Three Years Later…
The crowd at the Carlyle family cocktail party had changed. Instead of unmarried socialites and champagne glasses, it was family and…champagne—it was still the Carlyles after all.
Sawyer looked around, unable to stop noticing all the details that made his life so much more than it had been before. Clover stood next to him, her hair shining in the setting sun. Laura Lee and Phillip were laughing at something Hudson said while his fiancée rolled her eyes and chuckled. He’d always known his brother was hiding something, he’d never have guessed just what it was because he’d never looked close enough. Big brother fail for sure. Details mattered and thanks to the woman by his side he wouldn’t be missing those any more. Clover’s best friend Daphne was there, too, still looking a little jet-lagged after the girl’s trip to Nepal they’d taken. And then there was Helene who was chasing little Michael with his chubby toddler legs around the grand piano. Mikey, as they called him to differentiate Sawyer’s son from Sawyer’s father who Mikey was named after, had a handful of birthday cake mashed in his right hand and was running full speed ahead, just like he had from the day he took his first step. Like his father, there was no walking for that kid.
“You know, I think if my dad had lived to see this he would have changed his favorite view,” Sawyer said, curling an arm around Clover’s waist and drawing her in close. “I know I have.”
She smiled up at him. “There’s nothing quite like seeing your mom with apple crumb cake handprints on her Dior skirt.”
“I don’t think she’s even noticed.” The woman who’d spent her adult life scaring most of Harbor City’s society had become putty in the hands of her grandchild.
“Well, if she didn’t notice that I’m wearing these,” Clover lifted her hiking boot clad foot “then we can definitely say she’s baby crazy.”
“Maybe we should take advantage of that by letting her watch Mikey while we take a trip to South America,” he said, the plan already coming together in his head. “There’s a group in Peru that’s setting up a women’s business collective. I hear they need a negotiator to work out a deal with some international distributors.”
“Let’s do that next month,” she said, her eyes sparkling with that something that had sucker punched him the first time he’d set eyes on her.
“I know that look. That’s usually one that has me agreeing to things I never thought I’d say yes to.”
She shrugged nonchalantly. “I think we need to work on a project to keep Mikey from getting lonely.”
“You want to take him with us?” He wasn’t against it, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that wasn’t what she meant at all.
“Nope.”
Understanding dawned. “Number two?”
She winked at him. “Let’s make that happen.”
“But what about all the travel I promised you before we got married? You’ve only gone through one of the seven pairs of hiking boots I’d hidden away.”
“There will be plenty of time for that.” She raised herself up on her tiptoes, bringing her face within kissing distance of his. “A whole lifetime.”
How could he say no to that? “Deal.”
He dipped his head and kissed her, knowing he’d been out-negotiated again and not caring at all because he’d still won. They both had.
Thank you for reading THE NEGOTIATOR!
Don't miss the hot new romantic comedy follow-up to the smash hit The Negotiator...
Hot, filthy rich, and usually irresistible, Hudson Carlyle just met the one woman in Harbor City who’s immune to his legendary charm. Nerdy ant researcher Felicia Hartigan is the unsexiest dresser ever. She trips over air. And she’s in love with totally the wrong man. Hudson can’t stop thinking about her.
His regular moves won’t work here. He’s going to need a new plan, starting with helping her win over the man she thinks she wants. And if in the process she ends up falling for Hudson instead? Even better. Step one, charm her panties off. Step two, repeat step one as frequently as possible.
But what if the famous Carlyle charm finally fails him when he needs it most? Or worse, what if she figures out the one secret he’s kept from everyone, including his family, and walks away for good?
ONE CLICK THE CHARMER >
Driven
K. BROMBERG
Driven
K. BROMBERG
Colton Donavan lives on that razor thin edge toward out of control. Whether it’s on the track or off of it, everything he wants is at his fingertips: success, willing women, media attention.
* * *
Everything that is, but me. I’m the exception this reckless bad boy can’t seem to win over.
