Twenty Times Tempted: A Sexy Contemporary Romance Collection

by Petrova, Em

  Blinking hard to clear his vision, he got to his feet and took the final will into his hands. Walking to the edge of the lake, he bent over, and placed the will into the water. He stood back and watched the gentle motion of the water obliterate the writing and slowly carry the pages away.

  A complete sense of peace settled within. No more questions and no more doubts. He needed to be home with the woman he loved.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Josselyn tried to distract herself from the morning’s events with a cool shower. Afterward, she split her time pacing the living room carpet, and looking out the window hoping to see Ben’s Corvette pull up to the front of the house. The morning was oppressively hot, and sweat gathered at the nape of her neck while her stomach continued to churn.

  She was torn between letting Ben have space to process what happened earlier and going to him. She knew where he was, his favorite place in the world—the lake. She told him she would always be beside him, holding his hand through the good times, as well as the bad.

  He was deeply shaken, as she was, by the unexpected visit from the lawyer with the true will. Although everything seemed so settled in regard to the house, to discover Morgan had in the end, still chose to leave the house to her instead of him devastated him. Although she loved Morgan and understood why he went about fooling them with the two wills, a part of her desperately wished the third will had never surfaced.

  In an instant, everything seemed so clear. Of course she needed to be with the man she loved. She grabbed her car keys and headed out the door.

  The few miles to the lake didn’t take long to travel. As she parked her car, she saw him in the distance. Quickly, she sprinted towards him, her heart racing in her chest. Finally, she vaulted herself into his arms, their lips meeting.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked as his arms encircled her and pulled her against him.

  “I told you I would always be here for you know matter what. You don’t have to face anything alone anymore.”

  “I love you for that, Josselyn, but I had to make my final peace with my dad, and let everything go. Now that’s done. I was on my way home to you.”

  Serenity in his blue eyes and calmness in his countenance told her he was finally at peace. In turn, it filled her with an incredible sense of well-being.

  “So, that’s our new home.” She laid her head against his chest, and took in the sight of the little cottage at the lakeside. She could imagine the place becoming their home, a home tailor-made for their family.

  “I can’t ask you to move here simply to suit me. I know you love the house on Little Pine Road. Like you said it brought us together.”

  She lifted her head and smiled at him as she caressed his cheek with her fingertips. “No, I love you, and it wasn’t the house that brought us together. Your father brought us together. He gave us the greatest gift of all—each other. I couldn’t wish for anything more.”

  THE END

  Natalie’s passions in life include books and hockey along with Victorian and Edwardian era photography, Frozen Charlotte dolls, and antique poison bottles. Natalie contributes her uncharacteristic love of hockey to being born in Russia.

  She currently resides in the UK where she is working on her next book and adding to her collection of 19th century post-mortem photos.

  Visit Natalie online at www.natalienicolebates.com

  PLAYING WITH FIRE

  Gemma Brocato

  Dedication

  For Corinne DeMaagd

  Acknowledgements

  Without help from many quarters, this book might never have happened. My family: my publicity-shy husband, whom I affectionately call Mr. Gemma, and my two children, Erin and Andrew. You support me and cheer me on and remind me of the good that happens

  when you share a great love.

  My editor, Corinne DeMaagd, whose patience and mentoring as we worked on this story certainly qualifies her for sainthood.

  Special thanks to Mary Kay Thompson, Amy Lee Burgess, Goldie Edwards, and Amy Barber. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your turning your eagle eyes on this manuscript.

  The KickAss Chicks and my Sassy sisters, you are all strong, inspiring authors. I want to be just like you when I grow up.

  Chapter One

  Sarah Willis fought the urge to jump out of her chair, race-walk to the door, and punch the lock button. The cap of her pen was on repeat mode, clicking softly as she popped it on, then off...on...off. Sharp anxiety dried her mouth and wrenched her gut until it resembled one of those twisty nail puzzles that were supposed to take nineteen seconds to solve. She was about to undertake her least favorite aspect of her job—disciplining a student.

