When she’s not lost in the minds of her characters, or stumbling around social media, you’ll likely find Iris playing in the garden, riding her horse, or drinking wine by a wood-burning fire. She’s also an avid reader who spends entirely too much time on her kindle. Home is with her man and a small herd of animals in a quaint little town in Southern California, with oak tree-covered hills and an almost empty lake. One of her favorite things is to hear from readers. It always, always makes her smile.
Excerpt from
CLAIMED
Prequel to Lovely Little Stray
*****
CHAPTER ONE
I sit at the end of the bar, sipping my martini to the soft, jazzy notes of a lone saxophone, all the while wondering if I’ll have the courage to go through with it. Because I never do this sort of thing, and I never wear this kind of dress. But I don’t want to be alone tonight. I’m tired of being alone, tired of hiding from the world.
There’s something else though…something else that has lured me out into the night, into this place, with its sultry red glow and wandering eyes: I feel like I’m searching for something, but without knowing what it is, I’m having a hard time finding it.
All I know is how I feel. Trapped. Afraid. Imprisoned by a life that has made me fearful and anxious, of everything. Like now. My heart beats a little too fast. My breath comes and goes a little too quick. Inside, I feel empty, as though a void exists but I have no idea how to fill it.
Silly girl.
How naïve I was to think that a change of scenery would solve anything. Here I am, twenty-three years old and a few weeks into my new life, still living off my inheritance, nothing but a stranger in an even stranger city, with still no answers, and still no peace.
When the threat of tears starts to build, I tip the rest of my martini back just as the bartender with the bowtie glances over, his eyebrow arched in a silent question. I shake my head and offer a weak smile. One is enough. One is plenty
He nods in understanding then turns his attention to the far end of the bar, where an elderly woman with sad eyes and an empty glass waits.
If I’m not careful, that’s going to be me one day.
I shudder when I think of the last time—the only time—I let a man touch me, let a man inside me. It’s not that I haven’t had the opportunity since then. I’m aware of my looks and my affect on men, I just…I haven’t been willing. I’ve been keeping myself locked away, too haunted by the past, too unsure of the future, but mostly, too afraid to put myself out there.
Until now.
Only it feels like I’ve waited too long. Because a man’s touch is not something I simply want, it’s something I need .
With a shaky breath, I finally allow my eyes to scan the dimly lit room. The place seems quiet for a Friday night. Perhaps it’s the rain outside, or perhaps no one is in the mood to play. Either way, it’s fine with me. I hate crowds.
My searching gaze wanders, taking in the men and women who sit scattered among the tables, some single, some coupled, some huddled close together as though sharing secrets, others appearing locked in the throes of serious conversation.
Movement in the far corner draws my attention where I watch, with a touch of envy, a young attractive couple—tipsy and drunk with desire—rise from a table and leave, allowing my gaze to drift to another table that had previously been hidden from view, and it is there, through the haze of a darkened corner, that I see him.
He sits alone, reclined in his chair, legs crossed, one hand holding the cell phone he speaks into, while the other casually swirls the snifter on the table, as though he’s in no particular hurry, as though time will wait for him. Despite the shadows that surround him, I can see that he’s older…at least older than me, late thirties perhaps, and striking, with salt and mostly pepper hair and glowing ice-blue eyes. And while the three-piece suit is a gleaming grey and finely cut, offering the promise of a gentleman, there’s something about him that doesn’t seem gentle at all. Maybe it’s the leisurely repose, the way his languid movements seem belied by some predatory instinct, that I find myself reminded of a lion lounging in the grass.
I can’t help but wonder who he might be talking to. A wife perhaps, or maybe a lover. Yet the way his mouth moves, the way he appears almost bored, instinct tells me it is not a woman, at least not a woman he is intimate with, but a friend perhaps, or a business colleague.
After a moment, he sets the phone down, gives the snifter a final swirl, then brings the glass to his lips, and as he tilts his head back, his eyes fall upon me.
It’s as though someone has just tossed a warm blanket around me on a chilly day.
Turn away, I think, but I can’t.
I can only watch, helpless, as the glass hovers at his lips while his penetrating gaze remains locked on me, and in that moment, everything else fades. It is just the two of us, until it isn’t.
“Hey gorgeous. Can I buy you a drink?”
I tear my eyes away and glance to my right, where a young man with a cocky smile and puffy face hovers next to me, his breath a bit too heavy.
“No, thank you,” I reply quickly.
Undeterred, the man starts talking something about how he’s never seen me before as he’s sure he would remember, but I ignore him and glance back to the suit. A strange feeling of loss sinks heavy into my body.
The table is empty.
I turn back to my drink in a daze.
Suddenly, a warm hand falls upon my thigh, slipping just under the hem of my little black dress. I gasp and turn, only to see a shoulder clad in a fine grey fabric. A five o’clock shadow grazes my cheek and a man whispers into my ear, “I’m in the hotel next door. Penthouse.”
His voice is warm and smooth, like the expensive cognac on his breath. His subtle cologne drifts around me, hypnotic and seeping into my pours until I can taste him on my tongue. With a soft caress, his hand leaves my thigh and suddenly he’s gone, the only evidence he ever existed is the closing door and the lonely snifter left behind on the empty table.
A whisper of adrenaline begins a slow, seductive crawl through my body, coaxing a tingling sensation into my limbs and everything in between.
The man next to me has fallen silent, yet when I glance over, he is still watching me, but perhaps his smile is a little less cocky.
With a polite nod, I excuse myself from the bar and go to the ladies’ room.
In the mirror, I see the reflection of a young woman I recognize but feel as though I barely know. The fragile face and long blonde waves appear familiar, but the mystery rests in the wide hazel eyes gazing back at me. They seem filled with a hunger that reminds me of a wild animal that has been too long without food. Such a thing is bound to do things it should not do, and go where it should not go.
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Claimed
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