Undressed by the Rebel: The Honourable Maverick
The Honourable MaverickMarriage with children is not for Max. But how can he turn away pregnant nurse Ellie? When he holds her tiny baby in his arms, Max’s protective instinct kicks in – and feels better than he ever expected!The Unsung HeroRenowned neurosurgeon and playboy Rick Wilson has his sights set on Sarah – until she tells him her nephew is his son and the boy needs his bone marrow. Now only Sarah can help this roguish doctor on the rocky road to fatherhood…The Tortured RebelBeautiful helicopter pilot Becca Harding has spent many years trying to forget SAC medic Jet Monroe, but she’s never been able to forgive him. Now, trapped together, the two can no longer escape the scorching attraction that lingers between them…
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ALISON ROBERTS lives in Christchurch, New Zealand. She began her working career as a primary school teacher, but now juggles available working hours between writing and active duty as an ambulance officer. Throwing in a large dose of parenting, housework, gardening and pet-minding keeps life busy, and teenage daughter Becky is responsible for an increasing number of days spent on equestrian pursuits. Finding time for everything can be a challenge, but the rewards make the effort more than worthwhile.
Undressed by the Rebel
The Honourable Maverick
The Unsung Hero
The Tortured Rebel
Alison Roberts
Table of Contents
Alison Roberts
THE three men stood in close proximity.
Tall. Dark. Silent.
Clad in uniform black leather, motorbike helmets dangled from one hand. They each held an icy, uncapped bottle of lager in the other hand.
Moving as one, they raised the bottles and touched them together, the dull clink of glass a sombre note.
Speaking as one, their voices were equally sombre.
âTo Matt,â was all they said.
They drank. A long swallow of amber liquid. Long and slow enough for each of them to reflect on the member of their group no longer with them. Cherished memories strengthened by this annual ritual but there was an added poignancy this year.
A whole decade had passed.
Two decades since the small band of gifted but under-challenged boys boarding at Greystones Grammar school had been labelled as âbadâ.
The label had stuck even as the four of them had blitzed their way to achieving the top four places in the graduation year of their medical schooling.
But now there were only three âbad boysâ and the link between them had been tempered by the fires of hell.
Minimally depleted bottles were lowered but the silence continued. A tribute as reverent as could be offered to anything that earned the respect of these men.
The sharp knock at the door was inexcusably intrusive and more than one of the men muttered a low oath. They ignored the interruption but it came again, more urgently this time, and it was accompanied by a voice.
A female voice. A frightened one.
âSarah? Are you home? Oh, Godâ¦you have to be home. Open the doorâ¦Pleaseâ¦â
The men looked at each other. One shook his head in disbelief. One gave a resigned nod. The thirdâ Maxâmoved to open the door.
Please, pleaseâ¦pleaseâ¦
Ellie squeezed her eyes tightly closed to hold back tears as she prayed silently, raising her hand to knock for the third time. What in Godâs name was she going to do if Sarah wasnât home?
It was enough to make her want to hammer on the door with both fists. Her arm moved with the weight of desperation only to find an empty space. Too late, Ellie realised the door was moving. Swinging open. It was all too easy to lose her balance these days and she found herself stumbling forward.
Staring at a black T-shirt under an unzipped, black leather bikerâs jacket. An image flashed into her head. Sheâd passed a row of huge, powerful motorbikes parked outside this apartment block and she hadnât thought anything of it.
Ohâ¦God! Sheâd come to the wrong door and here she was, falling into a bikersâ den. A gang headquarters, maybe. A methamphetamine lab, even. Huge, powerful male hands were gripping her upper arms right now. Pulling her upright. Pulling her deeper into this dangerous den. Her heart skipped a beat and then gave a painful thump.
âLet me go,â she growled. âGet your hands off me.â
âNo worries.â The sexy rumble from somewhere well above her head soundedâ¦whatâ¦tired? Amused? âIâd just prefer you didnât land flat on your face on my floor.â
It was a surprisingly polite thing for a gang member to say. Ellie could do polite, too.
âIâve made a mistake.â She had to step forward again to get her balance. It helped to drop the small bag sheâd been carrying to plant both her hands on the chest in front of her and push. Good grief, it felt like a brick wall. Ellie risked an upward glance, to find the owner of the chest looking down at her. Dark hair. Dark eyes that held a somewhat surprised expression. No tattoos, though. No obvious piercings. And didnât he look a bit too clean to be part of a bikie gang?
She swung her head sideways and emitted a small squeak of dismay. There were two more of them. Staring at her. No, one was glaring. They were clad from head to toe in black leather. Jackets that were padded at the shoulders and elbows and tight pants that also had protective padding. Heavy boots. The gleam of zips and buckles might as well have been chains and knuckle-dusters. They were holding beer bottles. She had interrupted something and they werenât happy. There didnât seem to be quite enough air in this small room because there were three very large and potentially very dangerous men using it all up.
