A Sweet Life-kindle

by Andre, Bella

  But arranging flowers by day and tangling with the only man who has ever seen her real self by night isn’t enough to silence the mysterious panic that fuels Alexa’s dark dreams. When Nate brings home a book written by an inmate, one describing an unspeakable crime, the shackles binding Alexa’s own lost memories begin to shatter. And as the devastating truth comes to light, she realizes that Nate holds the key to unlocking her past, as well as her heart.

  ***

  “It doesn’t look good.”

  I didn’t understand.

  Who was that? I didn’t know, and that scared me. I wanted my mother, like a child trapped inside a woman’s body.

  And why couldn’t I see? Why was the entire field of my vision an implacable, grim landscape of slate, stretching as far as I could see every which way.

  “Rapid papillary dilation, oculus dextra only... no wait, oculus sinistra also.”

  Huh?

  Thoroughly confused, I struggled to sit up, to open my eyes. Why was I lying down? Had I been asleep? I wasn’t even tired.

  Nothing happened. Annoyed, I commanded my brain again to move my arms, my legs, to crunch my abdominal muscles in a sit up. To force the ever quickening flutter of nerves in my eyes to open.

  Nothing.

  Panic snaked its way into my consciousness, an oily sickness in my gut. It roiled in my stomach like an over-rich meal as I frantically tried to understand why my limbs weren’t working.

  “Heart rate’s increasing.” I heard, as if from a great distance, a long, repetitive string of shrill beeps, quickening irregularly before slowing again.

  A flash of light, nougat yellow, registered in my right eye, then my left. I opened my mouth to protest, but instead of my own voice, higher than I’d ever liked it to be, I heard the lower, more moderated tones of a man.

  “No pupillary response oculus unitas. Reflexes?” A sharp tap on each knee.

  I was getting annoyed. I wanted to wake up.

  As the minutes ticked by, however, realization slowly trickled in, water filling a vase full stones.

  This wasn’t a dream. This was real.

  I tried again to speak, and again and again. There was no sound besides the one reverberating off the shadowy confines of my mind.

  I was screaming, but it seemed that no one could hear me.

  I howled until even my inner voice was hoarse. As I quieted, my mind—my only companion, it seemed—turned over what I’d heard, what I’d experienced since waking.

  I was in a hospital, or something like that. If they were testing my reflexes, then why couldn’t they see my responses? Why couldn’t they tell that I was awake, just unable to speak, to see, to ask?

  “Any word on an ID yet?” Another male voice, this one lighter and somehow more smooth.

  “No. The patient had no identification on her. She’s too young. Hopefully her parents are looking for her.”

  Wait a minute. That was wrong. Completely wrong. I never went anywhere without my purse, a small piece of battered leather that I’d had for years.

  And patient? Patient of what? Why did I need to be here?

  What had happened to me?

  “What do the cops say?” This came from a woman whose voice reminded me of the burnt ochre and gold sunrises back home. Home, yes, home. Was I home?

  No, that wasn’t right. I was in the mountains. I’d been here for a few months. It had been fun until...

  Until what?

  Bearing down internally, I tried again, with all of my strength, to spit out the words that were choking me.

  I didn’t want anything to do with anything involving the police. I was a good person. I followed the rules, always. And I just wanted these strange people to hear what I had to say, not to run off talking to the cops—and I had no idea why they’d need to do that—or to keep poking my skin, shining lights into my eyes, or strapping monitors to my skin.

  Why couldn’t they hear me? Why couldn’t I talk?

  And what was that haze of red that was wafting on in, the curling tendrils ominous in their undulating shades of scarlet, crimson and claret.

  It was—oh, my God. The pain. The pain. Like a million tiny, deathly sharp blades, not stabbing but slicing, all at once, through every single bit of my flesh. Melting through layers of derma and fat, muscle and bone.

