King's Ransom

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King's Ransom Page 18

by Jackie Ashenden


  That blindingly tender smile was a weapon, cutting me to pieces. ‘Don’t use him as an excuse, love. Don’t let fear win. He destroyed things. You build them. That’s what you do. That’s what you and your brothers are doing.’

  Fear. Was I really letting it stop me?

  I looked into Imogen’s eyes, saw her love for me staring back.

  It didn’t seem possible that a man like me, broken and dark, violent and possessive, could catch a beam of sunlight in his hand and hold it for ever. And, because it didn’t seem possible, I’d locked myself down, denied myself. Told myself I couldn’t have it.

  But then she’d come along and broken me wide open with her honesty and her trust. With her love. A love that terrified me because I wanted it so much.

  She was right; I was afraid. And if I gave into fear he would win.

  I couldn’t let that happen. Because I had one thing he didn’t: love.

  Love made me keep my promise to her. Love kept me from the brink.

  Loving her had saved me and it was still saving me, even now.

  Love was the key. It wasn’t a word my father would have said to anyone. He wouldn’t have even known what it meant.

  But Imogen did. And she’d taught me.

  Love was the difference between me and my father.

  Imogen was watching me and maybe she’d read my mind because she asked very softly, ‘Do you love me, Ajax?’

  All my fight was gone. She’d kidnapped my heart and she wasn’t giving it back. And I couldn’t lie, not to myself and not to her.

  Not any more.

  ‘Yes.’ It came out low and guttural. ‘I’ll love you till I die.’

  The warmth in her expression killed me. ‘Then have me.’

  ‘I’ll never be good enough for you. I’ll never deserve you.’

  ‘You don’t need to. What you deserve is happiness.’

  I couldn’t hold back then, couldn’t keep the hunger at bay.

  She’d brought me back to life and there was no way I could have that life without her.

  I caught her in my arms, pulling her close, fitting her against me, and the constant ache inside me began to ease, like a part of me that had been missing had come back.

  ‘Little one,’ I murmured, nuzzling my face in her hair. ‘I can’t let you go again.’

  ‘Good.’ She pressed harder against me. ‘Because I wouldn’t leave. I’d camp out on your doorstep and play loud music and sing and generally make a nuisance of myself, and then I’d—’

  I didn’t let her finish. I kissed her instead.

  Because I suddenly saw it, my big picture.

  My big picture was her.

  EPILOGUE

  Ajax

  ‘YOU’RE A FUCKING IDIOT,’ Leon muttered, adjusting the rose in my buttonhole, because there had to be roses the day I married Imogen.

  ‘Seconded,’ Xander said, frowning at me. ‘I can’t believe you haven’t told us this bullshit before.’

  It had taken me a while, but I’d finally told them everything about my time as Dad’s second-in-command—about his threat to their lives and how I’d had to stand back and watch them get hurt in order to protect them.

  The timing wasn’t great—I was getting ready for my wedding after all—but they seemed to take it well.

  ‘Of course he hasn’t,’ Leon said before I could get a word in. ‘Big brother thinks he knows what’s best for us, right?’

  Xander snorted. ‘How long have you been torturing yourself with this then?’

  ‘For fucking ever.’ Leon adjusted the damn rose again. ‘Jesus, Ajax. You should have said something.’

  ‘If I could get a fucking word in?’ I jerked my lapel away from Leon before he ruined the rose. ‘It isn’t that simple.’

  ‘Sure it is,’ Xander disagreed. ‘You just open your mouth and words come out of it.’

  Prick. I was about to tell him exactly how not simple it was when something caught my eye out the window. We were in my bedroom at home and I could see the pool area by the cliff, all decorated for the ceremony that would take place in an hour’s time.

  A woman was hurrying after something white that was being blown across the tiles, another two women chasing after her.

  She wore a simple white silk gown, a crown of roses wound into her gilt hair, and she was laughing. One of the other women running after her had long auburn hair, while the other had a riot of black curls.

  Imogen made a grab for the white thing—her veil—and caught it, Vita and Poppy, my sisters-in-law, cheering as she held it up triumphantly.

  ‘It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,’ Xander said from beside me.

  ‘Surely not today,’ Leon murmured from the other side.

  There was silence as we watched the women we loved fix Imogen’s veil, their faces alight with laughter.

