ONE WILD RIDE
CAKE LOVE Series Book 3
Elizabeth Lynx
One Wild Ride
Copyright © 2018 by Elizabeth Lynx.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations em- bodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For information contact:
[email protected]
http://www.elizabeth-lynx.com
Book and Cover design by Elizabeth Lynx
Photography by Djile
DEDICATION
To the ones that say yes. Sometimes it’s harder to say yes, but it can make the world a little easier to deal with, too.
Table of Contents
ONE WILD RIDE
DEDICATION
Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
EPILOGUE
BEHIND THE SCENES
SNEAK PEEK: THE SPY RING
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THANK YOU
ONE
Aria
“I peed myself,” my best friend, Morgana Drake, whispered to me.
We sat in a cold, dim room. Despite the darkness, my skin prickled from the glare I knew was coming from the towering, muscle-bound man standing by the door. The hoodie he wore shadowed his face, making him appear even more menacing. Like some thug waiting for a pretty young blond like myself to take a wrong turn down a dark alley.
Only, we weren’t in an alley. We were somewhere much worse. Somewhere, that if Morgana, Evaleen Bechmann, and I screamed at the top of our lungs no one but this thug and his equally menacing friend would hear.
We were in downtown Chicago in one of the tallest building in the city where the top floor was the home of the wealthiest resident: A. Hawthorne.
But we were in the basement garage of that building in a tiny room surrounded by cinder blocks and one door. In other words, I should be scared.
I smirked. “Why are you hiding by the door? Afraid I might bite?”
I wasn’t frightened.
Growling for added effect, I kept my eyes trained on the hoodie guy by the door.
“Aria,” Morgana whisper-screamed at me.
I laughed at our ridiculous situation. Laughed because these guys only wanted to scare us. We weren’t tied to these chairs. They looked tough, but I’ve been around men who were the stuff of nightmares. Hoodie and his friend, Buzz Cut, were like boy scouts compared to them.
“What are they going to do to us, Morgana? Take us to some warehouse and brainwash us to take over the government? Come on.” I snorted and rolled my eyes at my redheaded friend.
“You never answered us. Why are you here with the paintings?” Buzz Cut moved forward and into the light. His dirty blond spikes almost disappearing under the harsh glow of the hanging lamp.
“That’s none of your business. Why would we tell you anything? We don’t even know who you are.” Evaleen’s blue eyes narrowed as she leaned toward him.
I liked Evaleen. She worked with my roommate, Morgana, so I’ve only known her less than two months but she’s tough and loyal. The perfect person to have with me when I decided to infiltrate a wealthy recluse’s home.
Despite her blond hair always pulled back into a frumpy schoolmarm style and dressing like one too, she had a no-nonsense approach to life that fit perfectly now.
“My name’s Bradley. That’s all you need to know. Now tell me why you were with the delivery of A. Hawthorne’s paintings or I’ll have you all arrested for trespassing,” he said as his dark eyes narrowed.
Evaleen snorted while Morgana whimpered.
Hoodie moved closer, hiding the most stellar gray eyes I’d ever seen beneath his hood. He concealed that secret weapon well. When Morgana, Evaleen, and I first arrived and got out of the delivery van, Hoodie was the one who grabbed me and pulled me into this room.
The light in the garage was faint but his gaze hit me like a bolt through thick smoke. Those pale gray eyes caused me to make a wish—to kiss him.
Unfortunately, I never got the chance to make good on my wish.
The men thought it odd that three women were helping to deliver some paintings when the actual delivery guy and his assistant were perfectly capable of doing it themselves. At least Hoodie and Buzz Cut weren’t dumb. I knew it was risky to pass ourselves off as part of the delivery team, but I had to come here.
When the wealthiest man in the city, if not the country, buys your paintings, you want to shake his hand. And I was giddy to catch a glimpse of the famously withdrawn A. Hawthorne.
“That’s funny, Bradley. Since when is being in a garage trespassing. For all the police know we were only looking for our car. Besides, you two strong-armed us ladies into a dark, closed off room. Even if A. Hawthorne can buy off the police to cover this up, I don’t think he can do a thing about us keeping it off social media.” Evaleen smirked.
That’s my girl.
Thugs may have muscles, but brains will always win in the end. A smart person would know not to let fear and emotions cloud their judgment. Bullies rely too heavily on their emotions to know better.
Bradley didn’t seem to like what Evaleen had to say. His eyes widened, and he went over to Hoodie. They whispered and as much as I leaned forward I couldn’t make out their words.
Hoodie finally came into the light. His eyes, turning to me, burned and seemed to brighten the room just enough to cause my heart to take notice.
He pulled down his hood to reveal thick dark hair that dusted his ears. And his skin, smooth and tan. I wondered if he lived in a country full of sun and sand and was forced to the cold, concrete-blanketed Chicago as punishment.
