Green (The Safeword Series: Book Three) (An Alpha Billionaire Romance)

by Ava Claire

  Green (The Safeword Series: Book Three)

  Ava Claire

  Copyright © 2015 Ava Claire

  Cover by RBA Designs

  The Safeword Series

  Red (The Safeword Series: Book One)

  Yellow (The Safeword Series: Book Two)

  Green (The Safeword Series: Book Three)

  E-book License Edition Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to an online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One: Sophia

  Chapter Two: Desmond

  Chapter Three: Sophia

  Chapter Four: Desmond

  Chapter Five: Sophia

  About The Author

  Chapter One: Sophia

  I should have known.

  The command in those eyes held the same intensity as the glare that gave me goosebumps every time I walked to The Dish office every morning. There was a larger than life display on the side of a building on 10th Street, each window of the skyscraper creating a fearsome tribute to Desmond O’Connell’s likeness. Below his powerful stance was ‘America's Chef’, emblazoned with the time and date one could tune in and watch him rip people apart, in living color.

  I knew those eyes, the piercing green eyes that I could only stand for a few seconds before I backed down and looked away. The dusting of dark brown hair that was just the right amount of tailored, yet effortlessly swept across his forehead. That strong, almost noble jawline, set, powerful, and intensified by his scowl. The flash of his muscular forearms, the broad shoulders, and now that I’d seen him, all of him, I knew that beneath the white chef's jacket there was even more perfection.

  I was intimately familiar with his glistening abs, every firm square solid and stutter inducing. ‘What the hell am I doing here?’ inducing. Especially now that I knew that this larger than life man who had a reputation for chewing people up and spitting them out was, in fact, larger than freaking life. He was the profanity spewing, two piece suit wearing host of America's Chef and a handful of shows with the same premise: take untrained, bare bones cooks, put them in a room, and let them duke it out.

  Desmond O’Connell was also the only man that I let hurt me, because somehow, I felt safe with him.

  I could tell from the way he was staring at me, slack jawed and worried, he wasn't feeling very safe.

  My knee sang, throbbing where I'd connected with the edge of the coffee table. Reminding me of my recent dive away from the truth. He's just given me the story that would make me a household name. With a quick tug of his mask, he reminded me why I’m here in the first place—and everything I could lose.

  If I didn't write this story, I'd miss the opportunity to be known for anything other than captions and stories about which celebrity wore that dazzling, crazy expensive dress best. If I wrote it, I would lose Desmond, along with any chance at exploring what this thing, this magic was between us.

  Neither of the options mattered at the moment, because I couldn't think, couldn't do much else besides repeat his name.

  "You're Desmond O'Connell," I said hoarsely, blinking at him in disbelief.

  The first time I said his name, he'd locked his jaw like he was hoping that I lived under some rock and wouldn't recognize him. This time, he folded his arms against his chest in a silent gesture that spoke louder than any words would.

  This man would destroy me without hesitation. Without care of anything that happened between us.

  And our future? Please...as far as he was concerned, the question would be, ‘what future?’.

  My hair was loose and all over the place, the dark brown strands intent on doing the job my mask used to be responsible for. Spilling into my eyes. Hiding what was beneath.

  "I used to watch your show, but you can be a bit..." I held onto the final syllable, cautiously slipping my fingers through my stubborn locks. I needed something to do with my hands, some way to channel the nervous energy that was making me shake like I was coming down from some massive high. He wasn't offering me any lifelines, his face as stoic and unmoving as if he had pulled his mask back on.

  If we were a couple, I'd go to him. Shake him, try and ply him with charm; something, anything to get a reaction. But I kept my distance. The past ten minutes had shown me just how little we knew about each other outside of this room. Sure, the Internet could spit out his birthday, where he grew up, the first job he had before he began the journey to stardom, maybe even an ex girlfriend or two. But those were just facts. A census report. No amount of Googling would help me determine if the look on his face, or the absence of a look on his face, meant that he was angry, hurting, or in the throes of any other emotion. It wouldn't tell me if I should just cut my losses and leave because the odds of salvaging this, whatever it was, were slim to none.

  I scraped my teeth along my bottom lip, fighting the urge to go to him like I had before he matched my gift of openness. I wanted to go to him like I had before, when I stopped him before he picked up the familiar weight of guilt about what happened with his ex fiancé. I wanted to be close to him, skim my fingers through his brown strands and look him deep in the eyes. Tell him the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

  And that truth was this: I came to Hush under false pretenses, but after meeting him, Mary, and the other people on staff, I had pause about going forward with the story.

  And now, the only story I cared about, was our story.

  Something about the way he was looking right through me made me feel like it would be wasted breath. With my recoil, coupled with my ensuing awkwardness, I knew that he was regretting revealing himself. He was already backtracking, and I hadn't said anything besides his name and that I'd watched his show.

  I smoothed my palms down the front of my dress, grateful that for the first time, my nerves weren't manifesting themselves in sweat. Instead, the knots that usually twisted my stomach were wrapped around my throat, robbing me of the ability to speak. To say something. To say what he needed to hear. To say what I needed to say.

