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Out of Time Time Twisted Collection
Genre: Paranormal, Action/Adventure, Dark Fantasy
Length: Collection

This collection contains the previously released novellas Out of Time, His Mistress, Intimate Choices, and Turns.

Out of Time
First Marisha loses her job, then it looks like she’s about to lose her life when fighting off muggers lands her a nasty blow to the head. The last thing she expects to see when she wakes up is a lusty medieval Lord staring down at her -- and then there’s the equally lusty -- Dragon? But wait. There’s more. Her old buddy Tim is here to make a daring rescue. But what’s Tim doing in her bed? Eventually she’ll have to choose -- one man, one universe, one time -- but for now it makes for an interesting foursome.

His Mistress
1775 -- Recently widowed, Mercy Baines has inherited everything her husband owned – including his bondservant, James. James is young, strong, and devoted – and he belongs to Mercy until his twenty-first birthday. But war is coming and even devotion can be tested...

2002 -- Over two centuries separates Mercy Ward from the man who haunts her dreams. When a handsome young lawyer enters her life, she slowly begins to remember...

Intimate Choices

Once in a while everyone wishes they were in someone else's shoes. Moira wishes she was in her good buddy Samantha's -- or, better yet, out of Sam's shoes and in bed with Samantha's husband Phil.

Samantha wishes she could lead a live like Moira's -- a life filled with temptations, and no reason to refuse them. Handsome men, a glamorous job, a future filled with possibilities -- possibilities Sam gave up to marry Phil. Now it seems like she and Phil have been married forever. It's no fun being taken for granted.


“Have you ever heard that in every relationship, the partners have to grow
and change.”

“That sounds like something from the women mags, but I’ve heard of that.”

“Yeah, well, we just take the concept to extremes.”

When C.J., a world famous athlete, meets the scruffy errand running Lucy, he knew she was a little off center. But when she starts telling him he's her
mate and he's one of those urban legend mutants who transform… well, she's sexy and he's interested, but he's not that interested. Is he?

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Praise for Out of Time

“The love scenes are hot and steamy with just the right amount of graphic detail. The storyline is interesting with a couple of unique twists and turns that kept my eyes riveted to the pages. Ms. Harte is a talented author who has penned a tale of love and dragons that I enjoyed very much.”
- Susan White, Just Erotic Romance Reviews

"Treva Harte's Out of Time is a steamy, time-bending romp through the corners of Marisha's mind, exploring her most secret fantasies and desires. Lush and lusty imagery blend with hot sensuality to create a story that will have you flipping the fan on high to cool off. This piece displays some pretty spicy scenes, including some bondage and domination. Out of Time is just right for a short and sexy read!"
-- Michelle, Fallen Angel Reviews

"I enjoyed how the author tied everything together at the end making this a story about love realized. The love scenes between Tim and Marisha, as well as, Lord Stephen and Marisha are well done and steamy."
-- Marina, Cupid's Library Reviews

Praise for His Mistress

"You will be intrigued with this romantic love story of a love lost, then found. Emotions will take on a roller coaster ride with touching sex scenes in between."
-- Suz, Coffee Time Romance

"A wonderful short story about the wishes of our hearts and the realities that can come to us when we open ourselves to love. Treva Harte does such an amazing job blending the love of the past into the love of the present..."
-- Briana, Fallen Angel Reviews

Praise for Intimate Choices

"Realistic characters, strong plot, smooth writing, this novella has it all. The steamy sex scenes just add to the fun. An all around great read!"

-4 Angels! -- Hayley, Fallen Angel Reviews

"Whether it's in spicing up Sam's love life with Phil or falling in love all over again, this story has something for everyone. Ms. Harte delivers a story full of love and laughter that is not to be missed. Intimate Choices is a must have for any romance lover."
4.5 Blue Ribbons! -- Jenn L., Romance Junkies

"Treva Harte tells an incredibly steamy tale with best friends wishing for the other's life in her short story. Each woman experiences the life of the other and learns some valuable lessons. Intimate Choices will curl your toes as it is a very good read!"
-- Alisha, TwoLips Reviews

Praise for Turns

“Treva Harte is a master of paranormal tales and knows how to weave one that will leave the readers wanting more. CJ is disbelieving and can’t understand why Lucy thinks he’s a shape-shifter. Lucy has to find away to convince CJ that she is on the level and that he really is what she says. Together they are an explosion waiting to happen and when it does move back. The love scenes are full of erotic passion that will leave you running for the ice. Treva Harte has done a terrific job of creating a story that is sure to be a keeper.”
—Angel, Romance Junkies

“Turns is a story I recommend for anyone who enjoys a short, quick yet immensely satisfying story. I'll definitely be adding Turns by Trava Harte to my keeper file.”
—Trang, ecataromance


Excerpt from Out of Time

© Copyright Treva Harte, 2005

She stood on tiptoe, reaching for what she craved. Damn, he was hard as steel and she didn’t mean his armor. But he was too tall. His cock was jutting forward but hit her too high to let her rub against him where she wanted to. Oh, she wanted to desperately.

