“You needed to start again.”
She sniffed and nodded. “Yes, exactly.”
“I wish I’d been kinder to you when you first arrived. I feel like shit that you were going through all of that, and I was being a dick because I was pissed off that you’d increased the rent and were moving in upstairs.”
“It doesn’t matter. I needed to figure out how to function in the normal world again.” She risked a smile. “You were like a baptism of fire. Literally.”
He laughed. “That doesn’t sound like a good thing.”
“It was in the end.”
Art’s gaze caught hers and drew her in. “Do you ever wonder if two people are thrown together for a reason?” he asked. “I can’t help feeling like you were meant to be in my life, Tess. We’re from two different parts of the world, and in many ways nothing alike, and yet I feel more connected to you than any other person in my life. It’s like you were meant to be here, for me to be able to help you, for you to be able to help me, too.”
“I haven’t helped you, Art. All I’ve done is thrown a whole heap of complications into your life.”
“You’re wrong. You have helped me. You’ve given my life meaning other than my work. I mean, I love what I do, you know that as much as anyone, but you’ve made it feel full. Complete.”
His thumbs ran over her wrists, the lines crawling up them. “How do you feel about these?”
“I hate them. They’re like another reminder of all the pain and loss, but I can’t run away from this.”
“So let me tattoo them for you. You’ll still have the scars, I can never take them away completely, and maybe that’s a good thing, maybe you should keep something that reminds you how precious life is, but I can cover something horrible that happened to you with something beautiful.”
Tears filled her eyes. “You’d do that?”
“Of course. I’d do anything for you.”
“I’ll pay you for your work.”
“No, you won’t. If I can help complete strangers, than I can sure as hell help the woman I love.”
Her heart caught at his words. “You love me?”
He smiled. “I’m crazy about you. Obsessed. Me, the guy who never got attached to women, who always focused on the guys and work. I’ll do anything for you, Tess.”
A smile spread across her face. “I feel the same way. I love you, too.”
And as soon as she said it, she knew it to be true.
Eight Weeks Later
“I can’t believe you’re getting ready to re-open the studio tomorrow,” said Tess, slipping her hand into Art’s as they stood surveying the newly renovated tattoo shop. “Only a few weeks ago, I thought we’d never get to see the place looking like this again.”
His fingers tightened around hers and he looked down into her face. “We’re getting to open the studio tomorrow, you mean. This place is both our baby now.”
“I know. I’m so excited to get started.”
She wouldn’t be tattooing anyone, of course. Tess was going to be a new addition to the tattoo studio, taking bookings, reordering stock, greeting clients. This would free up more of Art’s time, so he’d be able continue to work on his pro bono cases, while taking on more paid work.
The structure of the building had been saved, and though they’d needed a new staircase and a substantial amount of the flooring had needed to be replaced, it could have been worse. Thank God the insurance had been up to date.
Art had spent much of the past couple of months working on new artwork for the walls—large black and white pieces of various genres. Combined with a new paint scheme of red and grey, the studio had a fresh, modern feel to it.
While the fire damage was being dealt with, they’d found a short-term let nearby and it had made sense for them to live there, together. Once they’d started, they hadn’t wanted to stop, so as soon as they’d learned that the flat would be ready at the same time as the shop, they’d barely needed to have the conversation. They both instinctively knew they’d be living there together.
Art turned to her and pulled her in closer, before kissing her with soft, feathering kisses on the corner of her mouth, across her jaw, and to her ear. “You ready to be my first customer?” he said softly against her lobe.
“I’m only your first customer if you let me pay.”
“Bullshit. I’m not letting you pay.”
“But I want to. You’re supposed to be working with more paying customers, remember?”
He stared at her, and lifted his eyebrows. “Tess. Shut the hell up and sit in the chair. Remember what I said, if I tattoo complete strangers for free, I’m not taking money from the woman I love.”
She laughed. “Okay, okay. I’m sitting down.”
Tess slipped into the soft leather chair and reclined so she lay flat. Art’s tough-looking, handsome face came into view above her. She barely saw the tattoos and piercings anymore. They were just a part of who he was, like the cat-shaped birthmark she had on her calf, or the scars that littered her inner arms.
He cleaned her skin, cool wipes against hot flesh. “So you’re really gonna let me do this? Your first ever tattoo”
“You’re taking my tattoo virginity,” she said with a flirtatious smile.
“And I’ll take the rest of you later,” he growled, sending a thrill through her.
She bit her lower lip and the moment of fun passed, replaced by a more serious air.
Art prepared the ink then paused above her. “You can still back out,” he said. “You know it won’t make me think any differently of you.”
“I know,” she said, forcing down her nerves. “I want this. Hide my scars.”
