New Adult Romance Box Set

by Emme Rollins, Julia Kent, Anna Antonia, Helena Newbury, Aubrey Rose

  I took another look around. It was a fairly quiet night. After two years at Fenbrook and nearly as long working at Flicker, I knew all the regular faces and I didn’t see anyone Karen or Jasmine would want to flirt with. I silently cursed. Part of me wanted there to be a distraction, because without one I was going to have to tell them all about Darrell.

  I brought over their drinks, together with a water for me and took the money. And then I was out of time. They stared at me hungrily, even the aloof Karen clearly desperate to know.

  “Okay, okay.” I took a deep breath. “I was dancing for him—”

  “Naked?” asked Jasmine.

  “What? No, not naked! Where did you get ‘naked’ from?”

  “I was just checking. I thought I might catch you out. So it’s really not a sex thing?”

  “No! He’s getting inspiration from me.”

  They both looked at me doubtfully.

  “What is he, again?” asked Karen. “A choreographer?”

  “No...”

  Karen frowned. “An artist? Is he painting you?”

  “No. He’s an engineer.”

  They both looked at each other. I sighed. “It all makes sense when you see the whiteboards. It’s about how I move in the air, and....” I trailed off. “Things.”

  “So...what is he actually building? A dancing robot?” Jasmine’s expression wasn’t cruel—she was genuinely trying to understand. But I didn’t have a good explanation to give her.

  “I don’t know.” I spread my arms wide. “But what does it matter? He’s inspired by me.”

  Jasmine looked as if she didn’t completely buy it, but she nodded. “Okay, so you were dancing for him...”

  “And I fell off the stage. And he caught me. And then he kissed me.”

  Both of them did a delighted little gasp. Karen actually put her hand to her heart. “That is so cute!” Jasmine told me.

  I beamed, the pride swelling up inside me. Jasmine clinked glasses with me.

  “Do you think he guessed?” she asked.

  “Guessed what?”

  “Guessed it was deliberate.”

  My jaw dropped open. “It wasn’t deliberate!”

  They exchanged glances. Then Jasmine asked, “You fell off the stage?”

  “Yes!”

  “Do you do that a lot?”

  “No, but...it was a new stage! He’d only just had it built—”

  “He built you a stage?” asked Karen, eyes wide.

  “I know. I wasn’t used to the size of it, and I was...distracted. I was thinking about him, and I went off the edge.”

  “So you actually fell and he caught you?” Jasmine blinked, astonished. “That’s...genuinely romantic. And klutzy of you.” She punched me on the arm. “Idiot. You’re lucky you didn’t break something. Tell us about the kiss.”

  “He caught me and held me in his arms and kissed me,” I said, all in a rush. “And then he sort of knelt,”—I leaned forward—“and we were down on the floor, him on top of me....” They both leaned in, so we were in a huddle. “And then...God, he had his hand on me—”

  “Where?” asked Karen, with surprising urgency.

  “My breast—”

  “Wait,” said Jasmine. “Is there sex? Because if there’s sex, I want popcorn.”

  “No, no sex.” I realized I was grinning. Actually grinning. Finding someone I connected with seemed so miraculous, and the whole thing felt so new and exciting, that I’d been scared that even talking about it would somehow end the spell and destroy the whole thing. Now that it was out in the open, that seemed ridiculous. I was glad I’d told them. “And that’s it. We’re going on a date on Monday.”

  “Is he paying you?” asked Jasmine.

  “No!”

  “Okay, so an actual date. Wow. Where?”

  “No idea. He’s going to call me.” And spontaneously, we did a ridiculously girly little squee of shared excitement. The coming week was going to be great.

  Chapter Twelve

  Darrell

  I was on my back, lying on a wheeled sleeper with the missile suspended a foot above me. I’d stripped down to a vest and an old pair of jeans while I drained the fuel and hydraulics, knowing I’d get covered in it. Sure enough, my hands were already blackly sticky with oil and from there it was transferring to my clothes. It didn’t help that I was using the front of my vest as a rag every time my hands got too slippery. I was probably going to have to bin everything I was wearing when I was done.