  As my breath caught, rasping painfully in my inexplicably swollen throat, I heard the faint, staccato song of the beeps again. They raced, faster and faster, before pausing once, twice and slowing, sliding towards silence. I tried to shut out the pain, to breathe through it, but still I heard the busy bee hum of panicked voices, of shouted words, of things I didn’t recognize.

  A sharp sting in my right hand, then a lovely cool began its slow trickle, heavy and so fat with wet that it dampened the pain, bit by bit. Numbed the senses.

  With its arrival the desire to speak, to yell and scream my existence, faded. I no longer cared about why I was where I was, or who was around me. Didn’t care why I was trapped, an active mind in a body that wouldn’t respond, no matter how loud I screamed.

  Didn’t care that my memories were hazy.

  Oh, that cool. So thick and sweet, deadening my veins and everything that they touched.

  I didn’t want... I couldn’t... I needed to...

  It all faded to grey.

  Untouched

  Available for preorder now!

  Read on for an excerpt from A Bride for a Billionaire,

  available May 6 from all major retailers.

  A BRIDE FOR A BILLIONAIRE Excerpt

  Copyright 2014 by Lauren Hawkeye

  For fans of Cruel Intentions and Dangerous Liaisons…

  Matteo Benenati has spent his life wrapped in wealth and privilege. He is shallow, selfish, jaded—and he likes it that way.

  When bold American art student Riley Tremaine crashes into his life, her light forces him to examine the dark places inside of his soul, the ones he thought he’d buried with his father. He knows he should let her go… but he’s never claimed to be a good man.

  When Matteo is pitted against his unscrupulous stepsister Emilia Guerra in a bid for his late father’s empire, he must decide between honor and vice. In need of a wife—and desperate to possess her—Matteo makes Riley an offer she can’t refuse. She will be his bride—in every meaning of the word—so that he can protect his legacy.

  But Matteo soon learns that Emilia’s soul is darker even than his own. And by marrying Riley, he has made her a pawn in a power struggle that could shatter their world.

  ***

  MATTEO

  “Why are you here again?”

  Stretching my legs out in front of me, I lean back in the large recliner that I’m slouched in as I speak. No matter how luxurious the VIP lounge at the Palermo International Airport intended these seats to be, I can’t get comfortable.

  Shifting again, I lace my fingers behind my head and crack open my eyes. Emilia is posing on the edge of my chair, all long legs and glossy hair and plump lips. Leaning forward enough to give me a good view down the front of her slinky dress, she trails a scarlet tipped fingernail over my bicep, sending a sting of pain through my skin.

  I like it. I also like the view down her dress, even though I know that the move was calculated. Not willing to remain passive, I place my hand on the warm, soft skin of her bare thigh and squeeze once, just enough to make my point.

  Her eyes flash with heat, and my cock responds, swelling to half-mast. The teasing between us is a game, perhaps a dangerous one, but one that we’ve played since my dad married her mom over a decade ago.

  “You’re going to make me think you don’t love me.” Those perfect lips of hers, painted with man-killer red, turn down in a pout that makes me picture them wrapped around my erection.

  “I don’t.” I’m satisfied by the flicker of pain in her eyes, pain that she smoothes over effortlessly.

  The cruel streak in me, the one I got from my father, enjoys hurting her feelings. The rest
of me just doesn’t care. Truth is, I don’t have a lot of feelings for my stepsister. And the ones that I do have mostly center around her tits and the heated space between her legs. Not that I’ve ever sampled the latter, of course.

  There are some lines that even I won’t cross.

  “What a thing to say, when I came to see you off properly.” Her lips find the taut muscle at the base of my throat, and her teeth sink in, making me shudder. The basest part of me wants to drag her astride my lap. I want to unzip my pants and shove inside of her without any foreplay at all, and I want to find my release in a soulless fuck between the legs that have taunted me since I was fifteen, never mind that we’re in the VIP lounge at an airport, and there are at least a dozen other people around us.

  Only the thin sliver of humanity that remains inside of me, the tiny shard that my father wasn’t able to extract, keeps me from doing it. That, and the fact that if I do the dynamics between us will change irrevocably, in ways that I don’t want.

