by Kim Loraine
Bugger.
Fuck.
No.
I can’t want her. Ryder would have me executed if he knew the things I’ve been fantasizing about with Alina. I clear my throat and her shoulders stiffen. She grins and tosses her long hair over one shoulder as she grabs a robe off a hanger and slips the silk over her shoulders.
“Like what you saw?” she asks.
“I didn’t see anything.”
“Liar.”
“I think it best if you close that robe and I settle myself outside your door until we get the all clear.”
She shakes her head. “I’ve got you all to myself, why would I let you go now?”
She stalks across the floor, the swell of her breasts enticing from the deep cut of the robe. “I…” I start, swallowing past the lump in my throat.
“Come on, Kingston. Have a little fun with me?”
God, I want to. What I wouldn’t give to be able to worship her body like the temple it is without any repercussions.
I reach out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, but the phone in my pocket rings, jolting us both apart as though we were caught doing something wrong.
“Hello?” I say into the device that was either an instrument of my torture or my saving grace.
“All clear, Kingston,” Clark’s voice says over the line.
I hang up without responding and tuck the slim phone back into my pocket. “I should go,” I tell Alina, sidestepping her and heading for the door.
“Your loss, Lord Haverford.”
After leaving the room, I rake a hand through my hair and sigh. My loss, indeed.
The Virgin’s Forbidden Lord
Sneak Peek
The Virgin’s Fake Fiance
Nothing’s better than a hot British guy…especially if he’s just asked you to be his fake fiancé.
The Virgins Series
The Virgin’s Fake Fiancé
Chapter 1
Charity
The driver pulls up to the hotel, and, I swear to God, my chest feels like it's going to explode with anxiety. Instead of getting out, I sit in the town car— the scent of stale cigarette smoke and leather seats making me mildly nauseous.
"Hey, lady. We're here. You can sit there all you want, but you gotta pay for it." My driver's strong New York accent reminds me I'm not in Montana anymore.
"Sorry," I mutter, rifling through my purse until I find my wallet. I grab a twenty and hand it to him, but he raises an eyebrow.
"I'm not a taxi driver. It's fifty from the airport."
Panic lances my chest. Fifty? I should've just taken a taxi. In a rush of anxiety, I start digging around in my bag, searching for more money. I know I have it, but there's nothing in my wallet.
"Come on, lady." He's annoyed, and I'm rushing.
"Hold this," I say, handing him my wallet and searching deeper in the handbag. Then I remember my suitcase in the back. I'd tucked an extra hundred in the secret inside pocket because I don't like to have all my cash in one place. "Can you make change? I have more cash in my bag."
He nods, and I get out of the car, making my way to the trunk to grab my suitcase. But the driver pulls back into traffic faster than I can holler, "Hey! Wait!"
I run after him, hoping he'll see me and slow down, but it's no use. He's lost in a sea of cars and busses, and it's all I can do to keep from screaming in frustration. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to calm down. I fight back the hot tears burning my eyes. I will not burst into hysterics on the streets of Manhattan.
It's not the end of the world. I can call the car company. Tell them what happened. Tell them the guy stole my suitcase. Panic rises again, but I push it down. No. It's going to be fine. I'm sure the guy will return my bag. What I need now is a shower to wash away this day.
The hotel lobby is bright and clean, with high ceilings and marble floors. Swanky is the word my dad would have used. He was a cowboy, through and through, and he never understood why I wanted to be in the city so badly. It's everything I love. The hum of life, people rushing from place to place, tourists exploring with excited expressions, movies and television shows being filmed. There's always something happening here. Montana is peaceful and slow. Perfect for some—not me. But that doesn't mean I get to stay here. I've got a dying farm waiting for me when I get back. Until then, I'm going to enjoy my time in the city.
"Welcome to The Stanton Hotel," the concierge says as I approach the desk. "Do you have a reservation?"
I smile, brushing my hair away from my face. I must look like a hot mess after chasing down the car. "I do. Charity Baker."
He offers me a patronizing smile and starts typing. "I'll need a photo ID and a credit card."
My hand goes to my purse immediately, digging through the large bag in search of my wallet. "One second, sorry. I just had it in the car."
I continue searching. Why do I have such an enormous handbag? Anxiety creeps up my spine when I still haven't found the candy pink Kate Spade wallet I'd bought myself three seasons ago as a graduation gift. I plop my bag on the counter, and the concierge frowns. "It's here somewhere." I laugh nervously and remember my utter stupidity in the car. I handed the guy my wallet. I handed him my wallet and as good as asked him to rob me. I'd been so concerned about my suitcase I forgot he had my wallet in his hand.
He doesn't look sympathetic. "Miss. I can't check you in without identification and a major credit card."
Oh, God. I think I'm going to cry. This guy doesn't look like the type who cares. Crying won't help my case. "I…the driver stole my wallet and suitcase. I don't…" My stupid voice wobbles with every word.
"Charlie, what's all this then?" A deep, masculine voice fills my ears, his posh English accent covering me like a warm blanket.
"Oh, Mr. Harper. Everything's fine. This young lady doesn't have her ID. I was just explaining that we can't—"
"What's your name, love?" Mr. Harper asks. He turns his gaze on me, deep blue eyes penetrating the last of my resolve. The man is gorgeous. He's probably in his early thirties, tall, built, with a chiseled jaw that would rival Superman.
"Wow," I whisper before I can stop myself.
His eyebrows rise, and a smile spreads his kissable mouth. "Pardon?"
Pulling it together, I clear my throat. "Charity. My name is Charity Baker, and I've had a reservation for months. My driver took my stuff. God, I was such an idiot to be so trusting. He drove off as soon as I got out."
"I see." He stares at me, that smile still present, but there's heat in his gaze. "Charlie, please check Miss Baker in. I'll cover her until she's able to retrieve her wallet. Charity, do you have the license plate number of the car? The company name?"
I frown, trying to recall. "Blue Star Town Cars. That was the name on his dashboard. I don't remember the plate number."
"We'll find their number."
To my surprise, Charlie nods and starts typing. In moments, he's handing me my plastic key card and telling me he hopes I enjoy my stay. Relief hits me as soon as I turn away from the desk. "Thank you," I say to my rescuer. "That was really nice of you."
"My pleasure. There are a few perks to owning a hotel. This is one of them."
"You're the owner?" My shock is clear in my tone.
He nods. "Lincoln Harper, but you can call me Linc." He puts his hand on the small of my back, and I nearly melt on the spot. "Now, Miss Baker, allow me to escort you to your room."
"Oh, I'm sure I can find it on my own." I don't know why I'm protesting. This handsome British guy basically rode in like a knight on a white horse and saved me. He's my prince charming. I should welcome every minute I have with him.
"Ah, but I think I'd like to get to know you a little. Since I'm letting you stay here on faith." He grins as we step into the elevator. "How long will you be staying with us?"
"A week. I'm here for a reunion tomorrow. But I'm staying longer so I can spend some time in the city without a bunch of stuff to do."
His eyes
burn into mine. "And you came alone?"
I shrug and look away. "I used to live here. I'm not afraid of the city." Then I think of the car and my missing bag. "But I guess I'm a little out of practice. I lost my wallet and my suitcase in one fell swoop. It's bad enough I'm going to my sorority reunion without a boyfriend, but I'll have to go dressed in yoga pants and a tank top. All I have is a failing farm in Montana that I don't want and a degree I can't use."
Stop rambling, I tell myself. I'm going to scare British Superman away. His hand rises, and he brushes a stray tear from my cheek. There's tenderness in his gaze.
"Charity, I think we can help each other. I have a proposition for you."
The Virgin’s Fake Fiancé