  It was Sunday, and I wanted to get as much done on the missile as I could, knowing I’d be taking Monday night off for my date with Natasha. Just the thought of it made me smile. I normally begrudged taking even a few minutes off to eat, but for her I’d have happily disappeared for a month.

  A buzzer sounded, telling me a car was at the gates. I cursed. If it was another salesman, I was going to go berserk.

  I slid out from under the missile and checked the gate camera. A convertible Aston Martin in racing green. Great. Just what I need. The gates were already opening—she had her own remote for them, and her own key for the house.

  It was only a few minutes before the elevator doors opened and I heard the harsh click-clack of her designer heels on the concrete. I was already back underneath the missile, which was probably rude. I didn’t care.

  “I see.” Her cut-glass British accent echoed around the huge space. “I travel thousands of miles to see you, and you don’t even greet me?”

  I kept working. “It’s only four hundred miles to Virginia. You didn’t come to see me, you came to check on the project, and shop. And I’m greeting you now. Hi.”

  I heard her shift papers around on my desk so that she could perch on the edge and knew, knew that she’d be taking a careful look at my screens at the same time. “Darrell! What a thing to say! Seeing you is always my top priority. The project’s completely unimportant.”

  I put my hands on the missile’s casing and gave myself a push. The sleeper, with me on it, rolled out and I came to a halt only a few feet from where she was sitting.

  Carol was wearing a very tight, very short gray skirt—, which I suspected was for my benefit—and a black turtleneck sweater. Her long dark hair lay in gleaming waves down her back. When we’d done our first deal, I’d hacked the Sabre Technologies personnel files to see who I was dealing with, and that was the only reason I knew she was now 38. She could have passed for five years younger—maybe more.

  “Are you looking up my skirt?” she asked, raising one eyebrow.

  I ignored that and stood up. The relationship we had was...complex. When I’d first met her, she’d been an up-and-coming research and development exec, eager to make her name, and I’d been a college kid with a killer design but no idea what to do with it. My success had fuelled her success, and although she was now head of R&D with about a hundred contractors to oversee, she was still focused on me, and how much money my next weapon was going to make her company.

  Nothing had ever happened, but in those first few months when I’d been going through hell, we’d got closer than we probably should. I probably could have made more money working with another company—Sabre was tiny compared to some of the better-known names in the industry—but the money wasn’t what drove me.

  I looked at the missile and she followed my gaze, then slid from the desk and came to stand behind me. She didn’t actually touch me, but she was close enough that I could smell her perfume.

  “Tell me. What will it do?”

  She knew I couldn’t resist talking about my work. With Carol, I knew there wouldn’t be any shock or outrage. She understood why I did it—she wanted me to make the most efficient killing machines possible.

  Sabre Technologies didn’t employ me, but they fed me projects—problems to solve. I didn’t accept any money from them in advance and they didn’t have to buy what I created. That was the way I wanted it: I put enough pressure on myself without having to work to a deadline. Of course, me being out
of their control made them edgy—hence the monthly visits from Carol.

  I walked around the missile. “When I finish the new system, it’ll be able to dodge incoming interceptors. Maybe go from a thirty or forty percent chance of reaching its target to an eighty or ninety percent chance.”

  Carol beamed at me. “Fewer missiles to do the same work.”

  I smiled coldly. “Or same number of missiles, but more cities destroyed.” I stopped abruptly. I’d meant it as a light-hearted comment, but I could feel my stomach clenching. That thought wouldn’t have bothered me a week ago. Why did it now?

  Carol cocked her head at my tone and looked questioningly at me, but I just brazened it out. Eventually she relented and looked towards the stage. “And what is that?”

  “That’s for Natasha.”

  She did a good job of looking thrilled for me. If I hadn’t known her so well, I would have bought it.

