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When a Man Loves a Weapon: A Bobbie Faye Novel [NOOK Book]

Overview


Gun shot wounds, double crosses, sparring, S&M, and good ol’ fashioned Southern romance abound in the latest adventure starring everybody’s favorite “hurricane-force heroine” (The Tampa Tribune) Bobbie Faye.

 “Bobbie Faye is an outrageous hoot.”The New Orleans Times-Picayune

Living single in her trailer was great for a time. But now Bobbie Faye’s officially engaged to, and has purchased a home with, the hottest FBI agent on the beat:...

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When a Man Loves a Weapon: A Bobbie Faye Novel

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Overview


Gun shot wounds, double crosses, sparring, S&M, and good ol’ fashioned Southern romance abound in the latest adventure starring everybody’s favorite “hurricane-force heroine” (The Tampa Tribune) Bobbie Faye.

 “Bobbie Faye is an outrageous hoot.”The New Orleans Times-Picayune

Living single in her trailer was great for a time. But now Bobbie Faye’s officially engaged to, and has purchased a home with, the hottest FBI agent on the beat: Trevor Cormier. Even though she still has no idea what he really does on the job, Bobbie Faye has never been happier…until Trevor gets called away on an urgent assignment and leaves her in the care of body-guard slash babysitter Riley.  

 “A wise-cracking gal with a knack for getting in trouble… [Bobbie Faye] is one you won’t want to miss.”Romantic Times BOOKreviews

As it turns out, Bobbie Faye could use a little extra security. The man she helped put in behind bars, the murderous Sean MacGreggor, has escaped from prison…and is dead-set on revenge. With still no word from Trevor—who was only supposed to be gone for three days—Bobbie Faye finds herself reluctantly turning to her detective ex-boyfriend Cam for help. He’s willing to do whatever it takes to protect Bobbie Faye…so long as Trevor stays out of the picture. For good.

“Fast, feisty, and ferociously funny.”—Booklist on Girls Just Wanna Have Guns


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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781429933865
  • Publisher: St. Martin's Press
  • Publication date: 8/4/2009
  • Sold by: Macmillan
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 352
  • Sales rank: 127,150
  • File size: 368 KB

Meet the Author


Toni McGee Causey lives in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. She and her husband, Carl, are licensed general contractors and, in order to support her writing addition, they run their own company, specializing in civil construction.

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Read an Excerpt


One

Bobbie Faye Sumrall lay flat on her back on the thick blue mat in the sparring ring, and if she weren’t so exhausted, she’d kill him. If she could just roll over and push her rancid sweaty self up, she’d crawl out of the room, pride be damned, and find the gun. It might take days to load because she’d probably have to load it with her teeth, her arms were so tired, and then she’d probably have to prop the damned thing up on something and ask Trevor to please move within range because she was too worn out to aim properly. And then she’d shoot him, assuming she had the strength left to pull the trigger.

If she thought hard enough, maybe she could come up with a good argument that "lying in a slobbering heap" was the same thing as "being prepared for the next disaster." There had to be some rationalization somewhere she could use, dammit. Because Trevor seemed to believe that another disaster was imminent and that she needed to be all prepared and shit.

He leaned over her and the light from the rafters of the old converted barn gave him a halo. He grinned, white teeth against tan skin, biceps bulging and forearms cording as he crossed his arms against his tight black t-shirt, and his wavy brown shoulder-length hair fell into his Satan-blue eyes. The least he could have done was broken a sweat.

"You’re improving," he said. "You almost managed to land a kick that time."

"I hate you."

His grin went from merely smug to completely obnoxious. "You did not hate me before breakfast. Which reminds me, we need to add strawberry jam to the shopping list."

Her eyesight fuzzed for a moment as her brain just skipped right on away from the subject of how much of a pain he was being, making her work out for hours every day, and frolicked over to exactly what he’d done with that strawberry jam. Now her favorite food on the planet. She hadn’t even known you could do that with a topping, and she had a friend who ran an S&M magazine.

"We could have stayed in bed all day," she pointed out. "I’m on vacation. You’re on leave. Allllll weeeeeek."

"And you," he said, squatting next to her, "are still hesitating. You’re not firing as fast, you’re not hitting as fast, and you’re thinking too damned much."

"I don’t think anyone’s ever actually accused me of thinking too damned much."

