook her head. She’d wanted to have the cure ready by the time she came to the hospital, but she’d failed. I know that’s a story.

Monte stood behind Indie and crossed his arms over his chest. Has the great Dr. Jones found a cure for this thing?

Indie stood to face her brother.