by Libby Rice
Can they love right on the redo?
Scarlet Leore enjoys a glittering existence amongst society’s elite. Ethan Blake is a prizefighter knocking his way through school, counting on his winnings to bankroll the dreams that won’t fit in a boxing ring. When the two meet, neither can deny the instant attraction that wells between the hulking fighter and the heiress who is miles and millions out of his league. But a vicious attack leaves Scarlet physically and emotionally battered, and for Ethan, her allure crumbles along with the rest of his life after she accuses him of wielding the knife.
Years later, Scarlet has abandoned the high life for that of a hard-working lawyer, while Ethan has clawed his way to the pinnacle of a business empire. Drawn into his world of high-stakes tech mergers, they dance to a tune of revenge, desire, and finally, redemption. But their world won’t tolerate an attorney falling for her client. They’ll need more than lust and forgiveness. They must bridge the chasm of a tormented past to understand who they are today. Only then can they forge a future in the face of the resurging enemy who once tore them apart.
Dedication
For Tom, who made it possible for me to write. In that, you gave me everything.
Table of Contents
Blurb
Dedication
Table of Contents
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
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Thank you!
Art-Crossed Love: Excerpt
Acknowledgments
Copyright
The course of true love never did run smooth.
William Shakespeare
Chapter 1
December—New York City
The tunneling entrance of the club opened to a packed arena and a blinding wall of light. Blood, sweat, and testosterone hung heavy in the stale air, shrouding two roped-off contenders in an invisible layer of menace. The fight had started.
Scarlet tracked the boxers with an untrained, but keen, eye. In the midst of sinking to her space on the scarred aluminum bleacher, she stopped, arrested by what she saw in the ring two rows down.
One man had blond hair, the other black, a color so dark it gleamed with a bluish tint under the fluorescent glare. The blond certainly deserved his heavyweight distinction, but next to the darker brute, his pale limbs appeared almost fine-boned. The striking contrasts didn’t end there. Both men pummeled each other without reserve, yet the dark-haired fighter struck with less desperation, more calculation. From the other, she sensed a tendency to throw out every move in his repertoire, one after the other, until a fist connected.
“Utkatasana?” The question arrived with butchered pronunciation and a low chuckle that dragged Scarlet from her slack-jawed musings. She and Lissa had come to the fight to ogle her friend’s new interest. From Lissa’s description—“tall, dark, and rough”—Scarlet knew exactly who the man was, and she certainly couldn’t fault Lissa’s taste.
“As a matter of fact,” Scarlet said, looking left to catch Lissa’s smirk. “I always drop a quick chair pose before a boxing match. All the cool kids do.”
Except she’d never been to a boxing match and was pretty sure that other than Lissa, none of the Harry-Winston-wearing, charity-hosting socialites she knew would be caught dead in a dingy fight club in Brooklyn, perfect yoga form or not. Tennis was more their style. Especially when played quietly and accompanied by one of those announcers who screamed in a whisper.
Their loss. Or so she told herself. In truth, she didn’t think those women found the confines of wealth lonely or isolating, whereas she fit in at the top about as well as she did here, where men fanned money in the air, taking impromptu bets on the violence unfolding for their entertainment, while Scarlet tried to casually blend into her seat.
“Where’d you meet him?” Scarlet thrust her chin at the dark-haired Adonis who now danced beyond his opponent’s reach. With each movement, the muscles of his arms and torso flexed and relaxed with the fluidity of an evening tide, dark eyes burning with quiet determination. At least it would be a short fight.
“Not him,” Lissa replied with a dismissive clip, ducking to rummage through her purse. “I met mine in sculpture class.” She glanced up. “Looks like I should ask yours to model.”
Scarlet got stuck on “Not him.” As in, not hers and possibly available. She wouldn’t be violating the cardinal rule of girlfriend-hood if she hunted the soon-to-be winner down after the fight and proposed. The radical thought stuck in her chest, pushing her heartbeat from a semi-manageable trot to a full-scale gallop.
Lissa shot her a fascinated look. “Re-heely, stop licking your lips. He’s not a snack.”
“No.” Scarlet coughed into a fist, letting herself smile. “I’ll be his.” Already gleaming with sweat, dark head bent low, the man was delicious, the perfect spice for a stifled life if she dare reach high.
“Touché,” Lissa answered with a wide grin. Then, bold as she pleased, Lissa reached out and tugged at the square bodice of Scarlet’s dress. Scarlet jerked back, but the material inched downward under Lissa’s tenacious attention, revealing a flash of flesh.
Squirming away, Scarlet yelped, “What are you doing?” And batted at Lissa’s questing fingers, wrestling for control over the thick brocade bodice.
Lissa shrugged. “We want He-Man’s focus to shift right”—light taps pegged the apex of Scarlet’s cleavage—“here.”
