The Bullet Catchers are back! Here’s another brief excerpt from First You Run, the latest release from Roxanne St. Claire launching a brand new 2008 trilogy of heart-stopping romantic suspense!

EXCERPT #3
First You Run

The man gripped Miranda’s upper arm, and in one move had her two feet from the podium.

"Go. Now." He held her firmly, walking her to the railing that overlooked the first floor.

"Wait a second!" She tried to yank out of his grasp, but it didn’t loosen.

He leaned close, near her ear. "I’m going to help you. Move."

The store manager ran up the stairs, horror on her face at the chaos in the room. "What’s going on?" she demanded, breathless.

The man steered around her. "Dr. Lang needs a safe place to go. Now."

Without questioning, the young woman thrust out a huge ring of keys. "The silver one will get you in the stockroom downstairs. It’s right past the--"

He seized the ring. "I’ll find it." With a gentle push, he urged Miranda forward. "Move. Fast."

She managed to free her arm and glare at him. "Who are you?"

"At this moment, house security. You want to stay and be eaten by the natives, or get somewhere safe?"

Her linguist’s brain stalled. His voice was thickly, beautifully, richly accented with the distinct sheared sounds of Australia, and it matched him perfectly. She glanced over her shoulder where the instigator ranted on, standing on a chair and flipping flyers to the crowd.

"Go to this web site," the leader of the mayhem called out. "Find out the truth. Find out how to avoid the inevitable." He paused to glower at Miranda, meeting her gaze with one that was full of hate.

Holding on to her rescuer’s powerful arm, she flew down the steps, turned a corner behind a stack of reference books, and hustled toward a door in the back. Stabbing the key into the lock, he threw open the door, stuck his head in and checked it out before nudging her in, and joining her in the closet- sized room jammed with cardboard boxes.

"Are you all right?" he asked, the concern unmistakable in that lyrical voice.

She would be as soon as her heart stopped punching her ribs. "I’m fine. I just...didn’t...." She blew out a breath. "Thank you. I didn’t see that coming."

He guided her into a cracked vinyl chair. "Quite a unique crowd you draw."

"I never dreamed the crazies would be here."

"The crazies? Who are they?"

She looked up at him -- way up, since he had to be over six feet -- and searched his face. Who was this lifesaver who swooped in from nowhere? Was he one of them, and this all a ploy to ruin her first event?

But she didn’t see anything crazy about him, only intense whiskey colored eyes framed in thick lashes the same shade as his too-long hair and a shadow of a beard that culminated in a little tuft the kids on campus called a soul patch. Dangerous, yes, but not crazy.

"That’s just my name for a group of zealots who calls themselves the Armageddon Movement," she replied. "Who are you?"

He smiled, adding attention-grabbing dimples to his growing list of attributes. "Adrien Fletcher." He held out his hand and she shook it. His palm was wide, strong and masculine.

"Miranda Lang," she replied.

"The famous author." Fie-mous oh-thah. Oh, that was pretty. And just in case the accent wasn’t endearing enough, he added a little squeeze, and a wink, like they shared an inside joke.

"Not so famous." She released her hand. "No one’s ever heard of me."

He pointed over his shoulder, in the general direction of the second floor reading area. "Evidently those people have."

"Fans like that, I don’t need." She frowned a little. "Why are you at the Page Nine on a Friday night? You don’t look like a regular at readings here."

"I just wandered in a bit ago. I saw there was an author reading and I was curious. Didn’t expect I’d have to work tonight."

"Work?"

"I’m a security specialist."

"Whoa." She drew back, a half laugh caught in her throat. "Talk about serendipity."

"Talk about it," he agreed, unleashing another blast of dimples.

She stood and smoothed her skirt. "I think it’s safe to go out, now."

"Not entirely, but we’ll check, and then duck out."

Disappointment dropped her back on the chair. "My first signing, totally ruined. I won’t sell a single book."

"Don’t be so sure." He reached for her hand and tugged her up. Despite Miranda’s five-foot-six plus two inch heel height, they weren’t eye-to-eye. More like eye to soul patch. "Controversy is usually good marketing."

Outside the stock room, only a few people meandered about. Toward the front of the store, she spied the stack of her books, as tall as it had been when she’d walked in. A bottle of water sat in a ring of condensation, two pens next to it.

"Maybe I should just sign a few stock copies," she said wistfully.

But he nudged her forward, with a shake of his head. "Not a good idea. Anyone could be waiting to renew their heated debate."

"You’re right." She walked with him to the front of the store. "Anyway, the night is spoiled, and over."

"It doesn’t have to be over," he said, his voice rich with implication.

At the cash register, the clerk held out a plastic bag to him. "Here you go, sir. The book you purchased."

He nodded thanks, took the bag and led her out to the dimly lit sidewalk. Then he opened the bag. "Would you sign it for me?"

"You bought my book? Before you heard me speak?"

"I thought they might run out."

"Yeah, that was likely." Reaching into her purse, she found a pen and opened the cover, searching for the right words to thank him and, maybe, impress him. She looked down at the open page, the pen poised. But all she saw was a piece of white paper with stark, dark letters across it.

Have dinner with me.

She stared at the words, written in all caps. All confidence. All style and flair and total command. And no question mark at the end.

"For an expert in the nuances of language, you sure are taking your time," he said.

Slowly, she lifted her gaze to meet his, drinking in the smile, the dimples, the twinkle of invitation and attraction in his eyes. "When did you write this?"

"When I saw you walk in the store." He lifted one eyebrow. "C’mon, Miranda. At the very least, I can keep you out of harm’s way for a few hours."

Under all that hair, an earring glinted. Under that tight T-shirt, a tattoo peeked. Under that lyrical voice, a man who had targeted her before she knew he existed.

He was harm’s way.

And, for reasons she had no intention of explaining, that appealed to her. "Yes. I’ll have dinner with you."