  “Natasha? Have you been taking time away from the project, you bad boy?”

  “No, actually. She’s a dancer. She’s been—” I knew she wouldn’t understand. “She inspires me.”

  “Oh!” Carol clapped her hands together. “A dancer! I see. Your own private club, right where you work. Doesn’t she need a pole, though?”

  “She’s a ballet dancer.” I could feel my jaw clenching. She knew exactly how to press my buttons.

  “Oh I see! She’s your muse! How very Da Vinci. Are you fucking her?”

  I’d gone back to working on the missile while we talked, and I dropped the spanner I was holding. “What? That’s—That’s none of your damn business!”

  “Oh. So yes, then. Do be careful, Darrell. The last thing I need is to be asking our lawyers to help you fight a paternity suit—”

  I’d picked up the spanner again, but now I hurled it across the room and heard it clang off the stage. “Goddamnit, Carol you’re not my mother!”

  She blinked at me. “Oh, my word. Are you in love with her?” She somehow managed to sound hurt, amused and patronizing all at the same time.

  I could feel myself bristling. I glared and said nothing.

  “I must meet her! Tell me, what’s the attraction?” She leaned closer and whispered theatrically. “Can she put her ankles behind her ears?”

  I took a threatening step towards her, but she just smiled sweetly. I knew I could never scare her: she knew the hold she had over me. I took a deep breath. “The missile will be ready in two weeks, maybe three. Until then...” I looked pointedly at the elevator.

  She stood so that the missile was between us and stroked it almost lovingly. “I’d love to leave you in peace. But unfortunately....”

  My heart sank. “What?”

  She bit her lip as if she dreaded telling me. I could tell she was cackling inside. “You’re wanted in Virginia.”

  “What? I can’t. Carol, I really can’t. I have to work on this.”

  “Take some extra time over it. We understand. You’ll only be away a week.”

  “A week?”

  “R&D show and tell. All the company bigwigs. Mucho important, darling, or I wouldn’t ask.”

  I shook my head. “Tell them no. Sorry, but no.”

  She gave an elaborate grimace. “Oh dear. And I already told them you’d come.”

  I went to hurl something across the room, but I’d already used the spanner. “Why?!”

  She pouted. “I did drive all the way from Virginia to pick you up. We can leave tomorrow morning.”

  I groaned. My date with Natasha was the next evening. I’d have to call her and delay it—for a whole week. “Is there any way at all I can get out of this?”

  She grinned and shook her head. “It’ll be fun. You and me, in the Aston, blasting down the highway....” She gave me her sad puppy eyes. “You wouldn’t...you wouldn’t want me to get into trouble, would you, Darrell?”

  I sighed. I hated her, but my whole career was tied to her. “Fine. Now please can I work?”

  “Well! I know where I’m not wanted! Do keep me updated, Darrell. I worry about you.” She came over and, before I could stop her, she was kissing me on the cheek, her lips cold and rubbery. I brushed my fingers along her hips and she gave a little gasp of delight, eyes shining, before she walked off to the elevator deliberately swinging her hips.

  I allowed myself a tiny smirk, watching not her ass but the twin sets of black, oily marks I’d just left on her skirt. And then I tried to figure out how I was going to tell Natasha.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Natasha

  It was one of those lazy summer days when time seems to run like treacle. Clarissa and I were sprawled on a bench with the sound of Vivaldi wafting over us and as the sun baked my upturned face, I replayed my kisses with Darrell. Had the first one been better, or the second one, after I’d fallen off the stage? I smiled contentedly and decided I needed to rerun them a few more times to be sure.

  We were in Central Park, sitting with Karen and the rest of her string quartet as they played for passers-by. It was a weekly event for them, a charity thing. I secretly suspected that the only reason Karen did it was because it let her play while satisfying her friends that she was doing something semi-social.