* * *
My heart is healing. His soul is damaged. We both know the two of us could never work. But he crashes into my life without apology—disrupting my world, testing my boundaries, and uncovering the darkness of my past.
* * *
Our chemistry is undeniable. Our attraction is magnetic. Our ability to help each other heal obvious. And even though he won’t let me in, there’s something about Colton I can’t walk away from.
* * *
This is the beginning of our story.
* * *
Our fight.
* * *
Our perfectly imperfect love.
1
I sigh into the welcoming silence, grateful for the chance to escape—even if only momentarily—from the mindsuck of meaningless conversations on the other side of the door. For all intents and purposes, the people holding these conversations are my guests, but that doesn’t mean I have to like or even be comfortable around them. Fortunately, Dane was sympathetic enough to my need for a reprieve that he let me do this chore for him.
The clicking of my high heels is the only other sound accompanying my categorically scattered thoughts, as I navigate the vacant backstage corridors of the old theater that I’ve rented for tonight’s event. I quickly reach the old dressing room and collect the lists that Dane forgot in our chaotic, pre-party rush to clean up. As I start to head back, I run over my mental checklist for tonight’s highly anticipated date auction. The niggling in the back of my mind tells me that I’m forgetting something. Reflexively, I reach for my hip, where my cell phone with my always-compiled task list lives, but instead, I come up with a handful of my cocktail dress’s copper-colored silk organza.
“Shit,” I mutter to myself as I stop momentarily, trying to pinpoint what exactly it is that I’m overlooking. I sag against the wall, the ruched bodice of my dress hindering my ability to inhale a deep sigh of frustration. Even though it looks incredible, the damn dress should’ve come with a warning: breathing optional.
Think, Rylee, think! With my shoulder blades pressed against the wall, I shift inelegantly back and forth to try and alleviate the pressure on my toes, which are painfully crammed into my four-inch heels.
Auction paddles! I need the auction paddles. I smile widely at my brain’s ability to remember, considering I’ve been so overwhelmed lately as the sole coordinator of tonight’s event. Relieved, I push myself off of the wall and take about ten steps.
And that’s when I hear them.
The flirty, feminine giggle floats through the air, followed by the deep timbre of a masculine moan. I freeze instantly, shocked at the audacity of our party’s attendees, when I hear the unmistakable sound of a zipper, followed by a breathless but familiar feminine gasp of, “Oh yes!” in the darkened alcove a few feet in front of me. As my eyes adjust to the shadows, I become aware of a man’s black dinner jacket lying carelessly across an old chair shoved askew and a pair of strappy heels haphazardly discarded on the floor beneath it.
You couldn’t pay me enough money to do something like that in public. My thoughts are interrupted when I hear a hiss of breath followed by a masculine, exhaled, “Sweet Jesus!”
I squeeze my eyes shut in a moment of indecision. I really need the auction paddles that sit in the storage closet at the en
d of the intersecting hallway. Unfortunately, the only way to reach that hallway is to walk past Lover’s Lane alcove. I have no choice but to go for it. I send up a silent yet ludicrous prayer, hoping that I can skate past unnoticed.
I scurry forward, keeping my blush-stained face angled to the wall opposite them while I walk on my toes to keep my heels from clicking on the hardwood floor. The last thing I need right now is to draw attention to myself and come face to face with someone I know. I breathe a silent sigh of relief when my clandestine tiptoe is successful.
I’m still trying to place the woman’s voice when I reach the storage closet. I fumble clumsily with the handle, having to aggressively tug on it before finally yanking it open and flicking on the light. I spot the bag of auction paddles on the far shelf as I walk inside the closet, forgetting to prop the door open. As I grab the handles of the bag, the door at my back slams shut with such force that the cheap shelving units in the closet rattle. Startled, I whip around to reopen the door and notice that the arm on the self-closing hinge has disconnected.
I immediately drop the bag. The sound of the paddles hitting the concrete floor and spilling out causes an eruption of sound. When I reach for the handle, it turns but the door doesn’t budge an inch. Panic licks at my subconscious, but I suppress it as I push again on the door with all of my strength. It does not move.