“What you’ve chosen is perfect.”
She nodded. Cherry blossom, a symbol not only of new life and change, but also of how fleeting life was. “I think so, too.”
And he pressed the needle to her skin.
THE END.
About Marissa Farrar
Marissa Farrar has always been in love with being in love. But since she's been married for numerous years and has three young daughters, she's conducted her love affairs with multiple gorgeous men of the fictional persuasion.
The author of more than twenty five novels, she has been a full time author for the last six years. She predominantly writes paranormal romance and urban fantasy, but has branched into contemporary fiction as well.
If you want to know more about Marissa, then please visit her website at www.marissa-farrar.blogspot.com. You can also find her at her facebook page, www.facebook.com/marissa.farrar.author or follow her on twitter @marissafarrar.
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Survivor: Sparks fly when a spoilt princess and the ultimate alpha male are thrown into a survival situation.
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Fast Lust
By Lucy Felthouse
Prologue
Gloria Heath gaped at her boss, Graeme, unsure if she’d heard him correctly. No, no, she couldn’t have heard him correctly, because she thought he’d said he wanted her to go and cover the first round of the British Superbikes at Donington Park. She shook her hea
d and chuckled. He must have said The Great British Bake Off. That sounded similar, didn’t it?
Graeme frowned. “Something funny, Gloria?”
She snapped her focus back to her editor and smiled. “Sorry. I must be going deaf, or mad, because I thought you said you wanted me to cover some motorbike race.”
His expression was stony. “I did,” he replied coolly. “Do you have a problem with that?”
Blinking, she opened her mouth, then closed it again. Narrowing her eyes, she said, “But I’m a lifestyle reporter. I cover—”
“I’m well aware of what you cover, Gloria. I’ve been your boss for three years—don’t you think I’m familiar with what you write by now?” He sighed. “I know it’s not your usual thing, and is way out of your comfort zone, but don’t you think a change would be nice? A bit of a challenge for you?”
Gulping, she replied, “A ch-challenge? Graeme… did I do something wrong?”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s an article, Gloria, not a bloody punishment. No, you didn’t do anything wrong. Your work is exemplary—always has been, and I’m sure it always will be. But I have one of the sports writers off sick, with no one else available to take his place, and not covering the first round of the British Superbikes is tantamount to blasphemy for our motorsport readers.”
A feeling of dread settled in her stomach, making her nauseous. “Do I… have a choice?”
Graeme raised his eyebrows. “I’m an editor, not a dictator. But come on, Gloria, do me a favour here. Like I said, there’s no one else to take his place—you’re the only one with time in your schedule. If I’m not mistaken, the stuff you’re currently working on isn’t time-sensitive. Sunday’s race, however, is.” He leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk, then flashed her a smile. “We’ll even put you up in a nice hotel, right near to the track. One little article, Gloria. You’ll be saving my life. Please.”
Gloria knew when she was beaten. Graeme wouldn’t force her, she knew that, but it was clearly very important to him. And he’d never asked her to do something like this before—he was generally very laid back, and let her get on with writing pretty much whatever she wanted to. So one article out of her comfort zone—albeit way out of her comfort zone—was the least she could do. “All right,” she said resignedly. “I’ll do it, for you. But you have to give me a full briefing on what exactly you’re looking for. The last thing I want is to end up writing something where I’ve taken completely the wrong angle.
“And,” she added, “where the hell is Donington Park, anyway?”
Graeme’s expression turned despairing. “In the Midlands, Gloria. Near Derby and Nottingham. North of Watford Gap.”
“Bloody hell, that’s miles away! Have I got to drive? I’ll need a pool car.”
“Drive, get the train, hell, you can even fly. The circuit’s next door to a bloody airport. I don’t care, as long as you go, all right?”
She folded her arms. “The train will be fine. Though a first class ticket wouldn’t go amiss.”
Graeme rolled his eyes. “Done.”
“And about the briefing…”
“Of course! I wouldn’t send you in there unprepared. Right, you go and carry on with whatever you were doing while I get all the arrangements sorted. Come and see me when you get here tomorrow morning, and we’ll go through everything you need to know.” She nodded and stood up, then turned to leave. “Oh, and Gloria?” She turned back. “Thank you. I really do appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome, boss. Just don’t make a habit of it, all right?” She winked to show she was joking.
Grinning, he waved a hand at her. “Go on, get out. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Chapter One
“Do you need help with your bag?” the taxi driver asked when he’d opened her door and helped her out. He strolled to the boot of the car and removed her small wheeled suitcase.