  The sun and the music meant there was no need to chatter—we could both just sit there with our thoughts, and that was exactly what I needed. I—reluctantly—moved on from the memory of the kisses. He’d said he liked me—a lot—and I sure as hell liked him. More than that, maybe. It felt a lot like I was starting to fall for him. Funny how we say that, but it feels like the exact opposite, like I was being filled with helium and rising up like a balloon every time I thought of him. I was excited, too, filled with a kind of giddy energy whenever I thought of our date the next day. I’m drunk on him, I thought, and grinned.

  But it was too early to be feeling like that. Wasn’t it?

  I’d never known anyone quite like him. His drive was staggering—okay, so there were some signs that maybe he spent a little too much time down in that workshop, but I was in awe of his ability to just focus on something so determinedly until it was done. The guys I’d dated in the past looked aimless by comparison.

  The quartet finished the Vivaldi to a smattering of polite applause and immediately moved onto Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. I always liked that piece, and this close to the instruments it had the same effect as cranking your music up on your headphones: life felt like a movie. When the flamboyant final movement began, combined with my mood, it made me want to—

  “We should dance,” I said suddenly.

  “We already do. Where have you been for, like, a decade and a half?”

  “No: right now. We should dance.”

  Clarissa turned and stared at me. “Here? You want to dance here, in front of....”—she looked at the passers-by—“the masses?”

  I nodded. I was grinning. I couldn’t stop grinning.

  “You get nervous even when it’s people you know—” she started.

  “I’m doing it,” I told her, and got up.

  “You’re in sneakers!”

  I ignored her. I couldn’t help myself, and I mean that seriously. The sun and the music and being there with my friend all conspired to make the day feel magical. Ballet dancing in the middle of Central Park just felt like the sort of thing I should do. And I knew the catalyst for all of it was underground, toiling away even on a weekend, biceps bulging as he lifted one of those big hunks of metal, blue eyes focused on some detail of his work. I thought of the way it felt when they focused on me, and went weak inside.

  And then I was moving as if in a dream. Two light steps onto the path and then a turn, awkward in my sneakers, but doable. I had loose, soft combat trousers on because I hadn’t wanted my legs to fry, and a Fenbrook t-shirt—almost street dancing gear.

  I didn’t really think about what I was doing, letting the music carry me. Arms up, turn, into a pas de chat. Dancing in sneakers was like trying to drive a car in rain boots, but it didn’t stop it being f
un. I turned and leaned into a penchée, one leg up in the air, and was vaguely aware of people watching, moving outwards to give me space. I moved back towards the bench and suddenly Clarissa was there next to me, gliding past me as we swapped sides. We exchanged smiles as we passed and she gave me a little shake of the head, as if to say what have you gotten me into?

  I jumped up onto the bench and went into first arabesque and then into a promenade, pivoting in little movements like a ballerina in a music box. Clarissa was doing the same thing and for a second we were perfectly in sync. There was applause as the piece came to an end. We stood there grinning at each other, holding the position as a few people took photos. When we finally jumped down, Clarissa came straight over to me. “You and your billionaire—you’ve—”

  “Don’t say it!” I said quickly.

  “You’re in—”

  “Don’t! I’m not. I don’t think I am. Maybe I am.” I could feel myself blushing. “I really like him.”

  Karen came over. “You should do that more often,” she told us, holding up the top hat they used for collecting the money. “We doubled the take on that one piece.”

  We were debating where to go for coffee when my phone rang.

  * * * *

  I hung up and stared at the ground. It was no big deal, I told myself. He was going to call me from Virginia. We’d have our date the next week, when he got back. He hadn’t sounded like he was doing it lightly—he’d sounded genuinely sorry, in fact.

  I wasn’t panicking, didn’t feel like I was sliding out of control, but I was frustrated. Just when things were going so well!

  I was suddenly angry with myself. I was letting myself get in far too deep, too fast. He probably didn’t even feel the same way. I mean, he’d said he liked me, but that wasn’t the same as how I felt—or maybe felt. Some time apart would stop things moving too fast. It was probably a good thing.