  So though my body wants to let her keep nibbling on my neck—wants her mouth to move lower—I shove her away irritably, the recliner rocking forward with a jolt.

  She frowns. Still, undeterred, she reaches out, runs a hand through my hair.

  “The meeting just won’t be the same without you.” She flicks her tongue over those glossy red lips. “You know how I love it when you lead board meetings. All that raw power.”

  “You’ll handle it just fine.” Smirking, I meet her eyes. I’m not stupid. Though she pretends that all she wants is to get her hands on me, we both know that it’s Benenati Enterprises that she really loves... the company, and the billions of dollars that it generates.

  She would probably make a far better CEO than me, if I were feeling honest, which I rarely was. I have the same hunger for power that Emilia does, but there are days when the baggage my father left behind in the empire that he built feel too heavy for me to carry.

  Which is why I’m waiting to board our family’s private plane, which will take me to one of our vacation homes, the one on the Amalfi Coast. I did everything I could to avoid these meetings in person, instead attending by phone whenever possible.

  I hate the way the board—all people who were been handpicked by my father—stare at me, their expectations weighing me down.

  I’m not Carmine Benenati, and I’m thankful for that fact every day. But I’m still his blood, a fact inescapable even six months after his death.

  The man—this company—can still mold me in his image. The very thought haunts my every waking moment, and sometimes my dreams, as well.

  Shuddering inwardly, I slam my empty scotch glass on the side table, hard enough to shatter. Catching the eye of the very attractive, very scantily clad waitress, I contemplate a second. And possibly a quickie with her in the executive washroom.

  Anything to take the edge off. But from the corner of my eye I see Emilia taking note of my intentions toward the pretty redhead, of the scotch that I drained too quickly.

  I can’t show weakness in front of her, or it will cost me.

  “What the hell is taking so long?” Scowling, I shove away thoughts of another drink, of the mind numbing emptiness of release, and push my way to my feet. Emilia’s fuck-me lips turn down sullenly as I stride to the glassed in door of the lounge, wanting—needing—some distraction.

  I barely have time to blink before a skinny teenager dressed in black sprints by, a large straw purse clutched tightly in his emaciated arms.

  “My purse! That man took my purse!” The voice wavers, clearly belonging to an elderly woman. Still, it filters through the thick glass door that separates the VIP lounge from the rest of those striding through the airport with scowls on their faces just fine.

  Sucking in a breath, I push the glass door open. It slams against the wall with such force it could break, but I don’t care—if it does, I’ll buy them another. Adrenaline rushes through me as I bounce on the balls of my feet, looking from the rapidly shrinking figure clutching the handbag, to the older woman with clouds of white hair, who is trying to rise from the floor.

  My instinct is to sprint after the young man who just callously preyed on the weak. But a small voice inside my head whispers, holding me back.

  It’s not your problem, Matteo. These people are beneath you. Let them solve their own problems.

  That voice is Carmine’s, not mine. But does it really matter?

  “You’re not seriously thinking of playing the superhero, are you?” Behind me I hear Emilia laugh, the sound rich with amusement and condescension. “Who are you and what have you done with my stepbrother?”

  That decides it.

  “You could go help that old woman up,” I snap over my shoulder as I break into a run. She won’t, I know she won’t, but someone will.

  I barely make it three steps before I’m overtaken by a woman. A girl, really, younger than me, with long chestnut hair streaming out behind her.

  “I’ve got it!” She shouts as she pushes past me, picking up speed. Dio, but she’s fast, the movements of her legs highlighted by the spandex legging style pants that girls like to wear.

  I race after her, my course of action decided.

  This girl is maybe five foot four to my six three. She’s so small... what is she going to do when she catches up to a man mean enough to steal from an old woman?

  No matter how rotten I am on the inside, I can’t let that slide. So I sprint after her, after the thief.

