Contents
Zara Stoneley
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
About HarperImpulse
Copyright
About the Publisher
Zara Stoneley
I’ve been writing stories for just about as long as I’ve been reading them – it’s rumoured that I’m related to Elizabeth Gaskell, so maybe it’s in the genes!
I live in a country cottage in the UK with a naughty mouse catching, curtain climbing cat, my wonderful guitar playing, video making, Minecraft mad teenage son and a wine drinking, sun loving, master chef in the making, sexy alpha hero.
I love my family, sexy high heels, sunshine, wine, good food, cats, horses, dogs, music, coffee, writing and reading - but not necessarily in that order! And I like my heroes just how I like my coffee – hot, strong and moreish.
You can find more about me, and all my contact details at www.zarastoneley.com. Please stop by – I love to meet new people.
To the man in my life - who knows that being a little bit bad can be good …
Chapter One
“Which bit of no don’t you understand?”
“From my side of the table it looked pretty much like a yes, darling. Come on, admit it, you want it.”
“If I wanted it I’d ask, okay?”
“Oh, you were asking, babe.”
Georgie cringed. She was nobody’s babe; he’d been watching the wrong type of films. She crossed her arms across her chest and tried to stare him down, but from the glassy look in his eyes he was too inebriated to register anything, let alone a put down, unless it involved a minor act of violence. “I was just being polite.”
Surprisingly strong fingers gripped her arm before she had a chance to move further away, digging into the bare skin, leeching the colour away. The gasp had to be her, but being manhandled wasn’t on any wish list she’d ever had. Well, not like this. And it hurt.
“Hey, let go.” She was drunk, but obviously not as drunk as he was, because when she pulled away he staggered.
“There’s a word for girls like you.”
Georgina Hampton took a step back and turned away. “And there’s more than one word for dicks like you.” She was glad she’d only muttered it under her breath, because when she glanced back over her shoulder, he looked like he wasn’t about to give up.
Yeah, she’d been friendly, even flirted a bit. But that was her job. And since when was there a rule that said if you had a laugh with a guy he was entitled to get into your knickers?
As Georgie pushed open the door that separated the loud, claustrophobic heat of the club from the real world a sudden wave of exhaustion swept over her. It had been a long day, she’d had one too many vodka shots, and unwanted male attention was the last straw. She concentrated on keeping her high heels both going in the same direction as she headed for the door, not sure if it was tiredness or drink that was playing havoc most with her balance. One thing she did know was that every step was another one closer to home and her bed.
“Off early, can’t stand the pace?” One of the bouncers grinned at her, he knew that exiting at this time wasn’t her normal form, and as he swung the outside door open the rush of cool night air almost knocked her off balance. “You okay?” He was giving her a weird look.
“Yeah.” She tried a grin. “Had a shitty day, that’s all.” She didn’t know his name and he didn’t know hers, but she was at the club often enough for the professional distance to have dropped, just a bit.
“Hey, stop.” The drunken idiot had followed her all the way to the door. “Georgie, I said stop.”
“You sure you don’t need a hand, love?”
She shook her head at the bouncer. She didn’t want trouble. Not again. Carol would have a fit, a major prima donna explosion if there was even a hint of a bad smell this week. What was it with step-mothers that thought just because they had your dad under the thumb then they had the right to ruin your life as well?
“I’m fine, thanks.” She took a step out onto the pavement and almost instantly regretted turning the offer down, as Sebastian, ‘but you can call me Seb’, sent a wave of alcohol drenched breath down her neck. Good job she didn’t feel queasy or that really would tip the balance.
Yes, she knew his name. But that was the absolute limit of the relationship. Which sadly he didn’t get. He’d been one of a group of guys, rich guys, who had rolled into the restaurant that night where she was front of house. He’d flirted, and she’d done what she did best back. Avoided his hands, but caressed his ego. It was her job, and she was damned good at it. Trouble was, the stupid twat had presumed the service extended after hours and he’d followed her to the club that the staff had headed to when the restaurant had closed.
His hand was on her waist and she felt like retching, and her heart had hitched up a beat. She’d had him down as wet, but even a complete drip was strong when they were fuelled with beer and chasers. Stronger than her.
“Get your hands off me.” She fought to keep her voice even and low. Gritting her teeth helped.
“Didn’t I tip well enough darling? I thought it would be plenty for a girl like you.”
“Fuck off, okay. Is that clear enough?”
“Or what?”
Shit, with his arm still clamped around her waist he’d somehow managed to propel her past the frontage of the club, to the edge of the deserted car park and suddenly it hit her. Or what? Damned good question.
His clammy hand had tightened around her, the damp warmth seeping through the thin fabric as though it was skin on skin. She was going to be sick. A mix of shots tumbled around in her stomach, hit the bubbles of Prosecco, and mingled with the slightest trace of fear. She swallowed down the tang of bile.
“Just get your hands off me, okay? I’m not your type.”