He glowered at her.

He was right. What was worse was that he knew that she knew that he was right. She really really hated that.

She needed a temporary amnesia potion.

Of course, she did not dare tell that to her boss, Ce Ce, who had a little voodoo side business to her Cajun Outfitter and Feng Shui Emporium where Bobbie Faye manned the gun counter. Ce Ce’s potions often had unexpected side effects. With Bobbie Faye’s luck, a "temporary amnesia potion" would probably erase way more than just the stuff she wanted to forget. She studied the man waiting next to her, his blue eyes heated like someone had turned on a blaze as his gaze roved over her body, and there were just some things she was not willing to sacrifice, no matter how much sleep amnesia might give her.

"C’mon, slacker. Up. You have at least thirty more minutes of sparring, and then we’re going to run."

"Did you have to pinky-swear you’d be a relentless, impossible hard-ass when you joined the FBI?"

"No," he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he stood up, smiling. "Pinky-swearing was all the rage back in Spec Ops. The Feds are big on promise rings." He offered her a hand to help her up. "You can do this."

"Ugh. Just shoot me now." She saw him shift, and she might as well have slapped his face, the way his relaxed stance stiffened, and she felt her own body tense in response. The tightening of the muscle in his jaw was infinitesimally small; most anyone else wouldn’t have noticed it, but she did and she knew what fury fiashed through him when that little muscle quirked. Fury on her behalf.

Four months ago. Three shots. Meant for him.

Bobbie Faye had jumped in the way.

They didn’t talk about it. At all. Every single morning, he kissed the scars, and every single night he held her, his long, lean fingers splayed out over that area as if he could ward them off, shove away the memory.

"Hey," she coaxed, tugging his hand, trying to dispel the mood, "he’s a metric buttload of miles away."

"MacGreggor escaped." He bit the words out with the same harsh disgust as the first time he’d told her. He’d damned near gone feral, his protective instincts kicking into full gear those first few weeks, and she’d had to fight him to keep him from putting them into complete lockdown mode. He’d have put armed guards on her if she’d have let him, and he’d vetoed traveling to meet his family and his family traveling to meet her. Hell, he’d have vetoed going to the grocery store and Ce Ce’s and ever seeing the sunlight again if she’d have listened to him. Good thing she’d patented "titanium-level stubborn" years earlier.

"He escaped three months ago." She was going to put a happy spin on it, if it fucking killed her. "And he’s heading toward Canada. We know that from the tips and witnesses calling in." There was a BOLO out on Sean on every continent—a "be on the lookout for" notice that went out internationally, at all levels of law enforcement. "He’s trying to get home." To Ireland, she hoped. Well, she hoped for Hell, because Ireland had never done anything to deserve Sean MacGreggor, either.

She watched Trevor tamp down his fury, that ice-cold hatred he had for Sean MacGreggor, the man Trevor had shot. The man who’d promised to come back and "claim" Bobbie Faye.

She’d been studiously ignoring that little nugget of information. Trying to be normal, what ever the hell that was. She’d actually slept a whole night. Well, sort of a whole night. Okay, four hours without waking up ready to fight someone and accidentally smacking the crap out of Trevor.

Still, she’d been working her ass off to convince him she was okay. "Hey," she said when he didn’t answer, "everything is back to normal . . . in fact, better than normal, all flowers and sunshine and fluffy clouds. I have set a whole new record of no one trying to kill me. I think I should get a trophy."

"C’mon." He reached for her again, not smiling at her attempt, his perfect poker face back in place. For an absolutely hot man . . . her Hormones took their own little detour at that moment to wander over his muscled thighs, nearly derailing her entire brain with an Ode to Man . . . he could go granite cold, a veneer he carefully adopted whenever he was undercover. It had become something of a personal goal to make him forget how to use that mask, particularly with her.

He pulled her to her feet, his sparring gloves smooth against her arms, and they stood face-to-face—er, eyes to chin, technically, since he was nearly six inches taller at six foot. She gave him a big grin, which inspired his suspicious appraisal.

"You realize," she poked him playfully in the ribs, "that as soon as we get me in prime fighting form, I’ll get flat-tened by a bus instead."

