by Sabrina York
Heart of Ash
A Tryst Island Erotic Romance
by Sabrina York
Heart of Ash
ISBN 978-0-9891577-3-5
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Rebound Copyright © 2013 Sabrina York
Edited by Monica Britt
Cover design by Wicked Smart Designs
Electronic book publication October 2013
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
The publisher and author(s) acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.
The publisher does not have any control over, and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to Emily Cale, Tina Donahue and Sidney Bristol. When you read the book, you’ll know why, if you don’t already.
Acknowledgements
First of all, thanks to my amazing beta readers, Charmaine Arredondo, Laurie A., Kim Brown, Carmen Cook, Shelly Estes, Angie Lane, Regina Ross, and Michelle Wilson. And to my amazing street team who shares the word about my books: Crystal Biby, Kim Brown, Fedora Chen, Celeste Deveney, Shelly Estes, Stephanie Felix, Angie Lane, Rose Lipscomb, Laurie Peterson, Tina Reiter, Hollie Rieth, Regina Ross, Dee Thomas as well as Christy, Elf, Gaele and Laurie.
My deepest appreciation to Wicked Smart Designs for a rocking cover and to Monica Britt for helping me whip this novella into shape. I bow deeply before Shelly Estes, who suggested the rockin’ title.
Thank you so much to my dear author friends for your support: Emily Cale, Kristine Cayne, Dana Delamar, Cerise de Land, Delilah Devlin, Lisa Fox, Desiree Holt, and Tina Donahue.
To all my friends in the Greater Seattle Romance Writers of America, Passionate Ink and Rose City Romance Writers groups, thank you for all your support and encouragement.
Chapter One
Emily Donahue tipped her face into the breeze, enjoying the spray wafting up as the ferry sliced its way through the deep cool waters of Puget Sound. She stood at the bow, her favorite spot, holding back the urge to crow, “I’m the queen of the world!”
As much as she loved spending the weekend with her friends at the vacation house they shared on Tryst Island, she loved the ferry ride more.
There was something about water, the ocean, the slapping waves, that invigorated her, woke her up, made her feel alive. The view was spectacular. Emerald islands dotted the azure sea as far as the eye could see. The bird’s egg blue sky was laced with fat white clouds. Rainbows sparkled as the sunshine danced over the water.
The boat jounced and a cool mist surrounded her. She licked her lips, tasting the salt, and laughed out loud.
Glorious. It was simply—
“Well, hello beautiful.”
Irritation trickled through her as a low voice intruded on her reverie. Not because a voice intruded on her reverie, but because it was a man’s voice.
She could just ignore him. If she’d been anyone else—her friend Bella, perhaps—she might have. But Emily had been born and bred to be a lady. And ladies were polite. Even to people who weren’t.
It was a curse.
She steeled her spine and turned away from the glorious panoply to look at the man who had sidled up to next her. Her breath slowed. Her muscles tightened. She tried, very hard, not to grimace.
Grimacing was not polite in the least.
But it was difficult to maintain her expressionless mien. She knew his type. Disliked his type. Intensely.
Judging from his outfit and his smug, entitled smirk, he was a typical trust fund baby. So like all those boys she’d known in college. And the ring on his pinkie branded him as a frat boy. Or at least he had been once.
Some men never outgrew being a frat boy.
This frat boy was tall and bulky with an unruly mop of brown hair. He held a drink in a red plastic cup like this was some kind of kegger. His linen shirt, unbuttoned halfway to his navel, revealed a thick mat of dark curls. His ascot flapped in the wind. And yes, he wore an ascot. Worse than that, a hint of predatory interest glinted in his eyes.
He was the epitome of everything she disliked about men. And here she was. Trapped by him, cornered in the bow of the boat. She glanced around, a frantic hunt for one of her friends, but no. They were alone. Utterly alone.
She forced away the flicker of panic—panic served no purpose—and eased her fingers through her hair, casually unfastening her barrette. If push came to shove, she could gore him with it.
The boor leaned in, way too close. His breath wafted over her cheek in a bilious huff. She doubted one could get drunk from inhaling fumes, but the smell of alcohol emanating from him was overwhelming. As though he were steeped in it. Emily leaned back against the rail, disciplining herself not to gasp for fresh air. A dark cloud rose and roiled in her head.
“Did it hurt?” he asked.
Emily frowned. “D-did what hurt?”
“When you fell from heaven?”
All fear flew in the face of his absurdity. She gaped at him as his words hit home. Seriously? Her third grade class could come up with better pick-up lines. Although she hoped they never did.
Why, oh why, did she always seem to attract men like this? All she wanted was a nice, sweet man. Someone she could feel safe with. Someone who cherished her for who she was.
Not a horndog on the prowl for an easy lay.
Was that too much to ask?
The boat hit a swell and the horndog’s drink sloshed all over her skirt. Emily didn’t care, because this was a perfect excuse to flee. She swiped at the stain and murmured, “Oh no,” and pushed past him with a pained smile and scuttled away. Not to scrub out the spot. Just to escape his leer.