  ‘Be happy, Ajax,’ Leon said at last. ‘If anyone deserves it, it’s you.’

  Xander didn’t say a word, merely put his hand on my shoulder.

  Down by the pool, Imogen looked up and caught me watching. She smiled and I felt my heart catch fire.

  Turned out that my brothers knew what they were talking about.

  Happiness was something I could choose and they were showing me the way.

  So I chose it.

  It really was that simple after all.

  * * *

  If you loved King’s Ransom,

  read the other books in Jackie Ashenden’s

  The Kings of Sydney miniseries

  King’s Price

  King’s Rule

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  Under His Skin by Nicola Marsh

  Good Girl by Christy McKellen

  Wicked Heat by Kelli Ireland

  Also by Jackie Ashenden

  The Knights of Ruin

  Ruined

  Destroyed

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Under His Skin by Nicola Marsh.

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  Under His Skin

  by Nicola Marsh

  CHAPTER ONE

  LOGAN SHOULDERED OPEN the heavy glass door to the trendy café in inner Melbourne and froze.

  He didn’t belong in this artsy-fartsy place.

  Hipsters with wispy beards, rimmed glasses and tight clothes jostled for position alongside whip-smart professionals in designer suits, studying their mobile phones with the usual self-absorption. Garish art reminiscent of a kindergartener’s finger-painting dotted the walls, while muted jazz added to the cacophony of the baristas’ raised voices shouting out names for take-out double decaf soy lattes and spicy chais with extra cream.

  His skin prickled with discomfort as he pushed up his rolled shirt sleeves and stepped inside. The comforting aromas of coffee, cinnamon and toasted sandwiches did little to ease his wariness as he scanned the packed tables.

  He couldn’t see her.

  It didn’t surprise him that Hope McWilliams would be late. She’d sounded hoity-toity on the phone and it had nothing to do with her posh British accent. An annoying mix of aloof and condescending, she’d insisted he be the one to quote the renovations to her music studio and not one of his subordinates. He could’ve blown her off. He should’ve. But his foreman had injured his back last week, meaning Logan needed to stick around town for another month before Rick was back on deck.

  It pissed him off, being confined to this city when he’d rather be on the road. He’d built his construction company into one of the best in Australia and he’d done it by travelling the length and breadth of the country, ensuring his clients were happy with his sub-contractors. He trusted his team but he’d learned through sheer hard work and determination that being the boss didn’t entail delegation; he needed to take full responsibility for every job too.

  A woman standing in the far corner of the café caught his attention; more precisely, her exaggerated arm-wave, making her look like a seaman waving in a fighter jet on a carrier. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed she must be beckoning him and he strode towards her through the ridiculously tiny tables. The closer he got, the more he could see: tall, slim, blonde, pretty. But it was the goofy kaftan thingy she wore that captured his attention most: pale pink, covered in music notes. Bizarre.

  He stopped short of her table and stuck out his hand. ‘Logan Holmes.’

  ‘Hope McWilliams.’ She shook his hand tentatively, as if she didn’t want to get dirty.

  That irked. It had been a few years since he’d been on the tools alongside his workers and he hated how narrow-minded people labelled men who worked with their hands as ignorant, grubby tradies. They took one look at steel-capped boots, shorts and a fluorescent work vest and immediately thought ‘Neanderthal’.

  He didn’t like her supercilious stare either so he responded with a smirk. ‘Taking the music theme to extremes, huh?’

  Her tight smile slipped as she sat and gestured at the seat opposite, a stupid, tiny wrought-iron thing that barely held his weight. ‘I’m a music teacher. It pays to advertise.’

  Okay, so the ice princess had a sense of humour. He liked that. He could work with that.

  ‘From your email and our discussion on the phone, you’re looking to expand your current space into a custom-built recording studio?’

  One imperious eyebrow rose, instantly adding to her air of superiority. ‘You don’t waste any time, do you?’

  ‘I’m here to give you a quote.’

  ‘We could have a coffee first?’

  This time when she smiled, he almost reeled back. When she relaxed, her heart-shaped face transformed from severe to breath-taking. He’d tried not to notice her beauty when he’d first seen her, because that was another assumption some people made: that all tradesmen were lecherous creeps who wolf-whistled at any woman walking past a work site. So he’d practised showing no reaction other than politeness with women from the time he’d first picked up a hammer as an eager eighteen-year-old apprentice.