And just as he started to retort, she landed a punch and didn’t take the time to revel in his surprised expression, though he did manage to block her next flurry of moves. Damn freaking man. Two steps later, she nailed his thigh with a kick and they were suddenly game on, sparring, and she came very very close a few times to almost landing another one. Close enough to make Trevor’s eyes narrow, and he had to concentrate and not merely bat her away. Ha. Girl power.

She maneuvered him the way he’d taught her and, in one sweet move, the angels sang and the Universe was distracted from bringing on her total abject humiliation and she managed to take him down. They slammed against the padded floor mat, and if he hadn’t immediately rolled and pinned her beneath him, she’d have danced around the ring like a winning prizefighter.

Instead, she kissed him. Which made him relax. Whereupon she flipped him over and straddled him.

She’d have paid big money to have a photo of his expression—half shock, half pride. She wriggled on top of him and leaned down, kissing the corner of his mouth.

"You need to focus," he said, the words grinding out against her lips.

"I am focused." She smiled and kissed him again, and reminded herself that she was getting to marry this man.

"You planning on using this technique on everyone you take down? Because that’s a lot of guys I’ll have to kill."

"I’m not sure whether to be annoyed that you’re obsessing again, Mr. FBI, or happy that you think I’m capable of taking down multiple men. I landed a punch and a kick and a takedown. I think we need to celebrate." She grinned, running her fingers through his hair and wiggled just enough for him to be absolutely certain that sparring practice was over.

"Let’s go with happy."

He yanked off his shirt as he rolled over onto her, his hard body pressed along her own, his skin against hers delicious and warm against the cool air in the barn, like safety somehow sheathed in danger. Her body hummed as he braced on one arm and slid the other hand over her, a knuckle rasping just beneath her breast while he kissed her, possessing, dominating. She liked that he could be bossy and strong and rough and gentle at the same time and she wasn’t quite sure how he managed it, this treating her like an equal, but still his. Then she quit thinking completely as she burned beneath the fire of his kisses trailing down the line of her throat. She wasn’t entirely sure when he’d unhooked her workout bra, but she shivered beneath the scratch of his days-old stubble against her breast as he raked his teeth across her nipples, biting, then his tongue soothing, her body flooding with heat and want and need.

"Up," he commanded, and she arched her bottom and he stripped off her shorts—thank God for military efficiency—and she was bare to him. The mat warmed beneath her, the rough calluses of his palm sliding down her hip, past the little birth control patch that she’d checked with the religious fervor of a born-again zealot. His hand slid up her inner thigh until his thumb brushed her, his fingers sliding inside, his mouth taking hers, fast, hard, at the same time, and she nearly came undone at his searing attack of her body.

Then he lifted off her for a moment, a brief heartbeat of loss and cold, and just as suddenly, he was there again, having stripped off his shorts, and he lay down beside her, his blue eyes dark, serious. He seemed lost in the curves of her hip, the angle of her knee, studying her as if all the answers lay there, in the bend of her elbow or the place where he knew she was ticklish just beneath her ear. His face was all confidence and darkness, and she’d seen that hunger before on card sharks in a room full of thieves, a look that was patience and determination and secrets, his fingers sliding with knowledge and skill and when she moved to touch him, he stilled her with a shhhhhh.

"Let me," he whispered, and then he took his ever-loving time about it, ’til she felt taut and aching and scattered all at the same time, cards spread on the table, play me.

There may have been whimpering. Possibly a little begging.

Okay, a lot of begging, and she tried to urge him to move faster, but he was ruthless, and he shut her up with an entire repertoire of kisses that tilted her world, and she shuddered beneath his utter control just as—

—his cell phone rang. The Bureau calling. She recognized, and loathed, the specif c "urgent" ring tone he’d assigned so that he’d know the difference between pure administrative crap that could wait and the life-threatening other crap that could not. She’d itched many times to pick up that damned tyrant of a phone and "accidentally" lose it in the garbage disposal, but the freaky thing was so sophisticated, she wouldn’t be a bit surprised if it not only resurrected itself, but videotaped her and ran and tattled.

He kissed her and she forgot about the phone for a second, or ten, and then it stopped ringing. He took his time at the corner of her mouth, braced on one elbow, leaning over her, his other hand playing intricate patterns, weaving through her long hair, its dark, rich browns like dark coffee against her ivory no-tan-for-you-this-summer skin.

