by Virna DePaul
Kiss Off
Kiss Talent Agency, Book Five
Virna DePaul
Contents
Description
More From Virna DePaul
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Hard Time Excerpt: Prologue
Hard Time Excerpt: Ch 1
Get Hard Time
Books by Virna
About the Author
Copyright
Description
Kara
* * *
Once, my country songs touched millions of hearts but I dropped everything to disappear. I’m my own woman now, and no one controls me. But when a beyond sexy man rolls down a sand dune in a misguided attempt to rescue me? I’m charmed. The attraction, the heat…it’s real. And who knows, maybe this time I’ve found someone who doesn’t care about who I used to be. Only about who I’m becoming.
* * *
Declan
* * *
After I wake up in the ER, my brothers prescribe three weeks away from Kiss Talent Agency, whether I like it or not. Then I meet Kara, a sensitive, artistic soul hiding who she is. When she invites me on a wild road trip, I’m all over it. But it only takes me a hot second to figure out why Kara’s hiding, and if she realizes who I really am, she’ll be gone in a cloud of dust, taking my heart with her.
More From Virna DePaul
BAD BOY DOCTORS SERIES
* * *
KISS TALENT AGENCY SERIES
* * *
HARD AS NAILS SERIES
* * *
GOING DEEP SERIES
* * *
BEDDING THE BACHELORS SERIES
* * *
HOME TO GREEN VALLEY SERIES
* * *
ROCK CANDY SERIES
* * *
THE PARA-OPS PARANORMAL SERIES
* * *
His Royal Hotness (A Royally Hot Romance)
* * *
Seal of A Lifetime
Chapter 1
DECLAN
* * *
When the doctor told me I needed to hydrate more, I doubt he meant drinking expensive scotch from a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag, but that’s what a forced hiatus could drive a man to. I mean, yeah, two weeks ago I’d woken up in the ER hooked up to beeping and clanging machines, an IV stuck in my arm with my brothers, Hunter and Owen, and my newly discovered cousin, Luke, all hovering over me, scared shitless, but it’s not like I’d had a heart attack or anything. I’d collapsed from exhaustion and dehydration—basically being a dumb fuck—but forcing me to take three weeks off had been overkill and I was still pissed about it.
“A client has a private beach estate in Hilton Head he’s loaning you,” Luke had said.
“Go. Enjoy,” Owen had added.
“In other words, get your priorities straight, asshole,” Hunter had snapped.
“Screw you,” had been my response.
My priorities are just fine. As co-owner of Kiss Talent Agency, I make people stars—rock stars and movie stars, to be exact. And while I know my job can drain the piss right out of you (yeah, that’s a dehydration joke) I’m not an idiot. I don’t take a lot of time off, but when I do I make the most of it, drinking and fucking and yes, even hanging with my annoying brothers. What I’d been doing for the past two weeks? Taking it easy, relaxing, trying to meditate? It was driving me crazy. Thank God I only have another week before I can go back to work.
The crash of waves sounds in my ears, and in the dark of a moonless night, I once more lift the bottle of scotch to my mouth and take a swig. A surge smacks one of the wood pylons holding up the pier I’m leaning against and I taste salt. I take another swig and let the heat of the alcohol sit on my tongue.
A bobbing light catches my eye. In what little moonlight filters through the heavy clouds, I can see a figure slogging down the beach—a woman, judging by the rounded hips in tight jeans. As she gets closer, the light from her cell phone she’s looking into illuminates a face like a goddamned angel. She’s maybe a few years younger than me, and is wearing a tight tank and Chucks. I can make out a couple of tattoos running up her arm and a nose ring. Her long dark hair gets caught by the breeze and she pushes it back far enough that I can see she’s wearing earbuds. I hunker down further into the shadows. She’s gorgeous, and if this were daylight I’d stand and say something brilliant like “Hey,” but this is an empty beach at midnight and I don’t want to scare her.
In seconds, she’s disappeared around the slight bluff, probably headed up to one of the exclusive beach houses. I wonder which one, and if I’ll see her in the morning. For a moment, I almost follow her before I realize how stalkerish that would make me. I ease back against the pylon and gaze back out over the ocean. I gotta let this one go and focus on relaxing…the lull of the waves, the soft sand under my ass, the clean ocean air…
Vacation my ass. I’m bored as fuck.
Suddenly the hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I lower the bottle and focus. The wind’s shifted, bringing sounds from the bluff. Sounds like…
Arguing. Yelling. A man’s voice, raised and angry. A woman, yelling back. The man, angrier, now bellowing.
Pulse pounding, I clamber up the bluff, hanging onto the bottle of scotch which will have to serve as a weapon. At the top of the rise, I can barely make out the girl, the light of her phone wobbling about. I can’t see her attacker, so I let out a yell and propel myself down the bluff.
