by Sophie Lark
Black leaned his head against her shoulder. He was exhausted and in horrible pain. But somehow that didn’t seem to matter in the slightest.
“I love you, Holly. You make me so incredibly happy. You make me feel like anything is possible. Like people are good. Like the world is beautiful. Like I can be full of hope and belief and cheerfulness like you.”
“Now I know you’re delirious,” Holly said.
Black was getting a little woozy. He thought he might want to close his eyes for a minute.
“Byron!” Holly cried, shaking his shoulder, “You’d better not die! I’ve been waiting for twenty years to hear you say that. I loved you since we were kids. So, you can’t die now, when you finally love me back.”
Black laughed weakly.
“I’m not dying,” he promised. “But goddamn does this hurt. More people should talk about that. They should warn you how much it hurts getting shot. I feel like I didn’t take it quite seriously enough before I had a bullet in my leg.”
“Does this help?” Holly asked.
She kissed him softly on the lips.
“It actually does,” Black said.
“God, I’m so sorry about Tom!” Holly said. “I can’t believe I campaigned for him!”
“He’s kind of an asshole, isn’t he?” Black said, looking at Morris sprawled out on the floor.
Holly giggled.
“Why are you being funny, right now of all moments?”
“I don’t want you to feel bad,” Black said. “I’ve been wrong about plenty of people. I’ve even been wrong about myself. I thought I was going to be miserable forever, and now look at me. I think this might be the best moment of my life, right here, right now, with you.”
Holly kissed him again, longer this time.
“I always knew you were a sweetheart,” she said.
Epilogue
Holly Summers
London
3 Months Later
The best revenge is to be unlike him who performed the injury.
Marcus Aurelius
It was an awful day in January. Absolutely frigid, with a wind that felt like it could break bones. Holly lost half her balloons on the way to Andrea’s house, helplessly watching them blow off into the sky while she tried to cling to the few remaining ribbons in her hand.
She didn’t care about the balloons, as long as nothing happened to the cake. Vincent was supposed to be picking that up on his way back from Scotland Yard. It was Byron’s favorite—German chocolate.
Violet opened the door for Holly, kissing her on the cheek and helping to carry the balloons into the dining room, where they’d be used to decorate Byron’s chair.
The room was already full of flowers and the beautiful little appetizers that Andrea had made by hand and then artfully arranged on white china platters.
Holly gave Andrea a hug, admiring her tiny little belly, which was just beginning to show the first signs of swelling.
Andrea and Vincent had finally made it on their belated honeymoon, bringing home a souvenir that was due in about six more months. They seemed to intend to use that time to argue over whether it would be a girl (Vincent’s preference), or a boy (Andrea’s). They couldn’t even discuss potential names, since Andrea was firmly set on “Henry,” and became incensed if Vincent so much as mentioned his affection for “Cordelia” or “Moxie.”
Holly asked Violet how work was going—(“Great!)
And how her love life was going—(“Awful!”)
Then Vincent came bustling in, carrying the cake balanced on one hand in a way that alarmed everyone, until Andrea snatched it out of his hands, unboxed it, and set it carefully down on a cake-stand.
They all admired the richly gleaming frosting, Andrea smartly slapping Vincent’s hand away from tasting it.
Then they waited nervously by the door until Byron came strolling up the walkway, precisely punctual as always. He was wearing the knobby sweater Violet had knitted for him. Holly thought he looked like a tall, windswept sea captain in it, with his blond hair blown about by the wind, and three days’ worth of scruff on his face.
As always, his handsomeness took her breath away.
She could feel her heart racing, not from the anticipation of the surprise, but just from her excitement to see him, kiss him, hear his deep voice thrilling every bone in her body.
He had only left her apartment that morning, yet she had missed him all day.
Vincent threw the door open and they all shouted, “Surprise!”
Byron grinned, pretending to be very surprised indeed.
Of course, he would have guessed about the party weeks ago. Holly didn’t know what would have given it away, but she was sure that something she’d said or done or left lying around had given him a clue, and then his curiosity wouldn’t rest until he figured it out.
She couldn’t surprise him, but she could make him happy, and that’s all that mattered to her.
He swept her up in his arms and kissed her, his mouth tasting delicious and his skin smelling of the fresh, cold wind.
She loved how he could pick her up so easily. Since she’d reached her full height, she’d never expected a man to be able to make her feel so light and feminine, and so safe in his arms.
They all gave him their gifts—a book from Andrea, a bottle of scotch from Vincent, a knitted scarf from Violet, and a framed photograph from Holly. Just a shot that Violet had taken of Byron and Holly, sitting on the sofa in her apartment, laughing at something with their heads together.
Then Andrea put the candles on the cake, and they all sang Happy Birthday, against Byron’s protests, while Vincent sang loudest of all and tried to make Byron wear a party hat.