The phone rang again. The damned thing went everywhere with him. Even to this barn behind the tiny house he’d found out in the middle of nowhere, south Louisiana. The frayed old house, worn at the edges like her favorite boots, tossed almost absently beneath great sprawling trees on acres of land—land bordered by a massive swamp that spilled into an enormous lake. Another ring. They were at the end of the world out here, somewhere back in primordial time, in the Mesozoic era, if she could judge by the size of the damned alligators she’d seen when he’d taken her on a boat ride to show her the property boundaries.

He tried to ignore the call, his hand guiding her into turning toward him, bringing her back to him as he hung onto his control, trying to keep them right there, in that moment, just them together, no duty intruding, but the phone kept shrilling, echoing off the barn walls, and Trevor sighed, touching his forehead to her own as she flopped her arms out against the mat, resigning herself.

"Sonofabitch," he muttered, knowing he had to answer.

He was supposed to be on leave for another two weeks. The damned FBI had called him every single day. Sometimes, several times a day. She didn’t know what exactly he did, but he was assigned to freaking south Louisiana. How busy could they possibly be?

He rolled off her and crossed the sparring ring to grab the phone, and she listened to his very brief, tense side of the conversation.

"What?" he asked. Then, "No, it’s—"

He stood, back rigid, muscles granite. Silent. There was a stillness to him that made her very very nervous, as if he were a predator about to spring, and she held her breath. "I’ll be there," he said, then snapped his phone shut.

He didn’t tell her what the call was about, and Bobbie Faye knew better than to ask, but it fucking killed her. Fucking FBI and fucking missions and fucking going away and he’d only be leaving right now if it was bad. And didn’t that response have all the maturity of a rabid teenager. Gah.

She stood in the empty living room of this tiny house he’d bought . . . they’d bought, she corrected herself, as he packed his overnight bag. He had a "go bag" in the bedroom for emergencies—extra clothes, phone, boots, and enough survival crap to make a Sherpa orgasmic, but this bag had more civilized stuff, like his shaving kit, nice jeans, and shirts. She didn’t even want to know what was in the hanging bag draped over the card table they used as a dining set.

She wanted to hit something, but there was nothing to hit, kick, throw, slam, or smash. She glanced around at the emptiness: white walls, white trim, no furniture, not a single item, no rugs, just hardwood floors in desperate need of repair and refinishing. She toed one of the warped boards.

"We’ll sand that when I get back," he said, a little too chipper for anyone talking about a home improvement project.

She threw him a skeptical glance. "Can you imagine me holding onto one of those big floor sanders? We’ll be lucky if I don’t take out a couple of walls with that thing."

"I plan on aiming you at the two we need to take out anyway."

"Very economical of you."

"Just wait ’til you see how we remove the tile in the kitchen."

He looked oddly happy at the thought. The man was clearly a masochist. Of course, that explained an awful lot about their relationship.

"You’re just trying to con me into thinking you need more power tools," she said.

"I’m adding it to the vows—love, honor, and router, ’til death do us part."

"You just made a hand tool sound dirty."

"Good to know," he said, grinning.

There was phenomenal woodwork for such a tiny house, and she focused on the Craftsman-styled shelves at the other end of the living room. They were empty, like the rest of the place. A couple of shelves had gone missing and someone had let their kid paste all sorts of stickers on the inside of the bottom cabinet. She had expected the big bad federal agent to scoff at the blasphemy of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles rubbed to a mottled gray pattern on "quality woodwork," but he’d squatted in front of that cabinet and smiled as he traced Michaelangelo (he laughed when she knew the name) and said, "This stays, when we refinish. People were happy here. They were a family here."

She still, a month later, couldn’t figure out how in the hell he’d found this property, especially at a price they could afford. He couldn’t have created a more private home if he’d carved the place out of the swamp himself. He’d found it after she’d gotten out of the hospital—he hated the vulnerability of her trailer. Too many prying neighbors, too easy to rip the door open, too hard to protect. Hard to be a federal agent with just anyone able to tiptoe up to the trailer, unobserved, and overhear everything through the too-thin walls. She’d sold the trailer and most of her stuff to afford her half of the down payment, and they’d only just moved in a couple of weeks ago. There were a few boxes—very few—to unpack. She had almost nothing left from when they’d met and her trailer had flooded (and then fallen over, and then ripped in half) and he’d moved around so much, he hadn’t bothered to ever accumulate things.