He might have been a decent guy, if a little drunk, but it didn’t matter. Something about him set her teeth on edge, and Emily had vowed never to ignore her gut again. Not when it came to men, especially men like him.
Relief flooded her when she spotted her friends at a table in the coffee shop on the ferry’s upper deck. She slid into the open seat between Jamie and Kaitlin and gusted, “Douche alert.” Bella had coined the term, one they all now used to warn the others of impending douchebaggery.
Kaitlin, bless her heart, took Emily’s hand and gave it a soft squeeze, calming her. Kaitlin always knew how to calm her.
“Where?” Jamie crunched into a pastry. It crumbled to bits and flaked all over her t-shirt.
Emily winced. It was a damn shame to waste all those flakes. The bag on the table sported the Stud Muffin logo, so she knew it was one of Tara’s evil creations. She was always creating evil, that Tara.
But it was a delicious kind of evil.
They were all delighted whenever Kristi invited Tara to spend the weekend on the island. Because she always brought a healthy supply of high-calorie sin.
Emily reached out and blotted the crumbs that fell on Jamie’s plate. Pastries always soothed her, but she had to limit herself to
crumbs because carbs had a tendency to collect around her waist. “Out on the deck. He’s wearing an ascot.”
Tara looked up from the papers she was studying and snorted. “Oh, holy hell. Him?”
Kaitlin rolled her eyes and pursed her lips. Even like that, with her eyes rolling and her lips pursed, she was beautiful. Kaitlin was a stunning redhead. Her face was perfection, her figure exquisite, like a woodland elf. Emily felt like a rhinoceros next to her. “That creep cornered me in the hall earlier. I had to spill my coffee on him to escape.”
Emily nibbled her lower lip. “I was luckier. He spilled his drink on me.” She showed them the stain, which had spread into the cherries printed on the fabric. Damn. She’d liked this skirt. It was cheerful and whimsical and made her feel happy. Now it was ruined.
She’d picked up this outfit at a thrift store. All her clothes came from thrift stores, much to her mother’s chagrin. But she taught third grade. It wasn’t practical to wear expensive clothes when one never knew what kind of grunge one might pick up in the course of the day. More often than not she came home with worms in her pocket.
Jamie bent and sniffed at the fabric. “What the hell was he drinking?” Her brown eyes narrowed. She sniffed again. “Vodka with cranberry juice? A squeeze of lime?” Jamie was something of a savant. Identifying someone’s drink from nothing more than a whiff was one of her bar tricks. She made a fortune in quarters at Darby’s on the weekends.
“Where’d he get vodka?” Tara asked. “I thought they didn’t serve hard alcohol on ferries.”
Just then, Ascot Man pushed into the room and joined two men seated in the far corner of the cafeteria. He upended a flask into his drink. “Apparently he brought his own,” Jamie quipped.
“Goddamn frat boys.” Kaitlin muttered. Though she cloaked it with a smile, there was a definite hint of bitterness in her tone. She and Emily exchanged a glance. A memory rose in Emily’s mind. Two girls at a frat party. Lured to an isolated room…
She pushed the memory back into the shadows.
“Do you know them?” Jamie asked.
Kaitlin fiddled with her napkin. “Maybe. The handsome one went to the U.”
Tara wrinkled her nose. “Which one’s the handsome one?”
Emily blotted more crumbs. Yeah. They were all pretty cute, in a frat boy way. Except Ascot Man. He was just droopy.
“The one with the spiky hair.”
Jamie leaned to the side. “Which one with the spiky hair? I swear. Those guys all look alike to me.”
“The one with the dark hair. In office casual. I think his name is…Parker.”
Something in Kaitlin’s voice caught Emily’s attention. Surreptitiously, she studied the frat boy with the spiky hair in office casual. He was definitely good looking, with a wide, handsome face and eyes that slanted a bit at the corners. And he did seem familiar.
The memory rose again. Unease trickled through her. She shifted in her seat. Blotted more crumbs, though there were hardly any left.
“I met him at a frat party once…” Kaitlin trailed off. Everyone waited for her to finish, everyone but Emily, who knew she wouldn’t.
They didn’t want to hear that story anyway. No one did.
“I just hope it’s not a rowdy weekend,” Tara muttered.
Just then a raucous cheer went up in the corner and the girls groaned in tandem. The frat boys had already started to party, and they hadn’t even reached the island yet.
But then the horn tooted and the engines revved in a backwards thrum, and Emily knew they were almost at their destination. As she bent to gather her things, her gaze fell on Ascot Man.
Her stomach clenched as he waggled his tongue at her.
Oh lord.
She might just barf.
Friday night at Darby’s Bar and Grill was crazy.
Ash Bristol stepped from the sunshine into the shadowed tavern and glanced around at the milling crowd. He spotted an empty table and made his way toward it. His step faltered when he saw Bella Cross, but he just kept going.
Damn, she was hot. Long black hair, boobs out to here, a tiny nipped waist… But there was one thing he found very unattractive about her—the muscular arm draped over her shoulder. As hot as she was, Bella was dating Holt Lamm now. Any guy in his right mind would steer clear of those fists.