Heat crawled from Scarlet’s hairline downward. “No, we really don’t.” With a final wrench, she righted the dress and turned back to the fight. One look told her she hadn’t been the only one distracted by the skirmish. An aggressive gaze had swiveled her direction from inside the ring. She’d known his eyes would be dark, but like his hair, they were black, chips of midnight that examined her with the same single-minded calculation he used to size up his opponent in the ring. Before she could muster even a faint nod in acknowledgment, his thickly fringed lids dipped, then jerked toward his shoulder with the rest of his head, absorbing what looked to be a killer blow to the jaw.
Of course Lissa didn’t miss the exchange. “You alone in that apartment tonight?” She slid Scarlet a sly look, wetting her lips.
Scarlet’s stomach dropped in quick, clenching rebellion, whether from Lissa’s question or the lost glance, she couldn’t say. “Just me, Liss.” Her words sounded overly bright to her own ears. She’d spoken to her father once since arriving from Stanford for the winter break. A hundred bucks said Tripp Leore wouldn’t venture within a thousand miles of New York City for the holidays, leaving her the sole inhabitant of six-thousand square feet of Manhattan high-rise.
Alone put it mildly.
Feeling the need to justify her answer, to seem a tad less pathetic, Scarlet added, “But Dad left a present.” A one-sentence note on the counter had announced the car waiting in her underground parking space. Maserati. Red. Hers. The typed narrative had conveyed the gist, everything except, maybe, “Merry Christmas.”
Each year brought a gift more extravagant than the one before it. Beginning w
ith a Russian sable jacket the December her mother had died, and continuing every holiday since, the presents had proven costly, yet impersonal, luxury items to be paid for by her father, but selected by an assistant. One Christmas without her dad had turned to two, then five, now ten. Time had morphed from longing for his presence into anger over his absence and, finally, into acceptance of the status quo. These days, Scarlet took the presents and tried to enjoy them, never confusing money for love.
The arena erupted around them, and Scarlet jumped up to see her future husband power drive a right hook into his opponent’s jaw. The man wobbled on his feet before sliding slowly to his knees and face planting on the canvas.
The referee’s hands hurtled skyward. “Knockout!” He grabbed Husband’s wrist for a victory revolution, giving the crowd its frenzied fill.
Scarlet remained standing when her man ducked under the ropes, escaping without a backward glance. She wiggled her fingers, but plastered damp palms against her thighs, refusing to reach for his retreating form. A familiar glow settled in her chest, then spread upward. Want. Different than the trivial, acquisitive desires she’d been exposed to for most of her life—for a trip, a trinket, a haute-couture gown. The low burn spoke of what she actually needed—affection, closeness, passion. All the things she’d been taught never to demand.
An optimistic smile tugged at the edges of her lips. Scarlet had found her sport.
******
Ethan folded himself onto an indoor picnic bench in a dive Mexican place in none other than Little Italy. He sat on prize money for the rent, and across from a stunning blonde for pure pleasure. His post-fight mood had been light, and he’d been persuaded to join a couple other boxers heading into Manhattan with two beautiful, and apparently rich, coeds.
The aroma of seared onions and green chili wafted from the kitchen, and his growling stomach balked at the wait for a plate of cholesterol. Patience came easy, though, with the unbeatable scenery. He let his gaze track lazily across the table. A bit of frippery? Yes, but Scarlet Leore dazzled all the same.
“Where’d you learn to fight?” she asked.
Ethan heard the question but decided it was likely directed at someone else.
“Ethan, right?”
Nope. She definitely spoke to him.
“Chicago.” He swallowed a mouthful of Corona. Eight hundred miles stretched between him and home. Not nearly enough.
Scarlet drummed her hands against the table and then pointed at him in a clear invitation to elaborate. When he didn’t, she dug in. “Did you box in school?”
Tenacious little thing. Ethan habitually avoided questions about the life he was in the process of leaving behind, but he was equally uneager to see her turn that gorgeous face to the guy sitting to her left. So he improvised. “Still in school.” A skinny wallet had dictated a late educational start. “And no, not at Kingsborough. Community colleges don’t generally have boxing programs, Empress.” He’d never been the Columbia type.
She grinned, momentarily sidetracked. “Empress?”
“I figure you blew past princess around the third grade.” The dress, the flawless hair and makeup, the car she’d been lucky to park outside—and would be even luckier to retrieve in one piece—all of it pointed to a life as someone’s queen. She made him wish he could afford the upkeep.
“I think you might be right,” she conceded with a conspiratorial wink. “So where’d you learn?”
He surprised himself with an honest answer. “At home.” Not knowing how to say more without saying too much, he bit his tongue, refusing to add, “On the blood-stained carpet under my mom’s old couch.”
Unfazed, Scarlet waited patiently, calm and expectant, obviously ready for an uplifting tale. The story didn’t go that way.
“My dad was a hitter.” He dropped the bomb casually. Her expression remained passive, but her shoulders hitched a fraction closer her ears.
Gripping the table, he stretched through the length of his arms. “I learned to hit back.” He owed much of that journey to an inner-city boxing club. Other aspects of his training could be called… freelance.
