Back To The Start Box Set: Five Full-Length Novels

by Aly Martinez

  “Oh God,” she cried, dropping her forehead to my chest. Her hand snaked up between us to rest on my pec.

  After kissing the top of her head, I finished with, “So you were right about one thing. I am standing in your bedroom, asking why you are upset, because minus the bullshit going on with the cops, I see not one thing to be upset about. Also, I’m standing in your bedroom, staring at you in that fucking nightgown, and remembering how it looked the last time I took it off you.”

  Her head jerked up, her eyes wide and her cheeks sliding through the color spectrum of reds. “Don’t,” she warned, but it came out breathy.

  “I won’t,” I assured as I slid my hands up her sides, allowing my thumbs to glide over the side of her breasts as I made my way up to her neck to cup her jaw. “Yet, anyway.”

  Her gaze darkened, and her hand at my chest closed, fisting my shirt. “This is crazy,” she whined.

  “It always was with us.”

  “I can’t do this with you, Roman. Not again.”

  “Fine. Don’t. But consider this your warning because…” I paused, turning us so I could back her to the bed. Bending so as not to lose the connection, I gently lowered her to the mattress and declared, “I’m checking back in.”

  She shook her head. “This isn’t a hotel. You can’t just check back in.”

  I battled the urge to kiss her.

  To claim her.

  To take back the woman who had always been mine.

  Calling up every ounce of self-control I possessed, I released her, pushed off the bed, and headed to the door. After opening it, I shot her a smirk and said, “You’re right. It’s not. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be sleeping on the fucking couch.”

  Her chin quivered as she smiled. God, she was scared to fucking death, and it broke me. But I wasn’t letting go. Not again.

  “It’s gonna be okay. All of it,” I promised.

  A tear fell as she replied in a weak voice, “I’m not sure about that.”

  She was wrong. But I wasn’t going to convince her of that right then.

  “Try to eat and get some rest, okay?”

  She nodded, wiping the wetness away from her cheeks.

  I hated leaving her alone when she was struggling, but she needed the space, so begrudgingly, I walked away.

  Then I yelled, “Son of a bitch!” when that goddamned man in the mirror scared the shit out of me for the second time.

  And it was worth every second of the near heart attack when I heard Elisabeth’s soft giggle from the other side of the door.

  Chapter Eleven

  Elisabeth

  “Wake up, baby,” I heard as I felt the hair being swept off my face.

  It was him. Therefore, it had to be a dream.

  It was a dream I’d had at least a dozen times.

  However, once, it had been reality.

  “Wake up, baby,” he urged, sitting on the bed in the curve of my naked body. His back to my front, only a sheet dividing us. Thoughts of the night before flooded my mind—all of them starting and ending with Roman.

  “Mmm,” I purred, curling around him. Looping my arms at his waist, I groaned when I came in contact with his clothes. My sore, well-used body was still aching from the night before, but I was ready for more. “Why are you dressed?” I complained, teasingly patting him down, paying special attention to his zipper while searching for the length hiding behind it.

  Just as I found it, he caught my wrist and pulled it away. “We need to talk.”

  It wasn’t spoken in a tone that said, We need to talk so we can figure out where to get more condoms and then stay in the bed for the rest of the day—and maybe forever.

  It was spoken in a tone that said, We need to talk because I’m married and need to get home to my wife.

  I was suddenly more awake than ever.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, sitting up, dragging the sheet with me.

  He was no less gorgeous the next morning, but the mischievous glint in his silver eyes was now filled with worry. It was all wrong for the man who had proposed only hours earlier.

  “How ya feeling?” he asked, pushing to his feet and pacing the room.

  “Good,” I drawled suspiciously.

  He stopped moving and looked over at me. “Not sick or anything?”

  I tilted my head in question and replied, “Nope. Little thirsty. Little hungover. But overall pretty good.”

  Scrubbing the top of his buzzed head, he breathed, “Oh, thank God.”

  This did not relax me in the least.

  “Roman, what’s going on?”

  He swallowed hard then went back to pacing a path in my carpet. “I fucked up, Lis.”

  My already racing heart came to a screeching halt.

  He’d fucked up.

  Oh God.

  “How?” I had no idea where the courage to ask had come from, because no one wanted to be rejected by a man who they’d fallen in love with. And that was exactly what had happened. I’d thought I had known it as he’d made love to me on the floor just inside my apartment and then again a few hours later in my bed. But, right then, staring down the barrel of losing him, I knew.

  Roman Leblanc was it for me.

  And he’d fucked up.

  He looked at me with terrified eyes and announced, “I was drunk.”

  I was going to be sick. I could feel it in my stomach. I wasn’t going to be able to hold it together much longer.

  “Roman, I’m about to have a panic attack, so if you could just speak in full thoughts and spit this shit out, I’d really appreciate it. What did you do?”

  He balled his hands into fists, planting them on his hips as he confessed, “It was lamb!”

  My head snapped back. “What?”