  I’m fast, but she’s faster. She’s gaining on the mugger, who casts a panicked look over his shoulder. Even from this distance I can see that his eyes are wide, crazed.

  He’s high on something... he would have to be, to try a stunt like this in an international airport.

  And this pazzo woman, this crazy girl, is two strides away from being in a lot of trouble.

  “Stop!” I shout, but it’s too late. She jumps, lands on the unkempt man, wraps her arms around the purse as they struggle to stay upright. Horror joins the adrenaline pulsing through me as I see a flash of silver, the whites of the man’s eyes.

  The girl screams, a sound full of anger more than pain, as she twists, the knife sinking into her upper arm rather than her chest. The scene plays out in slow motion before my eyes as she falls to the floor, a viscous stream of crimson staining the front of her white T-shirt.

  My instinct is to drop to my knees beside her, to put pressure on her wound. But her eyes—beautiful blue eyes, brilliant as the Mediterranean—meet my own.

  “I’m fine!” She wheezes at me, despite the very obvious fact that she is not. Her arms wrap ever tighter around the purse, and with one foot she kicks the knife out of range. “Go!”

  I don’t usually take orders, especially from women, but I understand the fire in her stare. The mugger has already scrambled to his feet, is poised to run.

  The girl managed to get the purse, but justice must be served. So without breaking my stride, I leap, wrapping my arms around the man. My muscles are burning from the sprint, but I hold tight as we crash to the floor.

  “Off! Off!” The thief’s voice is high-pitched, hysterical. He thrashes beneath me, and I grunt as his knee connects with my gut. “I need that money! I need the fucking money!”

  “There’s probably nothing more than pocket change and stale mints in that purse, you idiot.” My muscles tremble as I grab hold of his wrists, secure them behind his back—I’m by far the bigger of us two, but he has mania on his side.

  He doesn’t respond, his gaze fixed on something over my shoulder as he struggles. His skin is pale and clammy, eyes bloodshot and glassy. His muscles are tight with tension and pressed against him like I am, I can feel the hammering of his pulse, unnaturally fast.

  I lift my head, try to crane my neck back to get a glimpse of the girl, but she’s out of my line of sight. Instead I see a man and a woman, both dressed in the blue uniforms of aeroporti security, running toward us.

  “We need you to let go of him now,” the
male says, but I don’t let go until they have a good grip on the thief, who now has saliva dribbling down his chin. It disgusts me, as so many things do, and I swivel, trying to get a good look at the girl.

  The female security guard catches a full glimpse of my face, and her mouth falls open. I sigh as she emits a small squeak, leaving her partner to do their job by himself.

  “Signore Benenati,” she whispers, a bright flush staining her cheeks. I shake my head in warning as I scramble to my feet.

  “Not now.” My voice is harsh, and I begin to push my way through the crowd of people who have gathered. “Call an ambulanza. Now!”

  She says something behind me; I don’t care. Other whispers from the crowd tell me that I’ve been recognized, not an unusual occurrence here in Palermo. And while normally I enjoy the benefits that come with being one of the country’s most eligible bachelors, right now I’m focused on the girl.

  And there she is, propped up on her elbows, a hand held to her own wound. Several well meaning citizens flutter around her, but no one has truly touched—afraid of getting their hands dirty.

  Just like you were. If you hadn’t hesitated, she wouldn’t have been stabbed.

  It should have been you.

  “Signorina.” I am never at a loss for words, nor do I ever feel guilty. But it seems that today is a day for firsts as I fall to my knees at the side of this strange, brave girl.

  I shrug out of my light cotton sweater and press it to the wound. It soaks through, wetting my hands as well.

  Her blood is sticky and warm. Full of life.

  “The ambulance will be here shortly.” I’m pressing down gently on the gap in her flesh, the place where the knife sliced through her, but she winces anyway.

  “No! No ambulance!” She struggles to sit up, but since she is clearly going into shock—her skin is paper white and her eyes glassy—she winds up falling back with her head in my lap.

  Is she insane?