She dug her fingers into his shoulders this time and began to inch up his legs, like someone might try to climb up a pole. She heard him grunt, once, and then his hand reached under her rear and pushed her up further. Her legs encircled his waist at last, his strong hands steadying her exactly where she wanted.

Who said they were from the Dark Ages? This guy was bright. Bright enough to figure out exactly what she wanted and take care of things. She was feeling something really hard. Marisha slid her hungry clitoris against a thickening shaft. Thank God he wasn’t wearing mail. Yeah. Oh, yeah. That was just hard man. A great deal of man.

Marisha pushed her hands into the tight auburn curls on his head. She loved the way his hair felt, crisp and tickling the palms of her hands. She loved the prickly rasp of his not-quite-shaved face. She bit the strong chin and then went back into an open-mouthed, slow kiss. His kiss had started all this. She wanted more. The man was quite a kisser.

He grunted and then, with a quick twist of his hands, he pulled her dress up above her waist. Marisha waited, half-eager, half-nervous. Nothing more happened at first.

He didn’t touch, he just looked. When was he going to do something?

Realization hit. He was doing something. An exciting something -- exciting for them both. His breath rasped as he stared. As she stared back, Marisha squirmed. Her nipples were tight and eager. She was already wet, but his gaze was getting her wetter.

He must know how aroused she was. What was he planning to do next? When had she ever waited for a man to do anything? “Take my dress off.” She tugged at it.

“All off?” He sounded startled.

Didn’t he ever have sex naked? She’d never read any history about what happened when medieval knights had sex. Maybe that was too kinky for them. Well, he could learn something new because they were getting naked. From what she could tell so far, she definitely wanted to see this guy in the raw.

Marisha ran her hands over his shoulders then let them drift down to his ass. Mmmm. Nice ass. Tight, muscular and tailor-made for her hands. She was hallucinating beautifully.

His cock dug into her. This hallucination was getting even better. “Yes. All off. Then start on your own clothing.”


Excerpt from His Mistress

© Copyright Treva Harte, 2002

Chapter One

His breath hesitated, then began again. Mercy watched it move slowly in and then out. There was a pause. The hospice nurse came in and watched as he began to suck the air into his lungs again.

"It won't be long now," the nurse whispered. She touched Mercy's shoulder and Mercy fought not to shudder.

Mercy wanted to argue. But she looked up into the face of the nurse. The nurse knew. The eyes in that face knew everything.

Luke wasn't in pain. Not now. Not as far as Mercy could tell. She ought to be happy for that. She was happy. A tear ran down her face and she wiped it away, impatiently. The tear was for her, but she could do that later. Right now was for Luke. The last right now he'd ever have, they'd ever have.

Without Luke, who was she?

Mercy looked down at herself, wondering if she was physically becoming as invisible as she felt. Luke was her brother, her twin. They'd been born together. Would they die at the same time? She felt dead already.

Luke's breath drew in, made a gurgling sound. Then nothing more.

Mercy bent her head into her hands and fought herself.

"Let me give you something." The nurse's voice was soothing, but not as quiet as before. She no longer felt the need to whisper. "To sleep for a while."

Mercy wanted to say no. What did she need? She was the strong one. When his friends had heard and deserted him, when Luke grew weaker and more frail, she had been there. Steadying him. The two of them had always been a team. Luke was the one everyone adored. Mercy was the one who took care of things.

But she didn't have to be strong for Luke now. There was nothing more that needed taking care of. Her work was done.

"Yes. I want to sleep." Mercy could hear her voice, slurred and distorted. Was that her voice? Maybe she was disappearing. Maybe she could sleep and be gone herself. Off to oblivion.


"He's dead then."

Mercy pulled the blanket over her husband's head. She took one strong, deep breath. People were depending on her. Those people were waiting outside the half-opened bedroom door. They entered the room after she spoke. She could feel the apprentices staring at her. Her apprentices now.

"Paul, go fetch the undertaker." Mercy made her voice calm and firm. "There are things that need to be done here."

She heard Paul clattering down the hall, eager to be gone.

James stayed. She could feel him watching her. He always watched her, saying nothing, stepping forward to help when he saw what was needed. For one weak moment Mercy wanted to turn to him, to ask for advice. James was the only one close to an adult in the house now except for her. He was tall and quiet, strong and competent. Her husband had come to depend on him in the shop more and more as he grew ill.

But she was the mistress now.

Mercy thought about all that she needed to do. The shop would close for the day to pay proper respect for George's demise. She did respect George. He'd been a good printer, a fair master, an honest man.