  “I’m so fucking sorry. I’ve been freaking out all morning.” He started pacing again. “I searched your fridge and pantry, and there’s not a piece of lamb anywhere. Are you allergic? Please tell me it’s not a delayed reaction. Shit. Damn. Fuck. Do we need to go to the hospital?” He gripped the back of his neck and stared at me. “Oh God, please don’t tell me it’s a religious thing and I knowingly fed you lamb.”

  My breath became lodged in my throat.

  This smart, funny, and beautiful man was freaking out because he’d told me that the gyros were beef. He had a conscience so strong that it had woken him early in the morning and sent him scouring through my pantry.

  The guilt was painted all over his face.

  If I’d had any doubts left about Roman, that was the exact moment they vanished.

  I was hopeless to stop the tears from falling.

  “Say something,” he whispered in absolute horror.

  “Yes,” I said on a half cry, half laugh.

  His eyebrows pinched together. “Yes, allergic, or yes, religious?”

  I sob-laughed again. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

  His whole body startled, and his mouth gaped open.

  I quickly amended, “I mean, if the offer’s still on the table.”

  “Oh my God,” he gasped. “Are you serious?”

  I nodded, wiping my cheeks and climbing to my knees.

  He rushed across my bedroom faster than any non-Olympic athlete could move. Slamming into me, he wrapped his arms around my shoulders and lifted me off the bed.

  “Holy shit,” he breathed, planting random kisses on the top of my hair and the side of my face. “Say it again.”

  “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

  “Jesus,” he whispered. “I thought I was going to lose you.”

  I giggled. “Over lamb?”

  He pinched my side. “I spent forty-five minutes searching the Internet for lamb allergies. I even held a mirror under your nose to make sure you were still breathing.”

  I burst out laughing as he put me back on the bed. “For the record, I eat lamb. I’m just not a fan of it in anything but a gyro.”

  “Noted.” He pressed his lips to mine in a reverent kiss. Then he leaned away and smiled,
declaring, “You’re gonna be Elisabeth—with an S—Leblanc by the end of the day.”

  I smiled back. “Leblanc with a capital or lowercase B?”

  He smirked. “Does it matter?”

  I struggled to get rid of my smile, but the best I could do was cover it with my hand. “Yes, it matters. Our lives together hang in the balance of this question right here. Right now.”

  He chewed on his bottom lip, trying to cover his own shit-eating grin. “Lowercase.”

  I sucked in a deep breath and then took the biggest risk of my entire life.

  And I did it knowing that it wasn’t really a risk at all.

  Because, regardless of my answer, I would love this man for the rest of my life.

  “Okay, then. Roman Leblanc—with a lowercase B—let’s get married.”

  I kept my eyes closed as I stretched. “What time is it?” I asked, rolling to my side and curling around him.

  “Jesus,” he mumbled as I felt him touch the spaghetti strap of my nightie. His thumb grazed my skin as it trailed down between my breasts. My nipples peaked in anticipation.

  But then he moved the fabric to cover me. Wrong direction.

  I groaned in disappointment when consciousness finally pulled me from my dream world.

  My eyes flashed open, and I found him staring down at my chest as he righted the material over my exposed breast.

  I bolted upright and scrambled across the bed, dragging the sheet with me. “Wh-what are you doing here?” I asked, memories of the night before still lost in the early morning fog.

  He twisted his lips, his eyes darkening as they slid to my hands, which were clutching the sheet, then back again. “Our legal team will be here in fifteen minutes. I thought you might like to get dressed.”

  With that, the world came crashing back down around me. My body sagged, and my heart wrenched. I would have rather stayed in bed all day and forget that I needed a legal team in the first place.

  “Okay,” I forced out.

  Before I knew it, his hand was at the back of my neck, dragging me toward him. It wasn’t rough, but it was demanding. He tucked my face into his neck and shifted so my chest was crushed against his side.

  I didn’t fight. I’d just woken up and didn’t have it in me. Or so I told myself as I nuzzled closer.

  “It’s gonna be okay, Lissy,” he whispered into my hair, his lips sealing the promise with a kiss on my crown.

  “Okay,” I mumbled, doing my best to tamp the overwhelming anxiety down.

  “It’s just a meeting with Whit and Kaplin to see what our options are.”

  “Okay,” I agreed again.

  One hand remained at the back of my neck, and he folded the other arm around my shoulders, holding me so tight that it was as if he could keep me from falling apart. And this was Roman; he might have been the only one who could. It was his superpower as far as I was concerned.

  “I’m right here. One hundred percent,” he said, continuing with the reassurance.

  I continued with the noncommittal declarations of acceptance. “Okay.”

  “You want some coffee?” he asked before kissing the top of my head again.

  I shouldn’t have liked that as much as I did.

  There were reasons Roman and I were no longer together. I needed to focus on those and not the desire to crawl into his lap and ride out the rest of the day in his arms.

  Drawing in a breath, I forced myself to my feet. “I need to get dressed, but yeah, I’d love coffee. The creamer is—”

  “In the cabinet. Powder. I remember,” he said, scrubbing his hands over his…

  Jeans?

  “Where’d you get clothes?” I asked, heading to my closet—the one that used to be his.

  “Seth. He dropped off my car this morning, too.”

