Genetically created to be broodmares, Phyrne Galaxy and her mother, aunt and cousin don’t need men, they need freedom. They escaped from the warring planet of Kergeron to Earth, where Phyrne’s aunt’s vision of winning money in a New Jersey casino comes true. Too bad her aunt’s precog didn’t show the hoods waiting outside with guns. But Phyrne has her own weapon, more powerful than bullets. She’s ovulating.
Phyrne turns up the heat, taking out more than the crooks in her wave of sexual torture. FBI Special Agent Hawk Higgens, running to protect the women, is brought to his knees, too. Caught in her procreative spell, Phyrne ravishes Hawk.
Being seduced by an alien and left half naked and unconscious in the back of a surveillance van changes Hawk’s life. He joins the Foundation, a privately funded agency that hunts aliens. Six years later, the reason for his career change pops back on the radar in a tea shop in Kentucky. The woman whose face still haunts his dreams has an addition to her family – a five-year-four-month-old daughter.
At the same time, two Kergeron warriors are sent to Earth to bring the women back to their home planet. With an ex-FBI agent and two alien warriors on her trail, Phyrne’s calm life running the Tea & Comfort shop is about to get shaken, stirred and screwed.
Hawk sat down and peered around her at the room. Liss was waiting on two women with a half dozen shopping bags they’d set on the empty chairs at their table for four. Deena was chatting with Nelson. The redheaded woman seated at the front window was frowning at her laptop screen. Only the husky man watched them, his eyes narrowed.
“What do you want?” Phyrne settled into the chair opposite him, her back to the diners.
He turned his gaze back to her, and his heart thumped, his breath slowed. It was like looking at a sun so bright it was blinding. With all her imperfections, she was too glorious to be human.
Forcing his breathing to its normal rhythm, he said, “You have a daughter.”
She stilled. The rise and fall of her breasts stopped.
He curled his hands into fists on his thighs and reminded himself to keep breathing.
Parting her lips, she nodded, and her breasts rose. “I don’t want you near her.”
“According to the birth certificate, she was born almost nine months to the day after you raped me.”
Her face flushed, her cheekbones stained the color of a gilded rose. “It wasn’t rape. You were willing.”
He leaned forward and put his hands on the table. “You did something to me.”
She leaned back and crossed her arms. “You did something to me.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Dog got your tongue?”
“It’s cat got your tongue.”
“From my memory of our mutual encounter, I’ll stick with dog.”
Not funny, but her eyes lit up and he fought an urge a laugh. “A convenient memory,” he said, and the light in her eyes dimmed. Good, he thought savagely. He wasn’t here to amuse her.
A bell rang and she twisted to look behind her at the white-haired couple carrying packages. Though she had her back to him, he felt her desperation, as if she’d hoped someone had come in to rescue her from him. As if he were the villain and not her.
“It’s getting busy.” She faced him again. “I need to help.”
He said the next words purposely. “Your aunt should be back from her grocery shopping any moment.”
She sat straighter, her expression blank, her eyes alert. Like a rabbit spotting a dog and freezing in place, watching to see whether it would go away or pounce.
“Hurry and ask your questions. I want you to finish and go away.”
He leaned halfway over the table, his head thrust forward. In her space. “Is Birdie my daughter?”
“No.” She spoke too fast, her features too controlled.
Her lips opened, her eyelids lowered, giving her a pre-orgasmic expression. Damn her, she was doing this on purpose. But maybe he was wrong. Maybe she did this as naturally as the stars glowed in the night sky.
She leaned toward him, and he steeled himself not to move back. She stopped five inches away from his face. So close her warm breath whispered across his face.
“Did you think you were the only one?” she asked.
“Only what?” He concentrated on not reacting.
“The only man to fuck me.”
He jerked back, his spine hitting the chair back, a denial screaming inside his mind, her words cutting his heart. It was insane to be hurt, insane for anger to rise in him, hot and bitter, making him want to use words to cut her back. But one of the first things he’d learned from his mother was that life was insane.
“It’s easy to find out if I’m the child’s father. Give me a DNA sample.”
He watched her face closely. Her answer would tell him if the girl was his. If she said yes, if she didn’t care, he’d believe her. Maybe.
“You must think I’m a fool.” Her face was stony, not revealing any emotion. She jumped up, the chair legs scraping across the tile. “You don’t have the power to tell me what to do. Show the video to the world if you want. Put it on YouTube or the evening news. You’re not changing my mind. I don’t want you near Birdie.”
He stood, and leaned toward her. “I don’t give a damn what you want.”
“You stay away from Birdie or I’ll… I’ll…” In her floundering, the brave mask cracked and desperation played across her face.
He smiled without feeling any humor or any pity. She didn’t deserve his concern. “You’ll what?”
The mask came back, the cracks sealed. Her spine was as straight as a rifle stock. She slipped her hand into her apron pocket. Through the thin fabric, he saw her clutch something.
“I’ll call the police,” she said, but she was bringing the item up.
He stepped around the table but she was too quick, the gun out, her back to the diners so no one saw her but him.
“Better yet, I’ll kill you.”
“My overall conclusion would be that you’d be crazy not to want to read this book!” -Blodeuedd and Lis (joint review), Book Girl of Mur-y-Castell
“Edie Ramer has yet to let me down. Her spin on extraterrestrial life had me glued to my book.” -Amiee, Coffee Table Reviews – 5 stars
“…the novel is not a valley of niceties, which is what makes Edie Ramer such a gifted writer: this creative worldbuilder takes serious issues and discusses them in ways that are funny enough to bare.” -Magaly Guerrero, Pagan Culture