Just Not Mine(2)

By: Rosalind James


Every man on the field was digging deep, giving everything he had, but there wasn’t enough time, and nothing the All Blacks could do to knock the ball loose from the Springboks’ grip as they held on, this match as important to them as to their New Zealand counterparts, because if New Zealand’s blood ran black, South Africa’s ran green.

Three minutes. Two minutes. Sixty seconds. The clock ticked down, and still the Springboks held the ball. The hooter sounded, a Bok kicked the ball into touch, and the game was lost, and so was the Championship.

You played the match you got on the night, played what was in front of you with all your heart and all your passion and every last bit of drive and determination and strength you could screw out of your body and your soul. You played for your teammates, and for the jersey, and for your country, and for mana.

And sometimes, it wasn’t enough.





A Trained Professional


Dr. Eva Parker opened her white lab coat to reveal what she was wearing beneath it, smiled in slow satisfaction at the reaction in the shocked eyes that were definitely not staring into her own.

Her outfit matched the coat, if sheer white lace could ever be said to match starched white cotton. A hard-working, low-cut demibra offered up her full, round breasts like treats on a shelf, while the tiniest thong curved over the perfectly smooth, perfectly moisturized skin of her rigorously-dieted hips, highlighted her absolutely, positively flat stomach. A diamond winked from the concave slit that was her navel, and a suspender belt kept her stockings clinging to the endless legs that tapered to the exclamation point of the killer black heels she always wore at work. Unless she was in the operating room, of course.

“Eva.” Bruce Dixon, the hospital’s administrative officer, groaned out the word. “I’m a married man.”

“My favorite kind,” she purred. Her fingers worked through his neatly combed blond hair, lingered on his smoothly shaved cheek, then traveled downward to splay against his chest. But not for long, because her hand was on a mission now, a heat-seeking missile homing in on its target, stroking down and down as she watched his eyes glaze, as she touched his abdomen with the lightest of caresses, landing at last on his belt buckle, her long, slim fingers with their red-polished nails playing with the leather strip, letting him know that she was more than ready to take it off, that he was well and truly hers.

“Ah, yes. My very favorite kind.” Her voice was low, sensuous, full of promise. “The talented kind. Because I can tell you’ve got a major talent right here. Talents are meant to be used, you know. I can’t wait to see how you’ll use yours. I plan to use it myself, too, be warned. And be afraid.” She smiled, a red-lipsticked thing that was pure predator. “Because I plan to use it, to use you, until you’re begging for mercy.”

“I can’t just make ethics charges go away,” he protested, sounding weaker by the moment.

“Of course you can.” She took hold of his necktie, leaned against his desk, and pulled him into her. She gave him a long, slow kiss, saw his eyes closing, felt every lingering bit of his reserve weakening, and smiled again. She was seductive, oh, yes, she was. She was deadly. She was a man-eater, a Black Widow, and she loved it.

“A man as powerful as you,” she told him, sweeping an arm behind her to send his pile of files tumbling to the floor, “can do anything. Anything you like.”

“And … cut!” Mike said with satisfaction. “That one’s in the can.”

Josie sat up, let go of Clive’s tie, and grinned at him. “Got you going there, didn’t I?”

“I am a trained professional,” he said, grinning back at her. “Just like you.”





Flight of the Hummingbirds


The Dance of the Ladybugs was cute enough. Six or seven three-year-olds wandered around the stage seemingly at random, bumping into each other to the accompaniment of clearly audible hisses from the wings. By the time the Waltz of the Butterflies came around, though, Hugh was bored. And endless minutes—or hours—later, when a bunch of little girls in pink tutus were earnestly performing the Flight of the Hummingbirds, he was just about catatonic.