“Let me be the judge of that, gorgeous.” She would have liked to have slapped that leery smirk right off his face, but keeping her balance in the killer heels and working out whether to knee him in the groin, stamp on his toes or ditch the stilettos and run was priority at the moment.
He pushed her a step back, further into the dark shadows that draped the side of the building. Then his hand closed round her wrist. A band of iron, fingertips digging into her skin as she pulled back, burning. He snorted and the mix of beer fumes and stale cigarette filled her lungs as he leaned in closer. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to make the knot in her stomach pull just a bit tighter, and her heart pound like it was about to burst free.
Think, Georgie, think. She turned her head away as his other hand came up, at the side of her, against the wall, blocking her escape. Not that escape was on the agenda until she managed to drag her wrist free from his grasp. He swayed closer and even with a sideways glance she could see his gaze was fixed on her mouth. If she stayed here a second longer it would be too late. She twisted, bent down, dodged under the arm that held hers, hoping he’d loosen his grip so she could break free, but instead as she ducked he did the one thing she hadn’t expected. Twisted her arm up behind her back. Pressed her cheek hard against the damp, darkness of the wall, until sharp splinters of brick bit into her skin. Georgie shut her eyes.
“Oh, so that’s how you want it is it. Kinky one, eh?” The heat of his breath was fanning her neck, his heavy, suffocating body close against hers, and she was grimly aware of his rock hard erection, pressed against her. “Like it from behind do you?”
Fuck. She had to get away. She just had to. Being groped against a wall was so not how her life was supposed to be working out. She took a breath, opened her eyes, and then kicked back with all her strength, raking her heel down his shin, stamping down hard on his foot for good measure as he loosened his grip slightly. All she had to do was get his hands off her. He was pissed, he wouldn’t be able to run after her.
“Bitch. Christ, what the fuck was that for?” He reached instinctively for his leg with one hand, but it still hurt like hell as she pulled back, dragged her arm from his grasp, feeling the burn of friction, his skin against hers.
There were a whole shopping list of things she could have answered with, but she didn’t trust herself to say a word. Keeping her mouth shut was safer for more reasons than one.
Georgie staggered back, one step, another, turned to run.
“You got a problem?” The deep drawl stopped her short, and she could have sworn literally stopped her heart for a beat.
“A problem? She’s fuckin’ psycho that one, you’re welcome to her.” She hardly felt Seb push his way past her, was only dimly aware of the scatter of stones as he staggered back towards the road, finding a new swear word with each step he took across the rough parking lot.
“I said, are you okay?” There was a guy, and he was staring at her, like she was stupid. She stared back, because she couldn’t not. Dark curls, green eyes, a dimple in the middle of his chin, a stud in his ear. Black motorbike leathers.
Georgie swallowed, cleared her tight, dry throat. Wow. The dark knight. In a parking lot in Cheshire. Stared a bit more. Whatever they were serving in there was stronger than she’d thought. “Sure. Erm, no problem.” Well, only one. Him. And he was the kind of problem she liked. She hoped she wasn’t licking her lips, but she probably was. “I’m fine.” Once I remember how to breath normally again. And work out if I’m hallucinating or not.
She took another steadying breath, to replace the oxygen she’d lost while she’d been holding her breath. This wasn’t a weak chinned, clammy handed type of idiot like Seb. The type who slobbered over you and pawed. Oh, no. This guy was trouble, with a capital T. Otherwise translated as yum, with a capital Y.
“Good. I’ll leave you to it then.”
“No.”
He slanted his head slightly, probably because she’d shouted it out like a weirdo.
“Don’t go. I mean, hang around for a bit, will you?” It could have been a residue of adrenalin from being pinned against that wall, but whatever it was her heart was hammering and her body had this strange buzz resonating through it, and she was pretty damned sure it had nothing to do with fear.
He chuckled and the sound fingered its way down her spine. “I don’t think he’ll be rushing back for seconds. So, are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Psycho.”
“I’ll let you decide that.” She took a step closer to him, which just about took her to the spot where she could smell the mix of spice, wood and musk. Earthy. Nice. “Not that it would bother you, I’m sure.”
“Are you now?” He let her close that gulf of ten inches between them, let her reach out to rest a finger on the top of the zip of his leather jacket. Cold metal against warm, the tang of leather and oil layered over the tantalising scent of pure male.
“Very sure. Can I see your ‘bike?”
He looked faintly amused, but from the way his stance had widened and those gorgeous eyes had darkened she knew she had him. Hers for the taking. But he’d kept his hands jammed in his pockets, like he was determined to make her do all the running.
“And there I was thinking it was me you were interested in.”
“I am. You and the bike, together.”
“You’ll have to promise not to rake those heels down the tank.”