  But with Hope staring at him with those wide green-grey eyes and her full lips parted in a genuine smile, his famed poker face slipped and he couldn’t help but gawk.

  ‘Coffee to go would be great.’ He stood, eager to get away from the disarming blonde. ‘I’ll get it.’

  He’d taken a step before belatedly realising he hadn’t asked her what she wanted. ‘What would you like?’

  ‘A soy chai decaf, regular.’

  Figured. He hated fancy fake coffee blends almost as much as pretentious cafés like this.

  ‘I’ll meet you out the front,’ she said, reaching for her wallet on the table.

  ‘This one’s on me.’ He held up his hand and walked away before she could argue.

  His flaky father might not have given him much growing up but he’d instilled in him old-fashioned values about how to treat a woman, such as paying for meals or beverages, being respectful and active listening. Pity his old man hadn’t practised what he preached after he’d married.

  It took a surprisingly quick five minutes for the barista to make their coffees and as he wound his way through the tables towards the door he spotted Hope waiting for him outside. It gave him time to study her and this time he reacted to more than her pretty face. His cock hardened as he realised that ugly kaftan ended mid-thigh, exposing glorious long legs, which were surprisingly tanned given her pale English skin. Smooth. Lean, with a hint of muscle, testament to a subtle strength, perfect for wrapping around him...

  Fuck, what the hell was wrong with him? He didn’t ogle prospective clients, especially ones who made him feel inferior with a single glance.

  Scowling, he bumped the door with his hip and backed out, carefully balancing the takeout cups. He didn’t think she’d be impressed if one drop of chai froth bubbled up onto the rim. He could smell the awful spicy blend and it tickled his nose.

  ‘Here you go.’ He sounded gruff and cleared his throat when she turned and flashed him another one of those smiles that made him stare.

  ‘Thanks.’ She took a sip, followed by a soft appreciative moan that made him want to shove her up against the nearest wall and see if he could coax a few more out of her.

  Instead, he took a gulp of his straight black and burned his throat.

  ‘My place isn’t far from here. Shall we go look at it now?’

  What the fuck? Why had she insisted they meet here and not at her studio if it wasn’t far?

  Another thing he hated alongside frou-frou coffees, artsy cafés and glitzy inner cities: game-playing.

  ‘If you’re wondering why we didn’t meet there, it’s because I wanted to get a feel for you first.’ She laughed, a little self-consciously. ‘Not literally, of course, but websites and recommendations can be misleading and I wan
ted to see if you were the right man for the job before I showed you what I want done.’

  He refrained from pointing out the obvious—they hadn’t really talked much yet so how did she know he was right for the job?—because her tone had taken on a husky edge and for an irrational moment he wondered what she really wanted done.

  It wouldn’t be the first time horny women had confronted him on jobs before. First as a naïve nineteen-year-old, when he’d rocked up to a new house to check the kitchen cupboard installation and the home owner’s new girlfriend had greeted him at the door in a loosely belted robe which she’d proceeded to undo when he stepped inside. He’d bolted.

  The second time he’d been a fully qualified carpenter on his first job, building a pergola for a rich couple in South Yarra. He’d been on a ladder in the back yard when the wife had stepped out of the pool house, naked, and invited him to take a swim. He’d been deferent and polite, but building that pergola had been the hardest job ever because she’d been a stunner with a body to match. Thankfully, he’d never forgotten his first boss’s advice—‘Don’t screw where you glue’—and it had served him well.

  So what was it about this woman that had him forgetting liquid nails and contemplating nailing her?

  ‘It would’ve been easier to meet at your place,’ he said, sounding rude as he fell into step beside her. He tempered it with ‘So what is it you want done exactly?’

  Her startled gaze flew to his and he bit back a chuckle. He hadn’t meant to sound remotely flirtatious but he needed to regain the upper hand, to show her that he jumped to nobody’s tune, so he’d lowered his voice, knowing she could misinterpret it. The fact she had meant one of two things: she was smart or she felt the unexpected buzz of sexual attraction too.

  When he returned her stare, deliberately guileless, she tilted her nose in the air and picked up the pace. ‘I’ll show you when we get there.’

 

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