Except I’ve misjudged the sturdiness of the bluff and my feet sink into the sand, tangling together as my body continues its downward propulsion. Down I go, head over ass, tumbling down a good thirty feet of silt and sand until I land on my back at the feet of the girl.
“I have bear spray,” she utters menacingly as I lay on my back, gasping for breath. “And a rape whistle. So don’t come one step closer. Actually, don’t roll any closer.”
I can’t move—my body feels frozen as my lungs gasp for air. I choke for another moment until air fills my lungs. Still unable to move, I do manage to wheeze, “Where...is…he?”
“Where is who?” She’s backed up and now has her phone shining in my face.
“The guy attacking you.” I roll over onto my stomach and make my way to my hands and knees, still trying to drag air into my shocked lungs. My knees and elbows wobble, and for a moment I think I’m gonna pass out. Fuck, a couple of weeks ago I was bench pressing one-fifty and now I’m looking like a cross between a newborn foal and a beached whale.
“There is no guy.”
I manage to lean back on my heels and look around. The clouds have shifted and a sliver of moonlight shines down now, enough for me to see we’re alone. I glance at the woman, who wears a puzzled expression, which puzzles me even more.
“I was hanging out under the pier,” I explain. “I saw you go by. Then I heard yelling. A man. I thought you were in trouble.”
Awareness dawns on her face and suddenly she starts to giggle. “Oh wow, an honest to god hero. You came to my rescue. That’s so…sweet.”
“So…no attacker?”
She grins. “Nope. An old episode of Law and Order.” She holds out her phone and I see the faces of Olivia Benson and some angry guy frozen on the screen. “I was trying to download an epi
sode to stream. I hit the wrong button, it started to play, then I tripped and ripped the earbuds out of my phone. Made quite a racket.”
I shake my head. “Sorry.”
“For what? I’m honored. Impressed. And grateful. Here,” she says, sticking out her hand. “Let’s get you up.”
I’ve got a healthy enough male ego to be more than willing to accept the helping hand she offers. I rise to my feet, still a tad wobbly but sturdy enough. “Bear spray?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
She shrugs. “Hiking trip last month in the Appalachians.”
Dusting the sand from my ass and looking around for my bottle of scotch, I ask, “Is that what you’re doing on the beach? Hiking?” There—over by a batch of sea oats lays my scotch. I swipe it up, listening as she answers.
“Nah, I was trying to clear my head. I stopped by a bar for a drink and two guys were hassling me. They tried to buy me Lemon Drops—I think they figured that was the way into my panties. They. Were. Wrong.”
“Not a Lemon Drop kinda girl?”
“No way in hell. Scotch, all the way.”
“Seriously? Well, you’re in luck,” I say, lifting the bottle.
I wasn’t really expecting her to take it, but she does.
“You did just scare the hell out of me, after all,” she says. She uncorks it and takes a swig before letting out an appreciative sigh.
“That’s the stuff I’m talking about. Thank you.” Then, licking her lips, she adds, “Wow. That’s really good scotch.”
I don’t mention it’s an eighteen-year Macallan. I’m just glad the two-hundred-dollar bottle is being used for a gorgeous woman’s pleasure and not as a weapon.
She hands it back to me, then continues. “When Douchebag One and Douchebag Two wouldn’t leave me alone, I got pissed and left. Went for a drive, found a place to park, took a hike on the beach. I was on my way back when you, well, rescued me.”
“You’re welcome.” We share a grin. Usually picking up a woman is second nature to me, but maybe the whole ER trip and getting the wind knocked out of me has thrown me off my game because I can’t think of shit to say. I take a gulp of scotch, instead.
The alcohol tastes good, the heat down my throat somehow cools my adrenaline. My heartbeat returns to normal. Then, when the woman tosses her hair again and the faint streak of moonlight catches in it, turning the strands silver, my pulse revvs up again.
I hold out my hand to her. “I’m Declan Kiss. You?”
She gives me a skeptical look. She’s gorgeous—golden skin and big blue eyes that contrast with her dark, curling hair that falls down her shoulders. Her dark clothes are bordering on Goth style. I can more clearly make out the scrawls of black ink on her arms, and I wonder where else she has tattoos. My body instantly stands at alert.
“That’s your real name?” she asks with attitude. “Declan Kiss?”
I grin. I get responses like this all the time. When I was a kid, I’d fight anyone who made fun of my last name. Now? I go with it.
“Yep. My parents had high hopes for me.”
She can’t stop the bubble of laughter that emerges from her throat. “Your parents didn’t have anything to do with your last name, just your first name. And since the name Declan means ‘man of prayer,’ unless they were hoping you’d become a priest, I’m not sure what ‘hopes’ you’re referring to.”
“Got me there.” My grin grows wider.
She takes the bottle and gives it another pull, then hands it back to me. “Thanks for this, and for trying to help me out. But I’m good. No need to stick around.”
“Maybe I want to,” I say. When she raises an eyebrow, I take a chance. “What’s your name?”