He put two folded t-shirts on top of a photo. He’d packed the snapshot Ce Ce had taken of the two of them the day she’d first said yes. Bobbie Faye hadn’t even realized he’d had a copy made. And it was framed. When had he done that? Did a man really need a photo if he was only going to be gone a short while? She inhaled, sharply, and had to turn away from the satchel, look away from his own too-serious face. She practically vibrated in place. He thought he was distracting her with the remodeling talk, but she wasn’t fooled.

She wanted to know what that call was about.

By the time she was seven, she’d been the kind of kid who’d unwrapped her presents before Christmas, played with them each night, and then rewrapped them before her mom realized what she’d done. How on earth did anyone else actually wait? And it didn’t matter what the hell was inside the box. It could be bricks. It only mattered that she didn’t know what was inside the box.

She should ask Trevor about that call.

No. That would be wrong. And immature.

Maybe she could hint? She could definitely hint. He’d feel guilty about leaving, and he’d probably tell her something to make her feel better. She could adopt a puppy-dog pathetic schmoopy-face but she wouldn’t be playing fair. Right? Right. But really, hinting wasn’t all that bad.

"Shut up."

Dammit, that was out loud.

Trevor glanced her direction as she sighed. "I’m not sure what’s scarier, Sundance. That you argue with yourself, or that you lose the arguments."

She would have answered, but instead, she just stood there in the empty living room, fiddling with the ring on her left hand, staring at the socks that she’d given him that he was about to put in his bag. She skirted the edge of such a deep well of emotion, it threatened her, an abyss. Questions logjammed inside her throat: Is this dangerous? Will you be gone long? How do you know if you’ll be safe? How am I supposed to just stand here and say good-bye?

How could she give him anything less?

Excerpted from When a Man Loves a Weapon by Toni McGee Causey.
Copyright 2009 by Toni McGee Causey.
Published in August 2009 by St. Martin s Press.
All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 25 )
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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 25 Customer Reviews
  • Posted August 5, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    zany out of control Cajun crime caper

    In Lake Charles, Louisiana life is good if you ask Bobbie Faye Sumrall in spite of her last fiasco (see GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE GUNS). FBI agent Trevor Cormier asked her to marry him and she accepted. Being engaged is more than a hoot though she wished she knew a bit more about her fiancé's current assignment.

    Trevor leaves town on FBI business, but to keep Bobbie Faye from having one of her notorious very bad bad bad days as he will be gone for three days, he leaves her under the care of what he calls a bodyguard; she calls that person an adult babysitter. Five days later, Trevor fails to return to Bobby Faye. Worried about him she turns to her former boyfriend detective Cameron Moreau to find him even as killer Sean MacGreggor is coming for Bobbie Faye.

    WHEN A MAN LOVES A WEAPON is once again a zany out of control Cajun crime caper that hooks the audience from the moment five days go by as Bobby Faye has alligators up her butt with concern for her fiancé. The story line is fast-paced and filled with gators, swamps, bad dudes, and betting eccentrics (wagering on Bobby Faye survivalist) who make for a wild frolic. However, it is Bobby Faye's optimistic fortitude in the face of another Very (Very, Very, Very) Bad week that has fans wanting more of her Lake Charles thrillers as once again she affirms you can't keep a good woman down especially since she bets on herself.

    Harriet Klausner

    3 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted November 13, 2009

    I Also Recommend:

    Need more Bobbie Faye adventures

    The action was non-stop from cover to cover. The "uber bad guy" was intense. I liked the return of the quotes at the beginning of each chapter like in the first book. I've added this series to my 'fun read' list. Can't wait until the next installment to find out what crazy adventure finds Bobbie Faye and Cam.

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  • Posted October 4, 2009

    I Also Recommend:

    Must read, keeper, guarantee buy

    I stumbled across this book and it companions by the same author just recently and can guarantee that you will like them. I love the writing style and story lines. The charachters are engaging and worth the read.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 27, 2009

    Great, funny and a quick read

    It is very entertaining and has several funny parts.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 7, 2009

    Fun, once again

    If you a fan of Bobby Faye, then this is a must read.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 3, 2009

    NO Not so good....

    The writing was like yada yada yada. So much useless reading material. Not enough intense romance, it would keep you just there and then fall away. The romantic scenes (2) were blah...

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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