She would have to inform George's cousins. Greedy bastards. They hated her because George had married her – forty years younger, plain and awkward – solely to thwart their desires for his shop and savings.

He'd have preferred a son for an heir, of course. Mercy tucked her pale, ash blonde hair behind her ear. He already had three wives and five children who waited in the churchyard for him. They'd failed him. His fourth wife had failed to get him a child, too. Or he had failed her.

James' voice broke into her thoughts.

"Mistress Baines?"


"My condolences. Master Baines was a good man."

Condolences? Of course. She was grieving and widowed. She would be receiving many condolences. And she was sad, in a strange, detached way. If she hadn't had to nurse George for so long, watching him slowly fade away, perhaps she would feel sadder. Right now she felt some pain but she wouldn't lie to herself. She also felt relief.

"Yes. Ah...yes." She wasn't sure what to say. The glittering in James' eyes might be tears. But perhaps it was some other emotion she couldn't fathom then. Whatever was in his eyes made words catch in her throat.

"There. That's the last time I'll speak of that." James pushed himself from the wall. "What do you want me to do next?"

What? Mercy tried to think what had been done when her mother died. She'd been younger then but—

"My father!" Mercy recalled. "Please go tell him."

He nodded without saying more and walked out, leaving Mercy alone. She twisted the wedding ring on her finger. She'd given James and Paul their orders. But what was she to do next?

She hesitated and went back to the bed.

"Thank you." She wasn't sure precisely why she whispered those words to George. Because he'd married her? Because he'd been fair if not loving? Because now he'd died and she was freer than most women ever were in this lifetime? Perhaps all of that.

At any rate, she was a twenty-five year old widow with a printing business, a house and two apprentices. She had to answer to no one in this world. She was in control.

* * *

"No, Father. I have no intention of selling a thriving business to you." Mercy's head throbbed. All morning she'd dealt with relatives and neighbors and friends. The cousins had been bad enough, but they knew there was nothing more they could do. Her father refused to know that. Well, he'd pushed her into her marriage. He could live with the consequences. "George's shop makes more money that your bookstore ever has. Why would I?"

"Because it won't stay a thriving business when people see a young, foolish wench runs it!"

"I guess I'll find that out for myself." Mercy ignored the nervous little throb in her stomach. Of course she could manage. Hadn't she managed everything for the past few months?

"Damn it!" Her father took a step toward her and she braced herself. If he was going to hit her she see herself in hell before she would cry.

Then he stopped.

"May I see you to the door, sir?" James' voice was emotionless.

Mercy turned her head. James might sound emotionless but her father had been wise to stop. James looked formidable—and he towered over her parent.

"I'll see myself out." Her father allowed himself one last glare. "Mind my words, girl. I didn't marry you off to get nothing!"

"You got George's help with printing all these years and a considerable loan when we married!" Mercy snapped back. She stopped and then spoke more calmly, trying not to smile at her words. "Of course I'll be happy to continue business with you, Father. But you may find me less lenient about extending credit."

Father looked like he might want to continue arguing but first he looked up, past Mercy's shoulder at the apprentice behind her. No one moved. Her father glared for a moment more, then he simply stalked away.

"Thank you, James!" Mercy turned, laughing, reaching out to touch his cheek. She could feel stubble on his chin. Of course he hadn't had time to shave today. "You're a godsend."

That was when everything changed. James moved his head back, sharply, almost as if she slapped him—the way her father had threatened to do to her. She took a step back, startled. Then James stepped closer to her. Mercy stepped back again.

Her breath caught because James didn't stop. He came closer yet.

What did he mean to do? She could feel the heat from his body. She could feel his breath on her hair. His two arms reached out to touch the wall behind her, boxing her in. Should she be afraid? Mercy knew she was starting to shake but not from fear.

"Don't tease." The words sounded forced from him. The voice didn't even sound like James.


"It's been months, woman. Months and months. Longer. You've been married a year." His voice grew huskier yet.

"Almost a year."

"And all I could do was watch. Listen. Wait. And hate myself for doing it."

Her brain would not work. Simply not work. He couldn't be saying what she thought he was. He couldn't be wanting what she thought he did. But his hands were on her shoulders now. They closed tight on her and she realized she was shaking even harder...


Excerpt from Intimate Choices

© Copyright Treva Harte, 2001


Samantha followed him into the car. After five years of marriage, she knew when her husband’s silence meant something was brewing. She even knew what he was going to say. Maybe she hadn’t finished college, but she wasn’t stupid.

She might have come off sounding like an idiot tonight, but she wasn’t stupid.

The whole evening had gone wrong from the beginning.

Maybe things would’ve worked if she hadn’t wanted them to go out as two couples. The pairing up had been a mistake. Moira was competitive and she’d always liked Phil, even back in their college days.