  Ordinarily, she loved what she did and thrived on being busy. As an assistant principal at Granite Pointe’s only high school, her responsibilities revolved around working closely with staff, faculty, and students as a mentor, counselor, and advisor. She also dedicated a portion of her time to making sure all the working parts of the building and grounds ran smoothly. Even though she didn’t enjoy the maintenance aspects as much, she would gladly spend every second of the next thirty minutes in the hot-as-Hades boiler room rather than the confrontation awaiting her on the other side of her door.

  The scene outside the window of her fishbowl office was proof she was doing her job correctly. The school admin assistant, Ann Walters, stood at the new mega-function copier monitoring the reproduction of worksheets. So far, Ann had been the only one capable of figuring the wonders of the new gadget. The low hum of the machine drowned out what the secretary, Molly Malloy, was saying to whomever she talked with on the phone. Perhaps contacting the parents of an absent child. More likely she was calling the father of the stony-faced student slouched in the visitor chair on the other side of the central counter.

  The boy made eye contact with Sarah when she looked his direction. His expression held an unmistakable sneer, lips curled, eyes squinted. He’d crossed his arms protectively over his chest. The rhythm of the barely audible clicks of her pen cap escalated as she worked to keep her own nervousness from her face.

  She dragged her gaze to the file on her desk that held the critical details about the surly kid. The idea of confronting him tightened the knot in her stomach while the motion of pen and cap reached fever pitch. Huffing out a breath, she set the marker aside.

  Crispin “Kit” Bayfield, age sixteen, who’d enrolled in school upon relocating to town six weeks ago. She’d been away at a conference the week he’d registered so Ann had handled the details. Sarah drummed her fingers on the edge of the page as she read. Single parent home. Contact details for a father and a copy of a custodial parent agreement. Mom lived in New Mexico, but she didn’t have many rights where Kit was concerned. A bit unusual. She wondered what the kid’s home life was like.

  And today, the boy had been sent to her for mouthing off to the art teacher in front of the entire class.

  She closed the file, rested her palms on the desk, and pushed out of the chair. Another quick glance out the window revealed Kit’s shoulders scrunched up around his ears. She rounded the corner of her desk and walked toward the open door.

  Molly dropped the handset into the cradle as Sarah stepped into the front office.

  “Have you talked to his parent?” Sarah asked, her voice low, knowing the boy was attuned to the conversation.

  “Not yet. I had to leave a message. Mr. Bayfield was in a meeting.”

  Most parents took a call from their kid’s school, regardless of their availability. Irritation curled over her shoulders like a snake. The dad’s priorities seemed a little mixed up. She motioned for the surly teen to join her in her office. “Kit, come in please.”

  The youth grunted as he stood and shuffled forward, as if his feet were made of steel and the floor was a magnet. Or maybe he was simply attempting to keep the unlaced, high-top sneakers on his feet. The bottom of his ripped jeans puddled around his ankles, and the waistband rode low on his narrow hips, re
vealing a good two inches of his plaid boxers.

  His graphic T-shirt featured the logo for some alternative band, promoting—aw, good Christ—the Hooter’s Tour. Just flipping grand. In addition to confronting the kid about his sucky attitude with a teacher, she was going to have to speak to him about violating the dress code policy.

  She passed him on the way to her chair behind the oversize desk. She swiveled it and sat. Pulling the folder closer, she nodded at Kit. “Have a seat.”

  The wait for him to comply seemed an eternity but lasted less than five seconds. Kit dropped onto the hard wooden chair and promptly slumped until he rested on his lower spine, gangly legs sprawled, elbows tight to his sides as he once again crossed his arms over his chest.

  He tipped his chin up and regarded her through narrowed eyes. A cocky, arrogant façade. The only indication he was nervous came from the darting of his silvery green eyes and the rapid rise and fall of his chest. “What did I do this time?” His speech came in a sharp, staccato fashion.