While they ate Andrea’s excellent food, and drank Vincent’s excellent wine, and talked loudly across the table, Byron said quietly to Holly, “I have something for you, too.”
“You’re not supposed to give me a gift on your birthday!” Holly told him sternly.
“I know,” he said, his handsome face rather serious. “But really, it’s for me just as much.”
He handed her a flat little box.
Holly opened it up.
Inside was a picture of a palm-thatched hut, next to an expanse of calm blue water.
“Where is this?” Holly asked.
“It’s in Thailand,” Byron said. “Do you remember when you told me that your greatest dream was to give a baby elephant a bath?”
“When did I tell you that?” Holly laughed.
“I think you were about eight.”
“Oh my god, I can’t believe you remember that. I loved elephants so much.”
“Is that still a dream for you?”
“Of course!” she said, still laughing. “Are you being serious? Are we really going to Thailand?”
“I hope so,” Byron said. “Or there’s going to be some very dirty elephants.”
“When are we going?”
“I thought tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!”
“Well, you’re not exactly employed anymore...And neither am I...”
It was true. Holly had been offered other positions in the aftermath of Morris’s arrest, but she found it hard to imagine taking another job in politics. Not to mention the massive amount of media attention that had hounded her, making it difficult to function as normal.
Black, having ridden out several such media storms in the past, helped her navigate the insanity by sequestering them in her apartment with piles of Holly’s favorite snacks, movies, and books, until the worst of it passed and they could venture out with the help of a good hat and sunglasses.
Still, she wasn’t certain what she wanted to do next.
There was one thing she was completely certain about, however.
Wherever she went, she wanted to be right next to this man.
“Let’s do it,” she said. “Let’s leave tomorrow.”
“I love you,” Byron said, his dark blue eyes looking into hers.
&nbs
p; “I love you more,” Holly said.
“That’s impossible,” he said.
“Oi, you two!” Vincent called down the table to them. “Help us convince Violet that she needs to bring a date next time. She’s making the place settings uneven, and you know how Andrea hates uneven place settings.”
“Once your baby comes, there’ll be six of us,” Violet said. “So, I don’t need to bring any dates.”
“Unless it’s twins,” Holly said mischievously.
“Don’t even joke about that,” Andrea said, looking horrified.
“Actually, that sounds lovely,” Vincent said. “A boy and a girl, then we’ll both get what we want!”
“It’s not twins,” Andrea said firmly.
“You never know,” Violet said solemnly. “Sometimes one hides behind the other on the scan. People don’t know there’s two of them, right up until they’re born.”
Andrea went pale, imagining two babies when she’d only meticulously planned and decorated for one.
“Just make sure you’re back from wherever you’re going by then,” Vincent said to Byron. “Because you’re the godfather.”
“Lucky baby,” Holly said, grabbing Byron’s hand beneath the table and giving it a squeeze.
The End
Thank you so much for reading:
Colors of Crime Book 2: Black
Violet Black has a secret - and she doesn’t even know it. Read on for a preview of Book 3 in the Colors of Crime series:
Colors of Crime Book 3
He Knows Her Secret…
Violet Black is a talented singer and songwriter, but she’s barely scratching a living in London, working at a seedy club run by the Russian mafia.
Standing onstage, Violet locks eyes with a massive, brutal-looking Bratva. Anton Vasilev is second-in-command to the biggest boss in Paris. He’s intelligent, ruthless, and completely fixated on Violet.
He wants something from her, but Violet doesn’t know what. Until he abducts her from her bed in the middle of the night.
The Bratva have a plan for Violet. They know a secret about her… Something she doesn’t even know herself...
“Violet” is a dark mafia romance, full of danger, forbidden love, and bloody retribution. It’s Book 3 of the Colors of Crime series — a standalone novel, complete with HEA and no cliff hangers. Intended for mature readers who love steamy sex scenes, and men who will do anything to protect their women.
Click to Pre-Order Violet
Can i ask you a HUGE favor?
Would you be willing to leave me a review?
I would be so grateful as one positive review on Amazon is like buying the book a hundred times. Your support is the lifeblood of Indie authors and provides us with the feedback we need to give the readers exactly what they want!
I read each and every review. They mean the world to me! So thank you in advance, and happy reading!
Click to Review
Where it all began…
Colors of Crime Book 1
Sapphire – Chapter 1
Byron Black – London
I knew I was in love with you. Was I an idiot for thinking you were in love with me too?
Jesu Nadal
Chief Superintendent Black drove his hired car up the long, private drive to the Home Secretary’s house. He glanced with pleasure at the beautiful woman occupying the seat next to his. He knew he would be one of the least-important people at the party that night, but he couldn’t imagine that anyone would have a more stunning date on their arm.
Though they had been together almost a year, she was still a mystery to him, this dazzling American girl who had dropped into his life. What was she thinking now, at this moment?
