by RC Boldt
Thank you for loving me and trusting me with healing you.
Excerpt from Truth in Pieces
Olivia Wright
Miami, Florida
Friday
Someone likes expensive cars.
This is my initial thought after spotting the shiny black Audi A8 L. The sleek vehicle with dark-tinted windows sits at the curb between my neighbor’s house and mine.
I wonder if someone’s considering renting Mrs. Camuso’s house next door. She’s recently gone into assisted living, and last I heard, her family has been thinking of keeping the house as a rental property.
My heels click sharply along the stamped pavement leading up to my front door. Once I unlock it and step inside, I kick off my wedge heels and exhale a slow breath, wishing I could expel my weariness right along with it. It’s been two and a half weeks since the video went viral, but God, I wish the hype would die down already.
A student in one of my afternoon classes started choking on a peanut M&M, and I immediately performed the Heimlich. Of course, another student took it upon himself to record the entire incident and post it online. It went viral, and I began trending as the “heroic professor.”
Initially, that is. Then the tide changed, and now, the Internet world knows me as the “Hot Prof.”
It’s attention I never wanted and sure as hell don’t need. Being one of two female professors amidst the majority of male colleagues in the psychology department is challenging enough, particularly with Dean Harrod at the helm.
In my usual work wardrobe—an off-white blouse paired with a gray pencil skirt—I take a step toward my dining room, intent on depositing my laptop briefcase and purse on one of the chairs before heading to the kitchen for a glass of much-needed wine.
This is the exact moment my life changes.
A man sits with his hip propped on the edge of my dining room table.
As if on autopilot, I scan him from head to toe. My eyes travel over his button-down shirt to note the holstered gun at the waist of his pinstriped pants. If the sight of his weapon weren’t indicative enough of looming danger, it would be the near-stifling air of menace that he exudes.
The front door is my closest exit. My eyes never veer from the man as my grip on my laptop briefcase and purse goes slack, dropping them to the floor. Spinning around to make a run for it, I slam into the hard wall of someone’s chest with such force that it sends me tottering backward. My arms windmill, but the beast of a man I’ve collided with grasps my shoulders and steadies me.
I raise my eyes up, up, up… Holy shit. The man’s built like a brick house. Tall and stocky, he greatly outweighs me. His build and darker skin tone remind me of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. The man’s palms are so utterly enormous they span my shoulders and much of my upper arms.
“Easy, Professor. Bossman just needs to talk.” His simple tone belies stern features that indicate he’ll restrain me if necessary—and that’ll likely be with one hand.
What in the fresh hell is going on?
With a gentleness that I wouldn’t expect from someone his size, Goliath turns me to face the man still casually perched on the polished surface of my dining room table.
I attempt to calm my breathing. He makes no move to reach for his gun, yet his sharp, assessing golden brown eyes lock with mine.
“I ain’t here to hurt you, Professor.” The deep timbre of his voice catches me off guard.
I eye him warily while simultaneously gauging how quickly I can get past him to the knife block in my kitchen.
“Don’t.” His tone is commanding and steely. “Just said, I ain’t gonna hurt you. Don’t do somethin’ stupid.”
“Right.” I lift my chin, attempting to channel some semblance of bravery. “You break into my house with a man the size of a giant, and I’m supposed to believe you’re not here to hurt me?”
“You won’t be harmed in my presence.” Though the sentiment of his words is at odds with the menace that cloaks him, I detect a thread of sincerity in them. That is, until he goes on to add, “But you’re gonna have to come with me.”
I swallow hard and channel the firm tone I use when dealing with asshole frat boys in my intro-level classes. “I’ll take a rain check.”
His expression hardens. “Wasn’t givin’ you a choice.”
I turn my head slightly, holding Goliath’s gaze while I edge aside a few steps, keeping both men in my line of sight. The beast of a man grunts but allows me to move.
“Who are you? And what are you”—I gesture between him and Goliath—“both doing in my house?”
“Name’s Nico.”
When it becomes evident that he doesn’t intend to provide a last name, I raise a haughty brow. “Nico…? What, are you like Cher and only have one name?”
His eyes narrow, and I get the impression he doesn’t appreciate my defensive sarcasm.
Well, too damn bad.
“Nico Alcanzar.”
I battle against an instinctive urge to shudder. Nico Alcanzar. The name sends ice-cold prickles of unease dancing along my skin. Shock rises to the surface, reverberating through me as I take in the sight of him once again.