  This time. That by itself was telling. “Ms. Beatrice came by after fourth period to report you’d yelled at her and used vulgar language in her class.”

  “I didn’t yell. I simply pointed out in a somewhat strident voice that she didn’t know shit about street art.”

  He had a rather large vocabulary and a valid point. Sandra Beatrice wasn’t much of an art teacher. Her specialty was museum administration. Sarah wasn’t sure why she’d been hired to teach art, but in the six years Sarah had been at GPHS, Sandra had never been a good fit. Regardless, she was the authority figure in the classroom. Insolence couldn’t be tolerated. “Language, Kit. You can’t swear at a teacher. And you most certainly can’t challenge a teacher when they’re giving a lesson. It’s disrespectful.”

  “Dude, she kept calling Shepherd Fairey’s work graffiti. The man is a freaking genius with design, but she talked like he should go to prison for defacing public property. That’s crazy. His shit is complex and layered and always has a message. Ms. Beatrice doesn’t know a mural from a paste up from straight-up graffiti. I was just attempting to set the bitch straight.” He pressed his lips into a thin line after his outburst. The student clearly knew more about artistic expression than the teacher.

  “I won’t warn you again, Kit. Do not use that kind of language.” She flipped over the complaint Sandra had scratched out during her visit and studied the next form. “This is the third time you’ve been sent to my office. You’ve only been in school six weeks, and one of those weeks was fall break.”

  His lips curled in a snarky smile. “Must be some kind of record. Do I get a prize?”

  The little peckerhead thought this was a game show? Now came the part she hated. “Yes, you do. You’ve won a three-day trip to in-school suspension. You’ve also won the right to submit a fifteen-hundred word essay about the value of respect in a classroom setting and a formal letter of apology to Ms. Beatrice.” He opened his mouth to protest, but stopped when she held up her hand. “You’ve also won an all-expenses-paid conference with me and your parent.”

  He slouched farther and white-knuckled the seat of his chair. “You don’t have to call my dad.” Kit’s voice quavered almost imperceptibly.

  The kid was afraid of his dad. Her teacher alarm rang like church bells in her ears. She studied him, but Kit kept his eyes trained to the side, as if avoiding her gaze would negate the complaint against him. No visible fading bruises, but who knew what was beneath his clothing?

  Without a thought, she swiped her Sharpie marker off the desk, lowered her hand to her lap, and started the soothing exercise of flipping the cap on and off. Pop...click...pop.

  She was distracted by the sight of two teachers entering the office. Mary Sherman, the English instructor, gestured wildly at Stuart Ashton, the music director. She’d seen them bickering earlier in the day, and it surprised her to see them still at it. Stuart threw his hand in the air and scuttled away toward the teacher’s lounge. Mary dogged his footsteps, still gesticulating at the man’s retreating back. The door to the lounge banged shut, the sharp crack audible in Sarah’s private office.

  She stopped her eye roll before Kit could see and returned her attention to the miscreant student in front of her. “It’s already been done. Your father should be on his way in now. You may take a seat in the front office until he arrives.”

  “Dammit,” Kit uttered under his breath, just loud enough for Sarah to hear.

  “Kit,” she gentled her voice. She had to ask the sensitive question as a first step toward ensuring the student’s safety. “Are you afraid of your dad?”

  “What? No! Wait, you think he’d hurt me? You couldn’t be further from the truth. My dad would never hurt another human being.” He squeezed his eyes shut, as if punishment from his dad would be a billion times worse than anything Sarah could throw at him. Dipping his chin to his chest, he reached up and tugged the longish hair behind his ear.

  A long time ago, she’d learned to trust her instincts, and in light of what Kit had said, she believed Cris Bayfield wouldn’t harm his child. His apprehension was normal enough. No kid alive wanted their parent called to school for a disciplinary meeting. Unfortunately, potential repercussions never seemed enough to deter anti-social behavior.