But Samantha had him. She’d always had Phil. They had such a safe, dependable relationship.

“Moira is looking damn good,” Phil remarked. “Hard to believe you two are the same age.”

Dependable Phil. Trust him to make a crack about the few extra pounds she’d put on. Moira probably kept her weight down from nerves and from cutting the opposition off at the knees. Phil wouldn’t care about that. He might even approve.

But he’d married Samantha, after all. He’d wanted a wife, one who could calm things down and be there for him. Moira wasn’t that. She’d never be that.

Moira was still thin and model beautiful, with that long dark hair and those blue eyes. She was closer to Phil than Samantha in height and she made the most of it in her high heels. She could wear anything she wanted to and get away with it with her figure.

And she did.

Excerpt from Turns

Washington, D.C., 2054, 2 a.m.

C.J. woke up with an ache in his swollen knee and one in his equally swollen cock. Burning hell, this was an outrage! He was a skill player. Everyone knew injuries came with the territory, but even a player with a bad knee should have someone to take care of his hard-on.

He slowly maneuvered himself further up on the bed, trying not to jar anything, but needing to move. It wasn’t just pent up sex. This was different from the usual restlessness you got when you woke up at two in the morning. His skin felt itchy. Hot. He didn’t know how to name the craving inside him. How do you describe the sudden ache to be something, someone else? To crawl out of your skin and leave it behind?

“You’re losing it. Cabin fever has hit bad, superstar.” C.J. stared down at his fingers, suddenly clenched into a fist. Leave everything behind? There was nothing wrong with being Christian Joyce. Burn it, people would slit throats for the chance to be him. So he had a little injury? People recovered from worse accidents all the time. Of course recovery was a bit more urgent in his case than most people. The team playoffs rested on his ability to get healthy. That’s why many, many doctors had worked on him after the knee snapped. Many, many doctors for a long, long time.

But all that was over. Now he just had to wait until he recovered and he’d be back on the field, back in the money… the big, big money… and back to his enviable life.

All it took was toughing it out a few more weeks. C.J. knew his lips were curling back into something that was more like a snarl than a smile. He was tough. He’d done more difficult things. Waiting on that elusive recovery was easy. Cake. All cake.

His stomach rumbled, distracting him from everything else.

To hell with cake. He licked his lips and shut his eyes. Pizza. Good, old-fashioned pizza, just like the ones Mom used to make from Grandma’s old family recipe. Nothing fancy, but nothing artificial. Just loads of fresh tomato sauce oozing out of that perfect crust, hot cheese trailing in long, fragrant strings when you lifted the first, hot slice off the pan. He’d never been able to wait until it cooled and he’d always burned his tongue. It had been worth it. He salivated, caught up in the memory of taste and smell, of pungent herbs and spicy pepperoni, a memory strong enough to make a man forget anything that hurt, including a throbbing knee and cock.

C.J. opened his eyes and glanced over at the bathroom. Now that he was awake for sure, he knew what he needed to do next, although it was almost too much effort on his own. He’d refused to hire a nurse to watch over his every move. He didn’t want people to see him like this and then turn and sell the news to gossip zines. He especially didn’t want people to watch and wonder if he could damn well make it to the toidy by himself.

Of course, he didn’t enjoy the painful half-crawl out of bed without an audience, either. Delaying the inevitable, he stayed in bed while he punched the code into his portable unit to call out.

“Grandpa John’s.”

“I want a sausage pizza with extra cheese. Real cheese. No, wait. Make it pepperoni.”

“You got the money, we got the pizza with the real cheese. Even pepperoni.”

“You deliver?”

“Not hardly. Who delivers pizza anymore? We can’t afford it.”

“Listen, I’ll pay extra.”

“Store policy.”

“But I’m Christian Joyce!”

“And I’m the Queen of the May, funny boy. Listen, you pick the pizza up or you don’t get it. We already have lines out the door. Place closes in an hour.” The unit clicked off.

He glared at the lazily blinking box. But he wanted a pizza! Food. Was that too much to ask? A few weeks ago he could have had any delicacy he wanted without asking.

Lips thinned, he stretched over to pick up the business listings disc. Pain snarled up his leg as he jostled it, but he willed it away, refusing to pause until he snapped the listings disc into place. He wasn’t going to let some spindly pizza maker thwart him. Maybe he couldn’t get the store to send him pizza. Maybe he couldn’t get to the pizza himself. But he could still get pizza.

Errand runners… He stared down at the rows upon rows of possibilities in the listings.

They were scruffy, desperate little street rats, the lot of them, only a notch or two above the typical homeless. He’d made use of enough of their services in the past few days and didn’t like any of them. But for a large enough fee he could find an errand runner to head for hell and back again. Pizza should be easy.

C.J. stared down at the list of names flashing in front of him.

There. That one had an address close by. He pressed the code.

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