Gunslingers & Garters

By Philippa Ann Holt

1887: From Russia to the Wild West to England, six secret agents indulge in competition, pleasure, and passion in three different tales of bad boys and headstrong ladies.

Flirting with Vengeance

Melissande Lenox is a lady and secret agent who doesn’t take “no” for an answer. So when her rival and former lover, bad boy bounty hunter Rory, manages to snipe her latest target out from under her, Melissande decides to get even. Soon, the daring mercenary is at her feet, doing exactly what she wants and begging for more. But when Melissande leaves him in an unexpectedly vulnerable situation, Rory decides it’s time to turn the tables. She leads him on a merry chase, but it won’t be long before the rogue puts her in her place...

Taming the Angel

Angelique “Angel of Death” LaCroix is one of the most cold-blooded bounty hunters in the west. It’s her sidekick, Jasper, who wants to know if she’s heartless as well. Jasper has remained a loyal shadow ever since the hitwoman rescued him from a whipping. The duo has cut a dangerous swath from one coast to the other, and back again. Now the handsome stray wants to show his appreciation to his merciless protector. He wants to do more than have Angel’s back. He wants to have all of her.

Claiming Her Heart

Lisalle Collins never expected the death of her husband to mean she would spend the rest of her life hunted by ruthless mercenaries trying to obtain information... from the tattoo that covers her entire back. The Administrator has lost both his best operative and closest friend. Now he will stop at nothing to protect the widow from those who want to use her for their own gains, but his money and influence may not be enough. And then there’s the fact that it’s not long before his reasons for seeing what’s under Lisalle’s corset go beyond his duty to Queen and country...

These sensual vignettes contain scenes of domination and one includes bondage. Each of these three short stories has an HEA.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Philippa Ann Holt
• Release date: Mar 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781005743291

Philippa Ann Holt

If you’re looking for something spicy, meet Philippa Ann Holt and her alter-ego, P.A. Holt.Philippa provides a saucy narrative with dashing men and low-cut dresses, while P.A. writes hot contemporary romances. Be warned: her taboo tales are beyond lascivious and not for the faint of heart!

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By Philippa Ann Holt

Copyright © 2018 Philippa Ann Holt

2nd Edition (previously published as Geared for Lust with Bacchanal Press, this edition is revised and expanded)

All Rights Reserved

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Published by Bacchanal Press

For more information:

www.bacchanalpress.com

Gunslingers & Garters: A Trio of Sensual Vignettes 

by Philippa Ann Holt

Flirting With Vengeance

April 1887 – Paris, France

It wasn’t the first time he’d taken a kill from her, but it was a particularly upsetting moment when Melissande Lennox found her job dead at her feet. She knelt and checked the victim.

Oh yes, stone cold dead. And that garrote was obviously the handiwork of the one person she hated most in the world.

Melissande straightened and looked down at the body. She gave it a kick of frustration for good measure, letting every ounce of hatred out through the toe of her perfect little boot. If only the body she kicked was her rival’s and not that of a man doomed to die anyway.

She turned and glared out the window, scanning the street for any sign of Rory Kincaid. Was he watching, gloating as she discovered the body? He was stupid enough to do it. Maybe even stupid enough to try to harm her.

A cold shiver raced through her and Melissande cocked her revolver. Better safe than sorry.

Then she heard it – a muffled snicker from out in the hallway.

Really?

Eyes narrowed, she backed toward the window and opened it. Then she crouched on the other side of the bed and waited. If Rory was out there, he would live up to expectations – burst into the room ready for a fight.

And that is exactly what the handsome Irishman did. He didn’t fire his gun, fool that he was, but from Melissande’s position, she could see him barely hesitate before approaching the open window.

She didn’t, she heard him mutter.

And then...

...she did, rising up swiftly and firing.

Unlike Rory, she didn’t harbor any tender feelings. Oh no. He had wronged her time and again over the years and this was the end of it.

Crimson red spread rapidly across his shirt from the gunshot to his upper chest. He looked at her, eyes wide and startled. Why? he gasped, stumbling back and touching his hand to the wound.

Why not? she answered before turning and disappearing out the window.

November 1887 – St. Petersburg, Russia

MELISSANDE RUBBED HER hands together in their black leather gloves and blew a tendril of her dark brown hair off her face. St. Petersburg in autumn was beautiful... and damn cold. The leaves had all fallen to the ground, leaving the trees looking dark and skeletal. It was her favorite time of year, though she wouldn’t have minded a slightly warmer assignment. Still, she took on every assignment, regardless. It kept her at the forefront of her profession, the assassin who could do anything.

The steam locomotive had deposited her at the station in St. Petersburg, and as she tried to figure out how to get to her destination, she had nothing to go on but a fifty-year-old map printed in 1837. It was outdated, even by Queen Victoria’s standards. At least that thought made Melissande smile. She only hoped her contact was at the inn as arranged or there would be hell to pay.