“No, thanks,” she said with a genuine smile. “It’s only little, and not heavy. But thank you for asking.” She was touched he’d offered, because she’d already paid, so it wasn’t like he was angling for a tip. But then, she supposed, that was the difference between London and other places in the UK. In the city, everyone was out for what they could get. Out here, in what looked like the arse end of nowhere, maybe people were actually just… nice.
“No problem.” He handed her a business card. “Here’s the number for my office—feel free to give us a call when you need taking back to the train station.”
She slipped the card into the slot in her phone case, figuring it wouldn’t get lost or damaged there. “Will do, thanks.” Gripping the handle of her suitcase, she began walking towards the front entrance of the hotel. “Bye.”
“Bye. Have a good time.”
Turning her attention to her accommodation, she saw that Graeme had indeed made good on his promise of booking her into a nice hotel. It was a beautiful black and white timber-fronted building; so unlikely to have anything like a gym, swimming pool or sauna, but she wouldn’t have time for any of that, anyway. It was Friday lunchtime now, and she was leaving late on Sunday evening. All she’d be doing in the hotel was eating breakfast and dinner, sleeping and showering.
She’d almost changed her mind when she’d realised she had to be at the event Friday, Saturday and Sunday. She’d originally thought it was just the Sunday. But apparently there were practice rounds on the Friday, then races on Saturday and Sunday, with the latter being the main event. And, according to Graeme, just covering the main event wasn’t enough—it would make for a more exciting, rounded article if she could mention the practice races, who stood out, and so on. Apparently, there were lots of different championships and cups involved in the tournament, but fortunately she only needed to cover the main British Superbike Championship. In the end, she’d just taken the timetable Graeme had printed out for her and made her excuses, her brain whirling with all the information.
When she’d settled into her seat on the northbound train, she’d logged onto the complimentary WiFi and tried to swot up. This might not be her area of expertise—or even interest—but she had professional pride and wanted to make a good job of the write-up. Also, if she was armed with some knowledge, she wouldn’t look like such a useless girl in front of all the leather-clad petrol heads.
Hmm… leather-clad men. Maybe this won’t be so bad, after all.
With a sudden spring in her step, she crossed the threshold into the hotel and approached the reception desk with a smile.
A pretty brunette woman in her forties returned the smile. “Hello, welcome to Donington Park Farmhouse Hotel. How can I help you?”
“Hi. I’m here to check in for two nights. I’m Gloria Heath.”
“Ah, yes. From the newspaper?”
Gloria frowned. “Er, yes. How did you know?” Surely the woman hadn’t remembered her byline from an article?
The woman chuckled. “We’re only a small team here—I was the one that took the booking. I spoke to the gentleman who made the reservation for you. He was asking me about the race circuit and how to get there from here, and we got chatting.”
“Oh, I see.” So Graeme had made the booking himself, rather than getting one of the office juniors to do it? Interesting. He’d obviously been determined to keep her on side. “So, how do I get to the circuit from here? Is there a local taxi service? I just got the number from the guy that dropped me off from the train station, so I could call his company…” She looked at her watch. “I need to head there pretty soon, though, once I’ve checked in and dropped off my bags.”
The woman nodded. “No problem. And no, you won’t need a taxi. It’s quicker to walk.”
“Walk? Where is the circuit, exactly?”
With a smile, the woman said, “I’m surprised you didn’t hear it as you came in. It’s just behind us, across a field.” She jerked her thumb towards the rear of the building. “Maybe there was a break in the practice races as you came in.”
“Er…
maybe.” She hadn’t memorised the whole timetable, just the parts that applied to her article, so she didn’t have a clue. She still didn’t understand why there were so many different races. Graeme had tried to explain, but it wasn’t really his area of expertise either, so he hadn’t done a particularly good job. All she’d picked up was that it was something to do with different types of bikes, different engine sizes and whatnot.
The receptionist turned her attention to the computer monitor in front of her and pressed some buttons on the keyboard. “Right, let’s get you checked in. Two nights, breakfast and dinner.” She typed away, murmuring to herself for a minute, then, “Okay, done! You’re in room three.” Reaching beneath the desk, she then produced a large key on an old-fashioned fob and handed it to Gloria. “Here you go. It’s just along there—you’ll find it easily, we’re only a small place. I think boutique is the fashionable phrase, isn’t it?” She winked. “Meals are through there,” she indicated another door, “and the circuit is literally a two-minute walk along our private pathway, and will take you directly to the pits and paddocks, which is where I’m guessing you need to be.”
“Yep.” Gloria nodded. “At least to start with.”
“The path is just out the back door and across the car park. You can’t miss it.”
“Great. Thank you so much. Right,” she checked her watch, “I’d better get going, then, if I want to see the one o’clock practice.”
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