“Aria.” His hypnotic eyes, the deep rumble of his voice, held me tight as he knelt in front of me.
“Yes?” I said transfixed.
“Why are you here?”
“To meet A. Hawthorne. Those were my paintings he bought. I just want to thank him.”
Way to spoil everything, Aria.
Where was my usual flirty snark? His eyes were a dangerous drug. If his eyes had the power to get me to reveal my secrets against my will in a dark room, imagine what his hands could do?
My heart stumbled at the thought.
I soon found out their power. He placed his palm on my arm. My resolve obliterated the moment his fingers dusted my skin. And my breath, it withered and died as I leaned into his hand.
He had to feel that. That heat. That electricity. Or did his eyes protect him from such
mortal things?
After a moment he rose, letting his hand fall and leaving me desperate for his touch. I suddenly felt the early March air in my bones. It was bitter and unloved.
When I glanced at him, the corner of his mouth ticked up, just enough to bring some of that warmth back.
“I think I can make that happen.” He reached a hand toward me to help me up and I took it. At that point, I would hand over my wallet and perhaps my ovaries to make him smile.
Bradley opened his mouth to speak, but Hypno-eyes halted him with one look.
Those eyes were weapons. Even Bradley did as they commanded. He shut his mouth and let Hypno-eyes lead us out of the room to a set of elevators.
Once we were all crowded into the lift, Hypno-eyes leaned forward and stared at a mirror. The doors closed, and the elevator began to rise.
“Wow. That was cool. Did the elevator just scan your eyes?” Morgana asked.
“Yes. Mr. Hawthorne had his private elevators equipped with the latest security technology,” Bradley said.
“Like James Bond or—” Morgana said before being cut off by Evaleen.
“Or Get Smart.” Evaleen smirked at Bradley. “Let me guess, his shoe is also a phone?”
Hypno-eyes snorted and everyone in the elevator turned with wide eyes.
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “What? It was funny. I love Get Smart.”
The elevator stopped, and the doors opened causing my mouth to drop open. We stepped onto gray-tiled floors and into a small hall with bright white walls. But it’s what covered those walls that had my eyes melting.
Works of art.
Not my artwork, but master works of art.
Stuff I had only seen in textbooks during my art history class at Northwestern. I remember falling in love with Native American art in school. To the point where I studied Native culture and even learned some Navajo.
I stood only inches from paper warped and molded decades before I was born by R. C. Gorman. Fear that my hot breath would wither its beauty but too in awe to move.
“Stunning. How does A. Hawthorne have such a piece? Shouldn’t this be in a museum?”
That’s when I felt the warmth from down in the basement return to my arm. I turned to discover Hypno-eyes and I were alone in the hallway. A large, dark wooden door sat wide-open at the end. Bradley must have escorted my friends away and I hadn’t even noticed.
I should be worried, for them, for myself, but for some reason I felt safe. Those eyes and now, his touch, did strange things to me. Had me reacting to the world in a way I never had before, well, not since I was young. Not since I was innocent of the evils that existed in the hearts and hands of men.
His eyes crinkled with warmth. “It’s much safer here than a museum basement. Most of the collection is loaned from time to time to galleries and museums around the world.”
“A. Hawthorne may be a recluse but at least he’s not a hoarder. I’m glad he allows the public to experience these treasures,” I said with barely contained excitement.
Hypno-eyes frowned and abruptly turned his back to move toward the door. I guess Mr. Hawthorne’s employees didn’t like people calling him a recluse. It’s a good thing I hadn’t brought up the rumors that he prefers to sleep with prostitutes.
I’m not one to judge women on what they have to do to survive in this male-dominated world, but I would think a billionaire wouldn’t need to add to the exploitation of women. But what did I know of the happenings behind closed doors of penthouses?
I walked through the door and it eerily closed behind me. I hoped it was the latest tech gadget closing that door and not a dead painter’s ghost here to collect his lost work.
I quickened my step from the eerie door and was struck once again as I entered what appeared to be the love-child of a living room and a museum.
My friends sat on a what I thought to be a replica of an orange Florence Knolls sofa. But as I glanced around the room, I realized there were no replicas in this room. No knockoffs or vintage-inspired. Everything was original, from the George Nakashima end table to the Matisse hanging on the wall behind Evaleen.
I pointed to my friends and said, “When I die, I want to be cremated and my ashes scattered in this room.”
“You got it.” Morgana gave me thumbs up.
“Ah, Dixon, you can’t just scatter your ashes anywhere you want. This is someone’s home. They don’t want a dead person’s ashes on their couch.”
Despite Evaleen’s cute habit of calling people by their last name and sound logic, I chose to ignore her comment.
