An Accidental Goddess by Linnea Sinclair

By Linnea Sinclair

Raheiran detailed Forces captain Gillaine Davré has simply woken up in a few unknown house method station, considering the place the final 300 years have long gone. the very last thing she recalls is her send being attacked. Now apparently whereas she was once time-traveling, she used to be ordained a goddess…. Gillaine’s in simple terms desire of survival rests with dangerously seductive Admiral Mack Makarian, who suspects her of being a smuggler—or worse. yet he can’t start to think the total volume of it. For Gillaine is now woman Kiasidira, holy icon to numerous believers, together with Mack—a guy who conjures up emotions in her which are faraway from saintly…feelings she is familiar with are mutual. but if their flirtation is interrupted through a treacherous enemy from the prior, Gillaine’s secret—and mystery desires—could damage them both….

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I gathered up the pages and handed them to him, not daring to meet his gaze. Don Basilio sat down at the next table and turned on the lamp. His eyes skimmed the text, betraying no emotion. Then he rested his cigar on the end of the table for a moment, glared at me, and read out the first line: Night falls on the city and the streets carry the scent of gunpowder like the breath of a curse. Don Basilio looked at me out of the corner of his eye and I hid behind a smile that didn’t leave a single tooth uncovered.

He then hugged me until there was no strength left in his arms and lay down, stretched out on the floor with the hypodermic needle still stuck in his skin. I pulled out the needle and covered him with a blanket. After that, he began to lock himself in. We lived in a small attic suspended over the building site of the new auditorium, the Palau de la Música. It was a cold, narrow place in which wind and humidity seemed to mock the walls. I used to sit on the tiny balcony with my legs dangling out, watching people pass by and gazing at the battlement of weird sculptures and columns that was growing on the other side of the street.

And you’ll be right to do so, because you’re not a journalist and you never will be. But you’re not a crime novelist yet, even if you think you are. ” At that moment, my guard down, I was so overwhelmed by gratitude that I wanted to hug that great bulk of a man. Don Basilio, his fierce mask back in place, gave me a steely look and pointed toward the door. “No scenes, please. Close the door. ” … The following Monday, when I arrived at the editorial room ready to sit at my own desk for the very first time, I found a coarse gray envelope with a ribbon and my name on it in the same recognizable type that I had been typing out for years.

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