  Just tell him the truth.

  I took a step toward him, the five feet that separated us suddenly tripled by the far away look in his eyes.

  I licked my lips and croaked, "I don't know what to say."

  That got a reaction from him, his mouth twisting in disbelief. "You don't have anything to say?" His gaze nailed me in place. "You've been a stream of consciousness since we met, Sophia. I show you who I am beneath the mask and suddenly, you're speechless?"

  "I've seen America's Chef," I said with a low chuckle. "Surely you know the effect you have on people."

  "So you're afraid of me."

  The man I'd seen in the snippets of his cooking show seemed to thrive on that fact. The music would go still, or turn ominous as the contestants all looked toward the door. He'd fill it with his body, all muscles and influence in a dark two piece suit or something similarly sleek. He'd speak and everyone would fall quiet. He wore that power with pride and he wielded it like a weapon.

  But when I looked at him, I didn't see any sign of satisfaction. There was no smug gleam in his eye, basking in the fact that another one was well on its way to biting the dust.

  He cared. I saw it brimming in
the way he looked at me. He looked at me like a man who wanted to be seen, who wanted me to know that he was so much more than what meets the eye.

  I took his hand, static electricity bringing to life the thrill that exploded in my chest. "I knew I was right about you. That there was something more happening here."

  He looked down at our hands like he was in a daze, but when he raised his eyes back to mine, he never looked more sure of anything.

  How could I not take this leap? How could I not fall for him?

  I cleared my throat and began the hardest part. "I think I was worried that I'd tell you what I do for a living and you'd run screaming in the opposite direction."

  He lifted my hand, still intertwined with his, and pressed his lips against my knuckles. "Sophia, unless you're about to tell me you're a reporter and this was all for some story, I think we're good."

  My heart, moments ago so full and ready to jump right out of my chest, screeched to a halt.

  The smile that was sneaking its way across his face slammed to a stop too.

  I never had much of a poker face. It probably didn't help that all color had been drained from it, either.

  "You're shitting me." His tone was two notches below the sexy timbre that drove me wild. When he asked me for my color. When he asked how it felt when he was inside me. But he posed no question now. It was clear that I'd just answered the only question that mattered: is this real?

  And now that he knew what I did for a living, the answer, as far as Desmond was concerned, was a resounding 'no'.

  We were back to the first night we met, not in the main room after I took out the douchebag, but when we saw each other in the hall and he really was a stranger and he’d gawked at me when I tried to shake his hand.

  He still held my hand, but any gentleness, and care, had disappeared. He must have realized that he was still touching me, touching a liar, because he dropped me instantly.

  I'd kept my distance before, worried about his reaction. Now that the truth was out there, he looked ready to commit murder. If I was smart, I'd take that as my cue to vacate the building before he called the cops or worse. But I didn't want to run. I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to tell him that I didn't want to write the story anymore. That there was no story that was worth losing this chance at building what we both so clearly wanted.

  Something real.

  So even though his face was flush with anger, no, fury, and the scowl on his lips told me to not say another word, I couldn't help it.

  "Desmond, you have to let me explain-"

  "Explain what?" he ripped in darkly. "That Mary was right about you being a fraud? That I was right to be suspicious?" He didn't wait nor want an answer, rising to his feet in a seamless, angry jolt. "Is Sophia even your name?"

  "Yes!" I exclaimed, clutching the slice of truth I had shared. "Sophia Slater." As soon as I said my last name an alarm went off in my head. Peter had set up an interview with him for tomorrow. I held my breath, hoping that Peter hadn't mentioned my name. I hadn't known who he was then, but Desmond didn't know that, and why would he believe me?

  The disgust that whipped across his face was all the answer I needed.

  "Jesus Christ, you work for The Dish? Were you going to make some big reveal at the restaurant tomorrow? Cement my incredible stupidity?"

  "It's not like that!" I squeaked pathetically. This dress, my hair, not wearing a mask—I'd expected this all to go a completely different way. I was the stupid one; no matter who he was behind the mask, of course he'd feel betrayed, because that was exactly what I'd done.

  I couldn't stop the apologies from flowing from my lips. They turned me inside out along with the tears that weaved down my cheeks. "If you could just let me explain-"

  I paused, expecting him to interrupt me, tell me not to waste my breath. But he just stood there, chest heaving up and down. His eyes pierced right through my heart. This was the only chance I'd get to make myself heard.

  I had a feeling that tonight would be the last time I ever saw Desmond O'Connell.

  Even though I wanted to reach up and take his face in my hands, make him look into my eyes and see that I cared about him, I stayed on the couch.

  I swept my hair into a low bun at the nape of my neck and let go of the spiral, sighing as it unraveled and the dark curtain swept down my back. I wiped away my tears and I unpacked all the shit, all the things that I kept bundled up and safe inside my head.