“Ms. Dixon, A. Hawthorne will meet with you now. He is down the hall; the second door on the right.” Bradley pointed toward a hall that appeared to be in competition with the Louvre.
This was it—the point of the whole evening. To meet the man who didn’t just buy my paintings but propelled me into the elite artistic circle. If A. Hawthorne showed interest in an artist, their career was set. Every gallery wanted to show their work.
I can finally get a chance to show my paintings, not just in Chicago but New York, Los Angeles, and perhaps even the world. No more slinging drinks for tips. No more drunk losers groping me, expecting me to smile when they take what I never told them they could have.
I left my final resting place and moved quickly down the hall. Standing in front of the door to the room that held my savior I paused and removed my puffy black coat. Smoothing my shoulder length hair and rubbing at my good luck charm around my neck—my sister’s old heart pendant necklace—I reached over knocking on the door.
It opened, and I wondered if all the doors in this place were possessed. In the middle of a square room with a large wooden desk and a few black leather chairs stood Hypno-eyes.
He waved me inside. “Come in, Aria. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Alexander Hawthorne.”
TWO
Alexander
Aria hated me.
I had seen that look before on a woman—my mother. The shock. The hurt.
I should have been honest with Aria from the beginning, but Bradley insisted we tell them nothing. He didn’t know the women and, therefore, he didn’t trust them. He believed it a security risk if we let them know who I was.
What Bradley really meant was my mother would be upset if anyone, especially women she hadn’t vetted, came near me. As much as I considered my security guard, Bradley Gibson, a friend who happened to be my cousin, he still worked for my mother.
“Please, Aria, come in and take a seat. I promise these chairs are much more comfortable than the plastic ones in the basement.”
Her eyes still wide, stared at me. An ache radiated through my chest and down my arms. My hand slid over the supple surface of the chair back. I lowered my eyes as thoughts of her caused my cheeks to warm.
Her beauty was addictive and painful.
“You’re A. Hawthorne? But . . . uh, but—” She pointed back down the hall to where Bradley was keeping an eye on her friends.
I walked over to her and placed my hand on her back. A jolt shot up my arm. It wasn’t static, just my heart seizing from fear, from heat, from the wild thoughts my mind threw at it. And it was like nothing I had felt before.
I had become accustomed to hiding my emotions, especially fear. To survive in my family, it was essential. But this was new. This was wonderful and challenging to hide.
“We had to make sure you weren’t with the paparazzi or a weird art groupie,” I said after guiding Aria to a chair and crouching down to face her.
Her deep brown eyes searched my face as she frowned. I wondered if I pushed her too far tonight. Trapping her and her friends in that basement was wrong. I might have to kill Bradley if he helped ruin the one chance I got with the woman I had lusted after for three years.
Her brow wrinkled in the most delectable way. “You have art groupies? I have been in the art world for over ten years and I never had any art groupies.”
“They tend to go after famous artists and collectors o
r the talented.” Instant regret caused me to frown.
I shook my head and tried to open my mouth to explain my poor choice of words, but it was too late. Aria jerked away and up out of the chair.
“Oh, well, if I’m not talented then why did you buy my paintings, Mr. Hawthorne?” Aria asked as if the words left a dreadful taste in her mouth.
She moved backward toward the door before her eye caught the small Picasso drawing on the wall. With abrupt flare, she stopped.
“I didn’t mean you weren’t talented. Of course you are or I wouldn’t have been fascinated by your work. I just meant artists and collectors who they deem talented,” I said cringing at my even worse explanation.
Usually I could hold my own in just about any conversation. Even philosophical or political debates, while challenging, were enjoyable to me. But everything I said around Aria seemed wrong, felt wrong.
It was as if my penis told my brain to take a vacation. She challenged me in ways that I wasn’t at all prepared for. It propelled me forward. I stood and walked toward her.
Aria turned to face me, her arms folded and eyes narrowed for what I knew would be a verbal attack. “I get that you are a little out of touch with us common folk with all your wealth to pad you from getting near us, but we don’t really like to be insulted.”
She smirked as she took a moment to gaze about the room. “Did you think you could dazzle me with your amazing art and killer body and hypnotic eyes and I would succumb to a giggle fit when you put down my work?”
Killer body? Blood raced through my veins the more she spoke. Her complimentary words, meant to disguise an insult, were all too familiar to me. It was a tactic my mother gave out like lollipops.
“Excuse me?” I said as I folded my arms over my chest.
“I’ll make this real clear for you, Mr. Hawthorne. I don’t like to be lied to or disrespected. Maybe in your fancy pants world, everyone lies all the time. Maybe it’s a favorite game among the wealthy, who can conjure up the biggest fib while putting people down. Do you win a prize? A golden statue with the biggest dick?”
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