By: Skye Jordan


First and foremost, I have to thank you, my readers, for your enthusisam over this series. I love writing these sexy, complex men and you all make that possible.

A very special and heartfelt appreciation goes out to our men and women in all branches of the military for their dedication, selflessness, and courage, all of which allows every American a sense of safety and pride.

Undying affection and gratitude goes out to my critique partner Elisabeth Naughton who has pushed me through every one of my books – this being my 10th published. And to Darcy Burke, another fabulous author who plotted and brainstormed Ricochet through to the end.

Deep gratitude to all my fabulous supporters who have shared their love for the Renegades with others - bloggers, beta readers, and the Swan Siren’s street team.

And to my editor, Linda Ingmanson, who helps me keep my story in perspective, as well as Toni, our proofreader, a woman with laser-sharp eyes.

Of course, I’m endlessly grateful to my husband and two daughters who always pick up the slack I leave during busy times, who respect my work, have pride in my achievements, and continue to love me despite all my eccentricities.

Rachel Hart battled with a gaggle of stunt harnesses beneath the blazing Los Angeles Indian summer sun until the muscles of her arms ached. Sweat trickled along the indentation of her spine and dampened the back of her new sundress.

“I should have known better than to wear something cute on location,” she complained into her Bluetooth headset, jerking against nylon, canvas…even freaking Kevlar until her back and shoulders ached. “This is a disgrace. I can’t believe you take such shitty care of the very equipment that saves your stupid asses.”

A few harnesses pulled free, and the momentum of her struggle knocked her off balance. She dropped the gear into the dirt at her feet, and stared down at the tangle, hands on hips, panting. “Who is responsible for this mess?”

“Keaton.” The blame came over her headset in two distinct voices—Duke’s and Troy’s.

“Just throw me under the bus, why don’t you?” Keaton said. “Assholes.”

Rachel turned from the equipment compartment beneath the Renegades’ on-site stunt trailer and squinted up the mountain face. Duke, Troy, and Keaton hung at different levels, their forms outlined by the creamy granite at their backs. Two cameramen hung nearby, one filming from a higher vantage point, the other filming from the lower, equipment mounted on their shoulders.

“This might take a while, and I’ve got a bunch of other stuff to do. Which is more important to you, this harness or your paychecks?”

“Paychecks,” all three men said at the same time.

“But Jax is on his way over to pick it up,” Troy added.

The owner of Renegades, Jax Chamberlin, had been performing another stunt across town that morning. “Now?” She turned back to the knot of straps and latches, and even the thought of fighting with them again made the aches in her body deepen. “I thought he’d be filming all day.”

“He nailed the fall on the first take,” Keaton said. “They wrapped early.”

Rachel growled, crouched, and wrestled one of the harnesses free, then gritted her teeth and untangled two more. “Little notice would be nice, guys.” She held up two harnesses, both of which seemed identical. “What does this thing look like?”

“It’s the Zero G,” Troy said.

“Full body,” Keaton added, “with side D rings.”

She blew out a breath, ruffling the strands of her hair that had fallen from the messy bun held together by pencils. “That’s a little like me asking you to get the crackle nail polish from my makeup drawer, which, at last count, contained seventy-two bottles.”

A chorus of groans filled her ears.

“It’s black,” Duke said.

“Oh.” She drew out the word, staring into the dregs of the trailer. Ninety percent of the harnesses were black. “That’s helpful, Duke.”

Inside the trailer, the phone rang. “Shit.” She dropped the rig and started around the front. “I have to get the phone.”

“Rachel—” Troy said, irritation in his voice.

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