She swallows, giving me a look under furrowed brows. Finally: “I’m Kara.”
“Just Kara?”
“Yes, ‘just Kara.’” Her lush mouth turns into a smile and I want to taste the scotch on her lips. “Do you normally do this?” she adds.
“Do what?”
“Attempt to rescue women in the dark of night? Like some kind of knight in shining armor? Except you’re wearing jeans and a T-shirt.”
I shrug. “If I knew I’d find a woman as beautiful as you out on this deserted beach in the dead of night, I would’ve dressed up.” The paper bag crinkles under my fingers.
“Aren’t you smooth? I gotta wonder if you’d have the same moves if your parents named you Harold Kiss, or Bertram Kiss.”
“Ernie Kiss. Olaf Kiss.”
We smile at each other, and the air between us becomes charged. I can glimpse even more fun in her eyes and her demeanor. This girl has life.
My last girlfriend—the beautiful, talented ice queen Gretchen—wasn’t much for teasing and banter. She was kind, she was loyal, she was intelligent and goal-oriented and great in bed, but she wasn’t…warm. Or funny. Or even flirtatious. I have no clue if Kara’s goal-oriented or determined or talented but already it’s clear she’s intelligent, kind, warm, and funny…and probably great in bed.
I can’t stop drinking her in. She senses my appraisal. To my delight, she doesn’t act pissed or outraged. She holds my gaze, an eyebrow lifted, like she’s daring me to keep going.
So I do. I let my gaze follow a line from her toes, up her legs, to her tight tank that reveals just enough cleavage to entice. Her breasts are small but rounded. I can’t help but watch her breathe, her breasts pushing against the dark fabric of her shirt. Finally, my gaze reaches her chin, and her face. A slight flush has flooded her cheeks and I can clearly see the attraction in her blue eyes. But am I imagining the anticipation there? As if she’s waiting for me to offer something too good to pass up?
“You know what I think?” I say quietly.
“What do you think?”
I’m about to say “Let’s go to my place” when I feel a drop of moisture run down the side of my neck. I swipe at it and mumble, “Huh. Looks like it’s raining.”
Suddenly Kara gasps. “Uh, Declan, that’s not rain. That’s…”
I look at my hand, now coated with a glistening dark liquid. I frown. Ah, shit—that’s blood. Damn. In my valiant attempt at rescuing a damsel in distress, I must have cut my head. Some knight in shining armor I’m turning out to be.
Kara reaches for me. “Come on, big hero. My car’s twenty feet away, and I have Band-Aids. Let’s get the bleeding stopped and you cleaned up. Then you can pick me up, okay?”
My frown turns into a grin. This vacation might be the thing I need after all.
Chapter 2
KARA
* * *
When Declan Kiss grins at me, I’m momentarily stunned speechless. His mouth, his warm brown eyes, his facial features, sharp and chiseled... Damn. The man could cut glass with those cheekbones.
Beneath my hand, his forearm muscles are taut and defined. His biceps bulge nicely under his shirt. He clearly takes care of himself, which seems at odds with his threadbare jeans and ratty tee, as does the fact he’d been hanging out under a pier with a bottle of booze in a brown paper bag. I wonder what he does for a living. How he spends his days.
How he spends his nights.
His hot, lazy, sultry nights.
Mmmm.
I’m so entranced by my overwhelming attraction that when Declan sways forward, my breath catches, and I think he’s going to kiss me. Then I realize he’s actually feeling off-balance, not because he finds me irresistible but because he’d just rolled down the equivalent of a three-story building and cut a gash in his head.
Get a hold of yourself, Kara. The man’s injured.
Granted, head wounds bleed a lot, so even with that stream of blood dripping down his neck, he most likely won’t need stitches and he probably won’t pass out. Still, we need to get pressure on the wound.
“My van?” I prompt, pointing down the path and pulling on his arm. He falls into step beside me.
“Promise I can pick you up after I let you play nurse?” he asks.
I smile. “You have between
now and then to figure out a great pickup line.”
“Challenge accepted.”
We walk toward the parking area where I left my van. As the pathway under our feet softens back to sand, I step funny. Now I’m the one who sways, and he places his arm around my waist to steady me. Automatically, I glance at him, and he winks.
He doesn’t seem to recognize me, for which I’m eternally grateful. I’ve changed my image dramatically since my days of being in the public eye. My paint-covered clothes, piercings, and tats all make me look like I’m some sort of grunge artist, not country-western’s former golden girl with her halo of bleached blonde hair, thousand-dollar jeans, snakeskin cowboy boots and tight-fitting plaid snap-front shirts. It’s a good cover—one I’ve used for years, ever since Kara Hester, country-music phenomenon, disappeared without a trace.
She’s going to stay gone, too.
Tonight, I’m just plain old Kara, feeling just as antsy and excited as I’d felt before my very first performance. I can’t shake the feeling that something life-changing is going to happen. Something that involves Mr. Declan Kiss.