“Shit!” I chastise myself. “Shit, shit, shit!” I take a deep breath and shake my head in frustration. I have so much to do before the auction starts. And of course I don’t have my cell phone to call Dane to get me out of here either.
When I close my eyes, my nemesis suddenly makes its move. The long, all-consuming fingers of claustrophobia slowly begin to claw their way up my body and wrap themselves around my throat.
Squeezing. Tormenting. Stifling.
The walls of the small room seem to be gradually sliding closer to each other, closing in on me. Surrounding me. Suffocating me. I struggle to breathe.
My heart beats erratically as I push back the panic rising in my throat. My breath—shallow and rapid—echoes in my ears. Consuming me. Zapping my ability to suppress my haunted memories.
I pound on the door, fear overwhelming the small hold I have left on my control. On reality. A rivulet of sweat trickles down my back. The walls keep moving in on me. My need to escape is the only thing I can focus on. I pound on the door again, yelling frantically, hoping someone roaming these back corridors can hear me.
I lean my back against the wall, close my eyes, and try to catch my breath; it’s not coming quickly enough and dizziness surfaces. Becoming nauseous, I start to slide down the wall and accidentally hit the light switch. I’m submerged in pitch-black darkness. I cry out, frantically searching for the switch with my trembling hands. I flick it on, relieved to have pushed the monsters back into hiding.
But when I look down, blood covers my hands. I blink to try and snap out of my reverie, but I can’t shake it. I’m in a different place. A different time.
All around me, I smell the acrid stench of destruction. Of desperation. Of death.
In my ears, his thready breathing is agonizing. He’s gasping. Dying.
I feel the intense, blazing pain that twists so deep in your soul, you fear you’ll never escape it. Even in death. My screams shake me out of the memory, and I’m so disoriented that I’m not sure if they’re from the past or the present.
Get a grip, Rylee! I rub the tears off my cheeks with the backs of my hands and think back to my previous year in therapy to try to keep my claustrophobia at bay. I concentrate on a mark on the wall across from me, try to regulate my breathing, and slowly count. I focus on pushing the walls out, pushing the unbearable memories away.
I count to ten, gaining a scrap of composure, yet desperation still clings to me. I know Dane will come looking for me shortly. He knows where I went, but the thought does nothing to alleviate my surmounting panic.
Finally, I surrender to my intense need to escape and start pounding on the door with the heels of my hands. Shouting loudly. Cursing sporadically. Begging for someone to hear me and open the door. For someone to save me again.
In my ragged state of mind, seconds feel like minutes and minutes feel like hours. I feel like I’ve been locked in this ever-shrinking closet forever. Feeling defeated, I yell out once more and rest my forearms on the door in front of me. Bracing my weight on my forearms, I lay my head on them and succumb to my tears. Large, ragged sobs shake violently through me.
And suddenly, I have the feeling of falling.
Falling forward as I stumble into the solid body of a man in my path. My arms encircle a firm torso while my legs lie awkwardly bent behind me. The man instinctively brings his arms up and wraps them around me, catching me, holding my weight and absorbing my impact.
I look up, quickly registering the shock of dark hair spiked haphazardly, bronzed skin, the slight shadow of stubble … and then I meet his eyes. A jolt of electricity—an almost palpable energy—crackles when I meet those guarded, translucent green irises. Surprise flashes through them fleetingly, but the intrigue and intensity with which he regards me is unnerving, despite my body’s immediate reaction to him. Needs and desires long forgotten inundate me with this one, simple meeting of eyes.
How can this man I’ve never met make me forget the panic and desperation I felt only moments before?
I make the mistake of breaking eye contact and glancing down at his mouth. Full, sculpted lips purse as he studies me intently, and then very slowly, they spread into a lopsided, roguish grin.
Oh, how I want that mouth on me—anywhere and everywhere all at once. What in the hell am I thinking? This man is way out of my league. Like light years away out of my league.