Sudden irritation spiked at what his Barbie of a dinner companion had coaxed him to reveal. He let his eyes roam from the top of her shining head to her well-displayed breasts and back again. She exuded old-school sex. The costly vintage dress and outrageous jewels conjured up images of the glamorous pinup girls of a bygone era. Women didn’t look like her anymore. Too many dieted down to nothing before purchasing globular breasts of the manmade variety. She appeared to be a utopia of au natural. And he liked it.
Her back shot straight, and she reached behind her. In a blink, a black cardigan covered her assets.
His stomach, already grasping, clenched at the loss. “Think a woman like you would like a street fight, where the loser bleeds in the gutter until he gets up and drags himself home?”
She stiffened despite the cheerful conversations buzzing around them, and her once-coaxing voice dropped in open challenge. “A woman like me?”
Flawless. “Rich. Spoiled.” He took another long pull from his beer. “Ever seen a street fight, Empress? If you do, nix the earrings.”
Her flirtatious smile faded, replaced with a wary look. One hand rose to skim nervously over a huge diamond stud flashing at her ear. She looked to have an idea about where he might take the conversation, and she wasn’t willing to go along. But she surprised him when she said breezily, “Quite the tough guy, huh? A fighter out of necessity and all that? Never had a thing handed to you and resent people who did?”
His eyes narrowed. Few people mocked him. And Scarlet had recently seen him beat a man unconscious for money. Her words stung, a little because of the sheen of disdain that threaded through the thinly-veiled joke, but mostly because she was right. Well, well…
She ignored his look and went on. “I suppose that makes you smarter, more worthy than someone like me? Because I was born wealthy, I’m stupid? Lazy? Dangerous in some way?”
No, he thought, obviously not stupid. And her brand of head-to-toe perfection couldn’t be lazy. But dangerous put it mildly.
Already fascinated, it only got better as she decided to give him a run for the money he didn’t have. She stretched languidly and pulled the cardigan off her shoulders. Then she leaned forward—far forward—over the table. Her golden eyes were a couple shades darker than her hair, and she smelled like anything but onions and green chili.
“Tell me,” she whispered, heat simmering in her appraising gaze. “Other than being poor and able to hit really, really hard, why are you so special?”
Ethan stared back. The answer was simple. He excelled at doing a lot of things really hard.
Scarlet’s taunt had ended just as their food arrived. Before they could be interrupted, Ethan leaned in to meet her. She didn’t pull back, and his lips brushed her diamond earring when he said softly, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Scarlet”—her friend slid a margarita between them—“Su amiga no get carded.”
Scarlet. He liked hearing the name said aloud, a siren’s name as tempting as the rest of her. Except for that smart mouth…
The thought died when he decided her mouth tantalized, too. She ate leisurely, with a sensual ease he supposed all rich kids were taught. Forget the burrito, he wanted to see her suck oysters straight from the shell, then lick an ice cream cone drizzled with strawberry sauce.
The way people ate said a lot about their nature. This rich man’s daughter wasn’t cold.
And that was pre-dessert. When she sucked the sopaipilla sugar from the tips of her fingers, he scrubbed his face, threw a twenty to the table, and extended his palm in her direction.
“Let me take you home.”
******
Scarlet eyed him in speculation. “What kind of ‘take me home’ are we talking?”
“The multiple choice kind. You get whatever you want.”
Intriguing. He didn’t seem the type to rush, let alone
into a woman he held in mild contempt. An empress like her.
Yet she slid her hand into his grip, a compulsion to get close overriding any doubts. Perhaps she felt compelled to play reckless. Or maybe she was driven to place herself in the hands of a man who offered her something of value.
Like time.
They rose from the table, his thumb discretely circling her palm. Wisps of heat trailed upward, at once arousing and endearing. She ought to pull back for at least appearance’s sake. But she didn’t. Instead, she let him lead her away from the sanity, or at least the safety, of her friends. On the street, they headed straight for the Maserati. Two hours ago, the car had been nothing but a reminder of emotional distance. Now it seemed thrilling as all hell.
The ride was smooth and quiet. Ethan slid behind the wheel, revved the engine, and glided into the night. A complete chameleon, he looked and acted like he slipped into the extraordinary every day.
Parked in her underground space, he leaned across her seat and pulled the passenger handle. On withdrawal, his shoulder grazed her chest. He didn’t acknowledge the subtle caress, so she kept quiet, resisting the urge to arch forward in search of an actual grope.
Swinging one leg from the car, she twisted back. “The earrings were my mother’s.” They were a living memory she rarely left home without.
Ethan had already unfolded himself from the car. At her words, he dropped to a crouch, meeting her gaze across the seats.
She lifted a hand to tug a stone. “They’re talismans for luck. For strength.” For the ability to enjoy life and spread warmth like her mother had. When he didn’t respond, she rolled her head back to examine the ceiling. “You said to lose them if I ever see a street fight.”