  "Writing is my passion, Desmond. And what I do from 9 to 5?" I shuddered with disgust. "It doesn't qualify. I'm not complaining, because who wouldn't want to go to red carpet events and parties and rub shoulders, however briefly, with famous people? They-" I blinked up at him, beautiful even though he was furious. "You, have this magnetic pull. And just being in your orbit is powerful and amazing and overwhelming. But the real story is beneath all that. The sex, the intrigue, the taboo—that's what I wanted to explore. And when I started at Hush, that's what I wanted. To tell that story. And then I met you and that first night you showed me there was so much more. That there were pieces of myself that were undiscovered.

  “I wanted to be Sin. I couldn't focus on writing that story because I knew it meant that I'd have to let you go." I balled my first, the ivy green material of my dress bunching like the sheets that I wished we were tangled up in. "It's clear that we have chemistry in the bedroom, but I want to explore if this can be-" I shook my head, refusing to mince this next piece. All or nothing. "I know this could be something incredible, Desmond." I slipped to the edge of the couch, wishing that I could see something in his face beyond the anger, but that was all there was. Maybe all that was left.

  If that was true, there was nothing left to lose.

  I did something pretty insane. And now that he knew I wasn't a sub, I hoped my boldness would be easier to swallow.

  I pulled my body from the couch and erased the distance between us in a single step. I wrapped one arm around his neck. A test arm. If he growled, I'd retreat. But his jaw twitched instead, the tenseness in his shoulders slackening ever so slightly. I added my second, then I raised on my tiptoes and pressed my lips against his. Softly at first. Tentatively brushing my lips across his stern ones. Then he parted his lips and moaned into my mouth.

  I forced my tongue against his, dominating him this time. Hoping that he felt my desire, my need. I wanted him to feel the spark that I knew wasn't in my head. The spark I hoped my lie hadn't extinguished.

  When the kiss ended, he lingered, his fingertips intertwined in my hair. I opened my eyes and looked into his and the look he gave me...it made me want to crawl under a rock and die.

  "I hope you enjoyed that, because it's the last kiss you're ever getting from me." He pulled away from me, already gone even though we were still in the same room. "Leave, Miss Slater, before I call security."

  Chapter Two: Desmond

  "Let the record state that I think this is a horrible idea."

  My sister was fifty miles away, visiting our mother (which was a fact she'd reminded me of at less three times in the past five minutes), but I could see the stubborn jut of her lips and her eyes narrowing to tiny emerald slits just as clearly as if she was in the passenger seat beside me.

  "Duly noted," I sighed, clenching and unclenching my hand on the wheel. Mallory was right, though I'd never admit that to her because I'd never hear the end of it.

  I could still see Sophia's pale blue eyes glittering up at me, asking me to believe the impossible. She was a reporter, who snuck in under the radar with the intent of exposing Hush to the world, but she expected me to forget all that and trust that her feelings for me were real?

  "Des, she's a con artist," Mallory groaned like she was explaining something that shouldn't need explaining. "This chick has been lying to you since you two met and you're going to give her what she wants?"

  "Mallory-"

  "You're going to the meeting? You’re gonna give her a quote for the tell-all story that ruins your career?" S
he ignored me, her tone incredulous and packed full of disbelief.

  It was impossible for me to keep my hands locked on the wheel with the overwhelming urge to take my little sister by the shoulders and shake some sense into her.

  "Give me some credit, Mal." I settled for massaging my temple with my free hand, then turned my focus back to my destination. "I'm not giving her a quote for anything. That's not why I'm going to the meeting."

  "Oh, I see. It all makes perfect sense now." Her tone, and the fact that she transformed a one syllable word into four, told me that she didn't get it at all. "You're gonna walk in with some misplaced belief that she's gonna apologize."

  "Fuck no," I answered immediately. Too immediately.

  "Language!" Mallory scolded.

  "I'm not expecting an apology," I growled. I pretended I wasn't repeating it in hopes that repetition would make it more believable. The truth was, I didn’t believe me either.

  Rationality told me that my sister was right, and attending this meeting was a mistake. After all, if I was gonna do something idiotic, like meeting with reporters from the most vicious tabloid in town, then going into it with zero expectations, and my game face on, was the way to do it.

  But that was the wall I ran into. The expectations wouldn't fade. I wanted an apology. I wanted Sophia to lay at my feet, arms extended until her chest was splayed against the floor and her dark hair spilled in all directions. I wanted tears, lots of them, and somewhere in between the sobs, I wanted an explanation. Then I wanted...I wanted...

  A red light brought me to a hard stop and the thing I really wanted screeched in my head. The truth was nearly as annoying as my sister reminding me of something obvious: I owed Sophia nothing.

  But that was just it - what I really wanted was Sophia, and that's why I owed her this. I owed myself this. I wanted to give her a chance to explain herself. To prove that everything wasn't a lie.

  It couldn't all be a lie.

  When I'd stormed from Hush last night with blood in my eyes and rage filling me, I knew that something had changed. I couldn't stop trembling, barely able to get my limbs to cooperate long enough to get off the property—and I knew it had nothing to do with anger. Or rage.