I draw my gaze back up to see amusement in his eyes, as if he knows what I’m thinking. I can feel a flush slowly spread over my face as embarrassment for both my predicament and my salacious thoughts registers in my brain. I tighten my grip around muscular biceps as I lower my gaze to avoid his assessing eyes and try to regain my composure. Bringing my feet back under me, I accidentally stumble farther into him, my balance compromised by my inexperience with sky-high heels. I jump back from him as my breasts brush against his firm chest, setting my nerve endings ablaze. Tiny detonations of desire tickle deep in my belly.
“Oh … um … I’m so sorry.” I hold my hands up in a flustered apology. The man is even more disarming now that I’m able to drink in the whole length of him. Imperfectly perfect and sexy as hell with a smirk suggesting arrogance and an air exuding trouble.
He raises an eyebrow, noticing my slow inspection of him. “No apologies needed,” he responds in a cultured rasp with just a hint of edge. His voice evokes images of rebellion and sex. “I’m used to women falling at my feet.”
My head snaps up. I can only hope he’s joking, but his enigmatic expression gives nothing away. He watches my response, bemusement in his eyes, and that cocksure smile widening, causing a single dimple to deepen in his defined jaw.
Despite having taken a step back, I am still close to him. Too close for me to gather my wits, but close enough for me to feel his breath over my cheek. To smell the clean scent of soap mixed with his subtle, earthy cologne.
“Thanks. Thank you,” I respond breathlessly. I see the muscle in his clenched jaw pulse as he watches me. Why is this man making me nervous and feeling like I have to justify my situation? “The-the door shut behind me. It jammed. I panicked—”
“Are you okay? Miss—?”
My response falters as his hand cups the back of my neck, pulling me closer and holding me still. He runs his free hand up and down my bare arm in what I assume is an attempt to make sure that I’m not physically harmed. My body registers the trail of sparks his fingertips blaze on my naked flesh while my mind becomes acutely aware that his sensuous mouth is only a whisper away from mine. My lips part and my breath hitches as he moves his hand up the line of my neck and then uses the back of it to run his knuckles softly
down my cheek.
I have no time to register the confusion mingled with a heavy dose of desire that surges through me when I hear him mutter, “Oh fuck it,” seconds before his mouth is on mine. I gasp in utter shock, my lips parting a fraction as his mouth absorbs the sound, giving him an opening to caress his tongue over my lips and dart slowly between them.
I push my hands against his chest, trying to resist the uninvited kiss from this stranger. Trying to do what logic tells me is right. Trying to deny what my body is telling me it wants. To abandon inhibition and let myself enjoy this one moment with him.
Common sense wins my internal feud between lust and prudence, and I manage to push him back a fraction. His mouth breaks from mine, our breaths panting over each other’s faces. His eyes, wild with lust, hold steady to mine. I find it hard to ignore the seed of desire that’s blooming deep in my belly. The vehement protest that’s screaming in my mind dies silently on my lips as I succumb to the notion that I want this kiss. I want to feel what I have been so devoid of—what I have purposely denied myself. I want to act recklessly and have “that kiss”—the one that books are written about, love is found in, and virtue is lost with.
“Decide, sweetheart,” he commands. “A man only has so much restraint.”
His warning, the insane notion that simple me can make a man like him lose control, bewilders me, confusing my thoughts so that the denial on my tongue never crosses my lips. He takes advantage of my silence, a lascivious smile curling the corners of his mouth before tightening the hold he has on the nape of my neck. From one breath to the next, he crushes his mouth to mine. Probing. Tasting. Demanding.
My resistance is futile and lasts only seconds before I surrender to him. I instinctively move my hands over his unshaven jaw to the back of his neck and tug my fingers in the hair that curls over the top of his collar. A low moan comes from the back of his throat, bolstering my confidence, allowing me to part my lips and take more of him. My tongue entwines and dances intimately with his. A slow, seductive ballet highlighted with breathy moans and panted whimpers.
Love in the Dark Page 42