Lex didn’t seem nervous in the slightest, though she was about to walk into a mansion full of strangers, in a setting where she couldn’t possibly know all the social norms. She seemed perfectly at her ease, leaning her elbow across the frame of the open window, enjoying the evening breeze streaming inside, heedless of how it might disarrange the elegant ballerina bun atop her head.
He loved when she wore her hair up like that, showing her long, slender neck.
And where had she found that gown? Emerald green silk, one-shouldered, perfectly fit and cascading down her body, save for a slit up one thigh. She looked as regal as an empress.
He would usually have felt uncomfortable with something so attention-grabbing. After all, the higher echelons of London society were still conservative compared to what she was probably used to back home. But he had seen her at enough parties to know that she charmed everyone she met. He didn’t have to worry about her.
This evening would be a little different than usual. Black had been invited—by the commissioner himself—to a private party thrown by the Home Secretary in honor of his wife’s fiftieth birthday.
Black rarely hobnobbed with the British political elite. The commissioner had invited him because Black was considered a rising star in the London police. In line for promotion to commander within a few months, and maybe eventually to the commissioner position itself.
They liked using him as a poster-boy: the chav who had risen through the ranks with such speed and perfection, and such excellent absorption of the rules of the game, spoken and unspoken.
Because that, of course, was the part that was actually difficult. Not solving cases—he was very good at that. The hard part was learning the right vocabulary and the right methods of pronunciation, the right way to dress and to behave, the right people to trade favors with. That was how you got ahead.
Black hated the games he had to play. Though he never let it show, he resented them. The wealthy that had been born that way. The people who didn’t have to work to get to the same place to which he had to kick and claw and struggle for years.
Had Lex grown up rich or poor? It was so hard to tell. She didn’t like to talk about her family or her childhood. He hoped she would be more open with him once they were married.
Assuming she said yes.
He had the ring, already bought. He’d been carrying it around in his breast pocket for a month, looking for the right moment to bring it out.
Of course, there had been plenty of moments—after a particularly enthusiastic session in bed, during a walk through the falling leaves in Hyde Park, when he’d taken her to dinner at Le Pont de la Tour.
The real reason he hadn’t yet proposed was because he wasn’t sure of her answer. He thought that she loved him. But he could never be certain.
Black knew that most women would consider him a catch. He was 190 cm tall, broad shouldered, blond, handsome. A decorated police officer, who had solved several prestigious cases, including saving the hostages from the bombing of the NSC building, a feat that had made him the hero of the city for a time.
Yet, Lex wasn’t like most women. He’d never seen her equal for intelligence or beauty. And she had that wildness to her.
So, he kept the ring with him at all times, looking for the right opportunity, the moment when he felt sure she’d say yes.
It was a perfect ring, just what he knew she would like. White gold and diamond, antique, probably made in 1890, or close thereto, in jolly old England. She had told him that Art Nouveau was her favorite style. He made sure the slender little band would be small enough to fit her hand.
She worked in art appraisal, so he knew it had to be something special. Something she’d be proud to wear, that fit her tastes.
Of course, he couldn’t afford the size of stone she really deserved, but maybe eventually. After a few more promotions.
He liked the finer things in life. He could tell she did too, from the few items she kept in her sparse apartment. Her place was near empty and always scrupulously clean, but what she had looked expensive and tasteful.
For his part, Black was enjoying driving this hired car. It was heavy and substantial. It handled smoothly. It smelled like new leather. Maybe they’d have a car like this someday, and a little house.
He kept no vehicle of his own, usually. He lived in the heart of London and drove a patrol car when required. But you couldn’t pull up to the Home Secretary’s house in a cab, so he’d rented something fancy for the night.
They were coming up to the place now. He’d never been in Hamstead Garden before, though of course he knew of it. It was one of the most prestigious suburbs in London. The poshest street of all was The Bishop’s Avenue, where the Home Secretary’s mansion took pride of place.
The house itself was a massive red brick monstrosity, rather squarish, with lots of chimneys and brightly-lit rectangular windows. It had a pretty, private drive up to the front, lined with trees, but the actual house seemed to have been built in stages, with a large four-story addition tacked on to the right side like some sort of growth.
“Not very aesthetic, is it?” Black said to Lex.
“Mmm,” she said, in mild agreement.
Black saw that she wasn’t looking at the house at all. She seemed to be scanning the grounds, glancing around at the gates, the guardhouse, and the valets parking the many cars for the partygoers.
It was so funny how she never seemed to be looking at quite the same things as him. There was something different in the way their minds worked.
“I heard they rushed through the purchase a few years ago to avoid the higher Stamp Duty costs,” Black told her. “Probably saved them almost two million pounds. You’d think if you could afford this place, you wouldn’t care about taxes, but the rich always seem to want to get a deal, don’t they?”
“I guess that’s why they’re rich,” Lex said.