So even though his friend Cam, who was sitting with them, waved, Ash pretended not to notice and headed for an empty table like it was a door floating in the middle of the frigid, iceberg-speckled Atlantic.
His buddies were coming in on the six p.m. ferry and, after dropping their crap at the house, they’d be coming here. He checked his watch, the ostentatious Rolex his mother had given him on the illustrious occasion of his “first divorce.” And yeah, the guys would be here any minute.
He hated wearing expensive shit. It was like crack for the gold diggers. But Mom expected him to wear it, so he did.
Darby’s waitress, Charmaine, came by and handed him a menu. “Just one?” she asked, flicking her platinum blond hair, cut in an asymmetrical bob. Normally, asymmetrical anything set his teeth on edge, but Charmaine pulled it off.
“There will be four of us. Could I get a beer?”
“Sure thing, sweetie,” she chirped. He watched as she sashayed away, enjoying the view. She was a honey, but she didn’t fool Ash for a minute. If he got out of line, she’d use one of those steak knives in the silverware packet to slice off his nuts. Most of the regulars knew better than to get out of line. A guy who smacked Charmaine on the ass might just find a pot of scalding coffee pooling in his lap.
A burst of commotion at the door caught his attention and he grimaced. His friend Richie staggered in, raising his arms and bellowing, “Ladies, the real men have arrived.” Silence settled on the bar as heads turned, but just as quickly as it had ceased, conversation resumed.
Apparently the ladies weren’t all that impressed with the “real men.”
Ash raised a hand motioning them over. He could tell right away Richie was drunk off his ass, and Devlin and Parker had been drinking too. He divined this when Parker nearly missed his seat and almost landed on the floor.
Great. It was going to be one of those weekends.
He motioned to Charmaine. When she made her way over to the table, he said, “Better get some food in these guys. Four burgers?”
“Bacon burgers,” Richie said, way too loud.
“Bacon cheese burgers.” Devlin added. Although he said this with a respectful smile in Charmaine’s direction. And even added, “Pretty please.” Devlin had known the pain of coffee-lap.
As she took the menus, she blew out a sigh and nodded. “Coming right up.”
“Don’t forget the fries,” Richie commanded through a hiccup. As if she would. She might spit on them, though. If he didn’t reel it in.
Richie, who’d been his friend since prep school, was kind of an ass and always had been. They’d been drinking buddies forever, so Ash tolerated his shit, but it was getting harder and harder. It seemed as though Ash, and Parker and Devlin for that matter, were growing up, while Richie remained locked in emotional puberty.
Parker and Devlin though? Solid. He was pretty lucky to have guys like them in his corner.
Drunk or not.
Parker stiffened at his side. “Oh shit,” he breathed. “There she is.”
Ash glanced up to see who she was and his heart stalled. Holy hell. An angel had just stepped into Darby’s. A beautiful girl with soft blonde curls and wide eyes. He couldn’t see the color from here, but it hardly mattered. She was a delightful package and a punch to his solar plexus.
“Oh, baby. She is fine. I talked her up on the ferry. ” Richie put out his chest. “She wants me.”
Annoyance burned in Ash’s gut. Why, he didn’t know. She wasn’t his angel. She was simply an angel. If she wanted Richie, she could have him.
No more relationships for Ash. No more blind trust. No more expectations.
“God, she’s so
fucking hot.” Was Richie still talking? “I do dig a redhead,” he added.
Ash blinked. A redhead? He scanned the group of women who had entered with his angel, the group now heading over to Cam’s table—damn, he should have responded to that wave—and yes, there was a redhead. And a brunette with sixties-bangs and another girl with long jet-black hair pulled back in a ponytail. He’d hadn’t noticed any of them.
His attention skewed back to the blonde. She smiled at something Cam said and a hot, hard arousal shot through him like a jagged bolt of lightning. God. That smile.
He really should have responded to Cam’s wave.
At some point this weekend, he was going to have to meet that girl.
He’d sworn off relationships, but he sure as shit hadn’t sworn off fucking. And she looked like she’d be a wild ride.
“Okay. I could tap that.”
Ash blinked as someone voiced the words winging around in his head. He gaped at Devlin. Dev must be pretty drunk. He was usually a complete gentleman when it came to the ladies. “The redhead?”
“Whaa?” He didn’t seem to be able to complete the word. “No. The hottie with the ponytail.”
“I could so yank on that ponytail.” Was Richie drooling? Awesome. At least he remembered to wipe his lip on his sleeve.
Ash grimaced. He was definitely the “designated walker” tonight. He hated babysitting.
Devlin glared at Richie who was leering at the brunette. “Hey. Ponytail is mine. I called it.” He attempted to punch Richie on the shoulder but he missed and punched the chair instead. “Ow.”
It was all Ash could do not to roll his eyes. “No fighting boys.”
Parker grinned. “There are plenty of babes to go around.”
“But they’re all at the other table.” Richie leaned in and hissed, “We should go over there and steal them. Those two guys look like peckerwoods.”
Ash cleared his throat. “That’s Cam Jackson. And the big guy? The one with all the muscles? Holt Lamm.”