  I turned and looked through the blinds to see a brand-spanking-new Range Rover sitting in my driveway. And, for reasons I didn’t understand, just the sight of that fucking car sent ice through my veins. This wasn’t the past where Roman was mine and he woke me up and held me in the morning while I calmed myself from the stress of the day.

  This was the present where Roman had checked out on me, we’d gotten a divorce, and he’d started up a multimillion-dollar company while I’d struggled to breathe.

  Anger was a worthless emotion, but bitterness and resentment were impossible to ignore.

  I snapped the blinds shut as I sniped, “That’s a far cry from the broke-down Honda you left in.”

  I couldn’t see him, but I felt the air crackle around us. Then, just as quickly, everything fell flat. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw him moving toward me—fast.

  His chest hit my back at the same time that fucking hand of his slid into my hair.

  My body responded immediately, spiking my pulse and flushing my cheeks.

  With a gentle tug, he sent chills spreading over my skin as he pulled my head back. Our eyes met. Mine were wide. His were feral.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  I couldn’t talk.

  I couldn’t even think.

  Not with his hard body at my back, his breath on my skin, and his mouth inches away from mine.

  His hand squeezed my waist as it slowly glided up my stomach, stopping just below the round of my breasts. His thumb gently swept the swell before disappearing.

  My lids drooped at the contact, and my head fell back against his shoulder. As I gave him my weight, he shifted his hand from my neck around to my throat.

  “There she is. My sweet Lissy,” he praised softly.

  As much as I needed to keep my distance, I knew it was a futile. I’d never been able to stay away from him.

  And that obviously hadn’t changed.

  He was amazing in bed, and I was positive that hadn’t changed, either.

  I hadn’t been with anyone since our divorce. And, the year before it, I had been pregnant, recovering, or lost in despair. Sex hadn’t been very high on our list of priorities.

  Maybe we could remedy this now. At least physically.

  Trusting him with my body doesn’t mean trusting him with my heart.

  Or so I told myself during my “it’s okay to sleep with your ex-husband” mental pep talk.

  It was a successful one too, because seconds later, I threw in the towel with a silent, Fuck it.

  Arching my back, I pressed my ass against his hips and circled. I heard his groan just as I closed my eyes and set aim on his mouth.

  Only he didn’t meet me halfway.

  He didn’t meet me at all.

  He released me and walked away, saying, “I wish I could say the same about your car. It was a piece of shit when we bought it. It’s worse now. You need something new.”

  I blinked.

  What had just happened?

  Oh, that’s right. I got shut the fuck down by my ex-husband after he’d basically fondled my boobs and pulled my hair.

  Roman Leblanc strikes again.

  “Get out!” I growled. (Yes, growled. Apparently, it was contagious.)

  “Yep,” he replied like I’d asked him to pass the salt. He never looked back as he headed out the door, but he paused just before closing it long enough to call over his shoulder, “After our meeting, I have to hit the office for an hour or so today. I’ll bring back dinner.”

  He would not be bringing dinner back that night because I’d be staying at the dodgy motel two counties over. I didn’t inform him of this information by chasing him down the stairs the way I would have liked. Instead, I took a shower, brushed my teeth, and got dressed, all the while cursing my libido.

  Chapter Twelve

  Roman

  Our attorneys had nothing. Not. One. Fucking. Thing. The cops weren’t allowed to tell us the name of the other couple involved so we could deal with it privately. We had to sit on our hands and wait for the APD to feed us more information as it became available—if it became available.

  I was beyond frustrated by this news, but Elisabeth was notably distraugh
t. My attempts to soothe her only made it worse.

  She was probably pissed at me for having shot her down in the bedroom when she’d all but offered me her naked body on a silver platter. But fuck. I’d had fifteen minutes before Whit and Kaplin arrived. There was no way, the first time I had her in what felt like an eternity—but probably calculated closer to three years—it was going to be in a quickie against the closet wall. Though, after that little grind down with her ass, I’d been tempted.

  After our attorneys gave us a full briefing and left, Elisabeth locked herself away in the second bedroom, stating that she had work to do. She probably did, but the way she’d said it was more like, Get the fuck out of my house.

  I gave her that because I did, in fact, have work to do. And the sooner I got to the office and got it done, the sooner I could get back over to her place and finish what she had started.

  It was a rare day when I didn’t wear a suit to the office. I hated that shit, all stiff and as comfortable as a cardboard straitjacket, but if I wanted people to believe I belonged behind the massive desk in the corner office, I had to look the part.

  After my morning, though, I hadn’t felt like going back to my apartment before heading in for a couple of hours. So, in a pair of jeans that were barely held together by a thread and a T-shirt that wasn’t much better, I exited the elevator at Leblanc Industries.

  “Mr. Leblanc?” my secretary said with surprise.

  Just as fast, a man repeated, “Mr. Leblanc?”

  I stopped as he moved toward me. “Can I help you?”

  He was around my age, well-built, and exuding authority, so it didn’t surprise me in the least when he flipped a badge my way. “Agent Heath Light, DEA. Can we have a word in private?” He tucked a manila folder under his arm in order to extend a hand.