It was then that she recognised him. It was the way he said it, that ever so slight judgemental edge to his voice. Jake Harcourt. He’d been like that when he was cocky sixteen. Daring, in control. Leader of the pack. And she’d been the podgy teenage girl in her carefully ironed blouse and spotless flat shoes. If she’d not had a drink or five maybe she’d have clicked earlier, maybe not. It was a lifetime ago. And he wasn’t a lanky tearaway teenager now. He was a man. Boy, had he grown into a man.
Back then was another time, of schoolgirl crushes, of secret Valentine’s cards being pushed into lockers, of wanting the rough tough poster boys and knowing it was a step too far. Then. Bad had been plain bad back then, now it was good.
“I won’t leave a scratch. I promise.”
He raised an eyebrow and just like that he’d gone from a little bit naughty to full on bad, and Georgie felt her throat dry as the anticipation swirled into a knot of excitement in her stomach.
“No scratches at all?”
The smile twitched at her mouth. “Well, not from the heels. And not on the tank.” She rested the very tips of her nails on his jawbone, let them drag across the rough stubble until they rested under his chin, then she leant in, let her breasts rub against the smooth hide of his jacket, closed her teeth around the fullness of his lower lip and pulled back just far enough so that she could glance up, see the look in his eye.
Jake met the coy look she shot through those long eyelashes and wondered if his luck was in or he’d just gone stark staring mad. He’d kicked up the motorbike from pure frustration, barely paused to grab his helmet, and then gunned into the centre of town looking for something, but not knowing what.
Maybe he’d found it.
He’d skidded into this car park because it was quiet. The lull before the 2am outpouring of drunken bodies. And for a brief moment he’d thought about parking up and getting slaughtered before hitching a lift back home. Until he’d heard the voices, and the girl with the cut glass tone had done her best to out-stride her toff of a boyfriend.
For a second he’d thought she was in trouble, which was why, against his natural inclination, he’d stuck his nose in. But she’d handled it, despite the fact that even in the dark he could tell the colour had leached from her face, he could smell the fear, hear the tightness in her words. When you’d got into tight spots like he had, you developed a second sense that told you if you were going to win or lose even before the trouble started.
But after a few seconds of staring at him like he was the man from Mars she’d recovered. Which was as fast a recovery as he’d seen in a long time. Now she was looking at him like he was a prime cut, and it seemed as good a way to burn off his anger as any. He recognised the adrenalin rush, a dance with danger that could send you high before you fell back down. She was ready to ride that wave, ready for the next challenge, and he was just lucky enough to be the one nearest. He wasn’t kidding himself that it was anything more than that. Tomorrow she might wonder what the fuck had got into her, but tonight…
Her cool, elegant fingers were on his chin sending an urgent shiver of a message to his already tingling groin, then she leant in and nipped his lip with sharp teeth. Any more of that and he’d been groaning like a randy teenager. He pulled back, half turned in the direction of his ‘bike and her gaze followed his line of sight.
“Can I have a ride?” She dropped the seduction routine, and her hands, like a switch had been flicked.
“What kind of ride did you have in mind?”
Those dark brown eyes were gleaming. He knew her type, used to getting what they wanted, when they wanted. And right now, if she wanted him it wasn’t a problem. She wanted the fast ride, the rough and tumble. The danger, the explosion. Then she’d walk away. Perfect. For both of them.
She stared at the motorbike, forgot about teasing his lips and headed straight for the machine. “Fast. I want to go fast.” She broke her pace briefly to throw the words over her shoulder and then she was there. Running the ruby red talons over the black paintwork.
He’d not had a pillion rider for a long time. He’d never had one with a dress so short it barely needed hitching up, legs that long and heels tha
t high. So, they weren’t going far, whatever she had in mind. Now wasn’t the time.
“You’re not exactly dressed for a ride.”
She chuckled, and he hadn’t been expecting a sexy low vibration like that.
“It’s my work gear.” She grinned, for the first time, and through the mask of a sexy siren slipped a mischievous girl out to have fun, which made up his mind. He wanted her. Now.
“Some job.”
“I’m front of house at The Veneto.”
Which explained a lot of things, including the groper. Including the confidence. Jake had never been in The Veneto, it was the type of place he’d cross the road to avoid. A top end restaurant, full of the rich and famous, swilling away their fortunes on expensive wine and eating their way through enough carbs and fat to fuel an army of people who actually did something with their lives.
He let his gaze drift over her lazily again. A black sheath dress that fitted where it touched, caressing every curve of her toned body. It was modest at the neck, but dropped low at the back and where it sat high on her thighs it was just crying out to be nudged that inch or two further. There wasn’t much left to the imagination, but enough. Enough to make him desperate to go there. Explore. She didn’t need the extra height of the heels, and although he’d never have called himself a leg man this pair were doing something to his body that they shouldn’t.
And running his hands up from her indecent shoes, all the way up those silk covered calves to the soft, warm flesh he knew he’d find under her skirt was something he wanted to do. Now.
“Sure you don’t want to go back and make up with the toff?”
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