Chiseled jawline. Straight nose. Short black hair that’s a breath away from being a close buzz cut. Skin a deep bronze. Tattoos peek out from beneath the collar of his expensive-looking dark gray button-down shirt, and the two top buttons are opened to reveal the hollow of his throat.
Inked designs spill past the cuffs of his long sleeves, curving along the tops of his hands and fingers. My eyes travel the length of him, skittering over the holstered gun at the waist of his black pinstriped pants which mold powerful thighs, then drop to sleek, black wingtip shoes I’d bet cost more than my monthly paycheck.
There’s no denying the man is handsome as hell, but his granite-hard expression and the dangerous air about him detracts from it.
This is the man who rose up the ranks—rumored to have done so by means of violence and murder—to control one of the most notorious drug cartels in Miami.
The man who singlehandedly revived this city’s drug trade to surpass the notoriety it once had back in the seventies and eighties.
Though I’ve heard rumors about Nico Alcanzar, no photographs were ever leaked by the press. I always assumed he was much older.
And far less…attractive.
He straightens from his perch on the table, and I instantly wish I were still wearing my heels. At least I’d be at less of a height disadvantage then. He approaches, proving that intimidating air he possesses is ingrained in every movement. His lithe, muscled body indicates he’s not one to sit back and let others do all his dirty work for him.
Each step he takes strikes me as carefully calculated, his eyes never leaving mine. Once he draws to a stop a foot away, I lift my chin, attempting to hold my ground and meet his gaze, refusing to let him shake me.
What I don’t expect is for his hands to reach for where my blouse is tucked beneath the waist of my skirt and tug the fabric upward.
Batting his hands away, I take a quick step backward, only to collide with the wall. Arms raised in front of me, I twist and attempt to drive my elbows into his body—anything that might give me a second to flee.
He deflects my left elbow, clamping his fingers around my wrist, but I land a hit with my other, and the sound of his grunt is gratifying. Our eyes clash, and when I drive my knee upward between his legs, he dodges it before I can maim the bastard.
“Goddammit, woman,” he growls from between clenched teeth. “Not tryin’ to hurt you.”
“Get off me!” I thrash against his hold, opening my mouth to scream for help, but before I can, Goliath tugs me to him. His thick, muscled arms pin my back to his front, forearms planted beneath my armpits with one hand covering my mouth, stifling my protests.
Fuck, no. My chest heaves with panicked breaths. This is not happening! I squirm and fight against the beast of a man’s hold to no avail as terror sinks its claws into me.
<
br /> I can’t breathe. My chest feels unbearably tight, my vision grows spotty, and—
“Professor.” Nico takes my face in his hands, his voice deep and commanding. “Look at me. You won’t be hurt. I promise you. You gotta look at me. Gimme those eyes.”
When I focus on him, our gazes locking, his voice gentles, and his tense hold on my face relaxes a fraction. “That’s it. Just look at me and listen. I ain’t gonna hurt you. Swear on my mother’s grave. But I gotta check you for a wire.”
My rapid breathing slows, and a realization sinks in. Someone with the intention of hurting me wouldn’t take the time to do this—to try to calm me down and comfort me. I give a faint nod, and his hold on me slackens. But before he draws his hands away, he smooths back a lock of hair displaced from my struggles.
His eyes flick upward, behind me to Goliath, and he gives a nod. A moment later, the giant man slowly releases his hold.
Nico’s lips press thin, and he holds up his palms to me, his voice calm. “I gotta check for a wire.” He deftly unbuttons and parts my blouse.
Sharp eyes drill into mine while his fingers graze my sides. “Easy, Professor.” He mutes his tone, as if trying to soothe me. His hands dip beneath my bra clasp at my back, yet somehow, I instinctively know he won’t cause me physical harm.
Reaching down, he grips my thighs lightly beneath my skirt’s stretchy knit material before skating his hands upward. I hate how the simple touch of his hands sends goose bumps rising to the surface of my skin.
I clench my jaw, forcing moisture into my bone-dry throat, and attempt bravado. “You won’t find anything, so hurry up and get it over with.” Gripping the fabric of my blouse, I fasten each button with trembling fingers.
His eyes gleam with something I can’t quite decipher before his touch shifts to feel like a caress. Sadly, it’s more action than I’ve experienced in a while. I catch myself in the nick of time when my body reacts involuntarily, leaning into his touch.
The instant his calloused fingertips graze over the five small scars just above my right hip, his touch stutters, and a trace of curiosity flits across his features.
Stupid keloid scars. They’re raised and rigid, and I hate them for various reasons. While I could’ve had a procedure done to flatten them, I haven’t. They’re a double-edged sword for me.