Somehow, despite the language barrier, she managed to find the address with help from the locals. It helped that the sign was just as the Administrator described it – aged white-painted wood with black scrollwork around the edges, atop a pole made of rusty, salvaged gears. At a glance, Melissande identified the machines the gears had probably come from. Paddle steamer, ice breaker, and horseless carriage. She cataloged the old parts the way most women cataloged their jewels.

As much as she wanted to admire the creative sign and the weathered, intricately carved wood framing the windows from the outside, the cold was too much for her to bear. It had been a long walk, after all. She grasped the iron door handle and turned it down.

A blast of warmth shocked her, though it did not take the chill away. Not yet. She stood for a moment after closing the door behind her, savoring the sensation of the heat and surveying the interior of the inn. Melissande could finally appreciate the snowflake carvings in the woodwork molding where the wall met the ceiling. A roaring fire beckoned her to the burnished tin and blackened iron of the hearth, but she stopped her steps with a sigh.

Her business had to come first. She could indulge in comfort later during the few moments she had for such pleasures. Though goodness knew her pleasures were few, especially since Rory was gone.

With a glance around the room, she assessed the few people in it. A young man in brown pants and suspenders, with black smears on his white shirt, bent over the grate before the hearth and scraped ashes into it. He then placed additional coals on the fire before picking up a tin bucket and walking through a back door. He didn’t linger, but went about his business without a backward glance.

Coal vendor, Melissande surmised.

A portly man with a bristly mustache that extended down to his chest from either side of his mouth sat on a heavy wooden chair, turning the pages of a newspaper. His collar was so stiffly starched, it almost looked like it would be painful to touch.

Mr. Walrus. Melissande shook her head. I mean... Right. She turned to the counter, where a young woman with blonde hair contained in a thick braid smiled at her.

Vi gavareetye pa angleeskee? Melissande had tried to memorize the phrase while on the train, but languages were not her talent. What talents she did possess were not fit for use in public. After all, they lived in a civilized society and it was of the utmost importance to keep up appearances.

Da, the woman responded, her eyes crinkling at the corners. You are a stranger here?

I am. Melissande heard the walrus-like man clear his throat with a harrumph, then the rustle of newspaper slapping against something. The man walked past her, muttered in Russian to the woman at the front desk, and continued out the front door.

I am Alexandrinka, but you may call me Drinka. How can I help you? The woman’s smile did not slip.

Even though they were alone, Melissande lowered her voice when she said, I’m looking for the best vodka in town. Code phrases were nonsense to her way of thinking, but it was still the best way to confirm her contact.

You have come to the right place. You will find it here. The innkeeper reached beneath the wood counter, set two tumblers on it, and poured a dash of clear liquid into each one. She then slid an envelope and a key across the wooden surface toward Melissande. Raising her glass, Drinka said, Vashee zda-ró-vye.

Melissande slipped the envelope into her coat, picked up her glass, and responded, To your health. After both women drank, she picked the key up off the counter and raised her eyebrows.

Last room at the end of the hall, Drinka said, still grinning. We serve supper at seven o’clock and you will find more vodka there. Enjoy your stay.

****

DESPITE THE SCENT OF the smoldering wood, the fire in the hearth had yet to chase her chill so, resigned to the discomfort, Melissande looked at her belongings she had laid out on the bed.

Besides the clothes on her back, she carried only what was necessary to do her job. In and out in twenty-four hours was her motto and practice. She picked up the Colt 1861 Navy and checked the cartridge and bullets. Jobs in Europe called for an American touch, while jobs in America called for a more hands-on approach. At least, that was her philosophy. It made the weapons harder to trace if they weren’t easily available on local markets.

For a moment, she closed her eyes and let the scent of cold metal and gunpowder take her back in her memories. Like Paris in the spring, when she had discharged her first and last bullet into Rory Kincaid’s lying, deceitful, treacherous body.

Love has nothing to do with it, darling, she whispered to herself. Nor does my broken heart.

The Administrator praised her as one of his most ruthless and efficient operatives. No one would peg her as nostalgic, but there were times certain recollections threaded themselves through her thoughts, some more pleasant than others. Like the sweet kisses she had once shared with Rory, only to have him betray her.

No room for sentiment here, she scolded herself. There is only the job. Emotion is weakness. Emotion is what got me in trouble in the first place. It won’t happen again.

Snapping her eyes open, she shut the cylinder and, gun dangling from her fingers, turned to the wardrobe. When she opened the door, she set the gun on the floor of the wardrobe and ran her hand over the dress hanging from the rod. Drinka had taken care of everything. Now it was up to Melissande to do her job and get out of St. Petersburg with everyone none the wiser.

With a grin, she shut the