Russian Heat
Russian Heat
Big, burly and bristling with high-powered weapons, Vlad and Slava are the best bodyguards and hostile environment consultants Russian money can buy. They’re also about to meet their five-foot match. Government veterinarian Jane Ransom expected explosives, shelling and bad-tempered ewes while working in Russia’s war-ravaged Caucasus mountains, but nobody warned her about excessively hot Russian bodyguards. Or long hours spent sandwiched between them in a backseat designed for two.
Russian Heat is for sale at Amazon.
Excerpt
Muttering, she stashed her blood-filled vacutainer in her storage box, grabbed her sharps bucket and high-tailed it to the safety of the armour-plated Zhiguli.
Yuri sat behind the wheel, a battered, hand-rolled smoke dangling from his lower lip. His rollie filled the car with tobacco fumes pungent enough to make diving back out into the war zone a temptation. Barely eighteen, downy fluff coated his top lip and he swam inside his body armour, unlike the two men backing toward her with rifle points raised.
Viacheslav Alexandrovich Vlasov and Vladislav Ivanovich Markov. When she’d first heard their names she thought she’d have to call them V1 and V2, then she’d heard them call each other Slava and Vlad and had stuck with that. The two were military through and through, cocky from boot tip to brush cut, their good looks a warning shot to celibacy. She’d bet her last vacutainer that they’d left a trail of broken hearts all the way from Vladivostok to St. Petersburg. One look at her appointed hostile environment consultants and she’d realised that hob-nobbing through the Caucasus Mountains sampling animals for anthrax and other diseases would be the least dangerous part of her job.
As she shed her body armour and helmet behind the car door, Vlad sank to kneel beside her, rifle point angled at the west ridge. Her heart did a lazy flip-flop because she knew what he would say next--what he always said when it was time to get back in the car.
“Sandwich time, Jane.”
Big, burly and bristling with high-powered weapons, Vlad and Slava are the best bodyguards and hostile environment consultants Russian money can buy. They’re also about to meet their five-foot match. Government veterinarian Jane Ransom expected explosives, shelling and bad-tempered ewes while working in Russia’s war-ravaged Caucasus mountains, but nobody warned her about excessively hot Russian bodyguards. Or long hours spent sandwiched between them in a backseat designed for two.
Russian Heat is for sale at Amazon.
Excerpt
Muttering, she stashed her blood-filled vacutainer in her storage box, grabbed her sharps bucket and high-tailed it to the safety of the armour-plated Zhiguli.
Yuri sat behind the wheel, a battered, hand-rolled smoke dangling from his lower lip. His rollie filled the car with tobacco fumes pungent enough to make diving back out into the war zone a temptation. Barely eighteen, downy fluff coated his top lip and he swam inside his body armour, unlike the two men backing toward her with rifle points raised.
Viacheslav Alexandrovich Vlasov and Vladislav Ivanovich Markov. When she’d first heard their names she thought she’d have to call them V1 and V2, then she’d heard them call each other Slava and Vlad and had stuck with that. The two were military through and through, cocky from boot tip to brush cut, their good looks a warning shot to celibacy. She’d bet her last vacutainer that they’d left a trail of broken hearts all the way from Vladivostok to St. Petersburg. One look at her appointed hostile environment consultants and she’d realised that hob-nobbing through the Caucasus Mountains sampling animals for anthrax and other diseases would be the least dangerous part of her job.
As she shed her body armour and helmet behind the car door, Vlad sank to kneel beside her, rifle point angled at the west ridge. Her heart did a lazy flip-flop because she knew what he would say next--what he always said when it was time to get back in the car.
“Sandwich time, Jane.”