  Shaking her head, Sarah stood behind her desk. That drew Kit’s eyes in her direction. Some unspoken plea lurked in the depths of the pale green orbs.

  Sarah hardened her heart before she offered to cancel the meeting with his dad. She’d do it in a heartbeat, too. She hated confrontation or putting anyone in the hot seat. Probably something she should have considered before becoming a teacher. Definitely before she’d accepted the job as assistant principal.

  She let a silent dammit of her own fly as she stepped around her desk and made her way to the door. She opened it and moved to the side, waiting for Kit to take the cue and leave her office. The youth pushed slowly to his feet and hitched up his jeans, partially covering the Hanes logo visible on the waistband. The off-color expression on his shirt drew her attention once more.

  “Kit?” She stopped him as he stepped through the doorway. “Do you have another shirt? Or a hoodie? That one violates our dress code policy.”

  He didn’t turn to face her as he shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

  At least he’d learned manners from somewhere. “I’ll add the policy to the issues we’ll discuss when your dad arrives. You can wait there.” She pointed to the row of straight-backed super uncomfortable wooden seating, as common in an administrative office as chalk dust in a classroom.

  She waited until he’d shuffled to a seat and dropped into it. He hunched over, rested his elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands together, letting them dangle. When she scooted past him on her way to the lounge, he sucked in a deep breath and then let it out in a shaky burst. Poor kid really was worried about the meeting. He should have considered that before lipping off to his instructor.

  The door to the lounge opened as she approached. Hand clutched to her throat, she jumped backward out of the way of someone beating a hasty retreat from the room.

  The middle-aged teacher nearly mowed her over in her zeal to vacate the room. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you. Those two are getting nasty.” She slipped by and made her way past the counter toward the teachers’ mail station.

  Sarah pulled in a huge lungful of oxygen, hoping to calm her nerves enough to deal with yet another confrontation. Two in one day, soon to be three once Kit’s dad arrived. She seemed to be going for a personal best today. And like Kit’s situation, this record came with some not so great prizes.

  ***

  The probie on phone duty, Izzy, stuck his head through the door. “Dude, your kid’s school called twenty minutes ago.”

  Crispin Bayfield had spent the last two hours on a videoconference with the State Fire Marshal’s office. Cris reacted like any parent when told the school had called. Fear boiled up in his belly. His kid might have been hurt. Or worse,
some jackass with an axe to grind and a cache of rifles had taken control of the building.

  He shot to his feet, sending his chair crashing against the wall in his cramped office. “What’s wrong? Is Trip okay?”

  Izzy sniggered. “Dude, settle down. Uninjured, but in trouble. Your presence in the principal’s office has been requested.” The newly minted firefighter ducked when Cris launched his pencil toward the man.

  It took a moment for Cris to process there was no overt danger at the high school. No alarms had sounded in the fire station where his office was located. No sudden blaring of the standard issue police scanner. No discordant screeching of the emergency alert system in the office next to his.

  His rebellious, hardheaded son, Crispin Beau Bayfield the third, Trip, had landed himself in trouble. Again. His fear morphed into temper. He marched to his vehicle and slid in, jerking the door closed behind him. Anger clamped on Crispin Bayfield’s neck like the bite of a nurse shark. Unrelenting, unforgiving. Cris tightened his hands around the steering wheel of his department-issued SUV and concentrated on not running over anyone in his haste to get across town.

  By the time he’d parked in the visitor slot near the front entrance, his anger had dissolved into resignation. That fact didn’t stop him from slamming the vehicle door. There was satisfaction in the violent release of negative energy. The interview with the principal would go better if he remained calm.

  He paused next to the Tahoe and lifted his nose in the air. Someone near the school had taken it upon themselves to burn leaves, the pungent aroma strong. He’d drive around after the meeting and see if he could locate the offender. Leaf burning had been banned before he’d moved to town after a toddler with severe asthma ended up in the hospital one Fall.