A useful reminder of my painful past.
Once he realizes I don’t intend to offer an explanation, he continues his search. When his fingers graze the sensitive skin of my inner thighs near my panties, I stamp my lips together, trapping the gasp threatening to break free, and attempt to calm my breathing.
It all goes to hell when his hands glide around to cup my ass.
Dark brows rise as though he’s just discovered something intriguing. “Now, Professor. Didn’t take you for a thong kinda woman,” he murmurs huskily.
I pin him with an icy glare. “Kindly remove your hands from my ass.”
A hint of a smirk tugs at one edge of his lips while he slowly withdraws his touch. “Only ’cause I’m done there. Still got some more of you to inspect.”
Moving his hands to my face, he turns my head from side to side, fingers brushing along my ears before stepping back abruptly. His touch leaves my skin prickling with an odd sense of electric awareness.
I tug at my skirt, smoothing it back in place, and avoid his eyes as I attempt to quell my unsettling reaction to his touch.
“You’re in danger if you stay here. Gotta come with me.”
I lift my chin and meet his gaze. “No, thank you.”
His eyes grow squinty, darkening with annoyance. “Woman, nobody questions my calls. You do what I say.”
“I don’t know you, so that makes your calls irrelevant to me.” I step closer, bringing us toe to toe. “Why don’t I just call the police? I’m sure they’d be salivating over catching someone like you.”
Tension crackles between us while he studies me. The right edge of his mouth inches upward, drawing my gaze to the movement. Distractedly, I realize his bottom lip is much fuller than the top, luscious in a way countless women would pay good money for.
“If I wasn’t doin’ my job right, then none of ’em would have a hard-on for me. Plus, they ain’t got no proof.” As he leans in close, the ominous threat in his voice is undeniable. “You’ll do what I say if you’re smart.”
His cool eyes never stray from mine. “Got info on your parents you’ll be interested in. And since I run this city, you’ll do what I say. And I say, you’re comin’ with me.”
I pin him with a frosty glare. “Pretty sure the mayor runs this city.”
His smirk is unsettling, as though my response amuses him. “Mayor Biancanetta? He works for me.” Ice drips from his words, sending unease trickling down my spine. Which is why I immediately try another angle.
“Look, you’ve obviously got the wrong person—”
His eyes turn flinty, his expression intense, impenetrable. “I got the right person. You were born on June eleventh here in Miami. Dad’s name was Antonio, and your mom’s name’s Johanna—”
Relief pummels me. “No. I was born in Connecticut and my father’s name was Liam. My mother’s name was Beth.” I mash my lips thin against the anguish that still manages to edge its way in after all these years. “They’re both dead.”
The edges of his mouth quirk the slightest bit. “Wrong.”
“What do you mean, wrong?”
“Your real mom ain’t dead.” He leans toward me, voice dark with a steely edge. “And you’re my ticket to get her to come out of hidin’.”
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About the Author
RC Boldt is a USA Today bestselling author currently living in part of the Costa Rican jungle with the love of her life and her mini-me.
If you're in the mood for some killer homemade mojitos or can't recall the lyrics to a particular 80's song, she's your girl.
RC loves hearing from her readers at [email protected].
For the latest updates on upcoming book releases, you can find them here:
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Other titles by RC:
Out of Love
CLAM JAM
Out of the Ashes
BLUE BALLS
He Loves Me…KNOT
Tap That (with Jennifer Blackwood)
The Good Samaritan
DITCHED
With a Hitch
Choose Me
Too Good at Goodbyes
Hell Hath No Fury
Truth in Pieces
The Silencer
Washed Away
Acknowledgments
This book wouldn’t have been possible without a ton of assistance along the way. My heartfelt thanks go to the following individuals (listed in no particular order):
-Hang Le, for an incredible cover once again. Thank you for your patience and nailing down the vision I had for this book.
-Nina Grinstead and all the ladies at Valentine PR. You are all gems and I’d be lost without you!
-Sali, Jenny, Julia, Julie, and Judy, my team of editors and proofreaders, who help me to make this book as polished as possible.
-Hazel, for always being willing to read through my pile of crap draft and give me feedback. I’m utterly grateful for you and your friendship.
-My beta readers who are always so gracious to help me iron out and fine tune things.
-To the lovely ladies at Give Me Books for being so gracious and willing to fit me into their schedules!
-All the bloggers and reviewers who willingly take time from their busy schedules to read and post reviews. You are appreciated more than words can express!
-Everyone who picks up this book—thank you for spending your hard-earned money and stepping into the world I created with these characters!
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