Naughty Nelle

by L'Amour, Nelle

  NELLE L’AMOUR

  ABOUT

  12-CHAPTER PREVIEW OF NELLE’S BESTSELLING SERIES.

  Brandon: I’ve just woken up from a life or death coma. And learned that not only am I Hollywood’s number one heartthrob, but I’m also engaged to America’s It Girl, Katrina Moore. She may be a blond goddess, but my mind can’t remember shit. And my cock doesn’t give a shit. Because my heart started beating for another the minute she came through the door.

  Zoey: Screw Brandon Taylor. Recovering from his hit and run accident, my demanding, egotistical boss is more of a jerk than ever. And with those violet eyes, more ridiculously panty-melting beautiful. As his personal assistant, I have to attend to his every whim and need as well as contend with his stuck-up fiancée. Life isn’t easy for me. Despite my visible size, I’ve always been invisible. Maybe, the amnesiac is beginning to remember. A girl can dream. No man is more unforgettable…in every way.

  Join Brandon and Zoey in a Cinderella fairy tale that’s guaranteed to make you laugh, cry, and swoon! From Los Angeles to the South of France, their unforgettable love story has it all—romance, passion, steamy hot sex, glitz and glamour, plus an adorable little dog and an unsolved murder that could unravel everything.

  Copyright © 2015 by Nelle L’Amour

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved

  First Edition: November 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be re-produced in any form or by any means without prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  PROLOGUE

  Zoey

  Twenty years earlier

  Mama. She’s beautiful. As beautiful as a princess. She has long, wavy red hair that dances in the wind. And whenever she waltzes around our house, singing so pretty, her hair prances too. She reminds me of Ariel, The Little Mermaid. Except my mama never ever swims.

  After I saw that movie with Mama, I asked her why she won’t swim. She told me she once almost drowned in the ocean when she was a little girl. Like my mama, I’m afraid of the water. Even Papa, when he was alive, couldn’t get me to go in. I miss Papa and so does Mama.

  Especially on days like today. I’m five! I’m a big girl now, says Mama. For my special birthday, she’s taken me to the Santa Monica Pier. I may be afraid of the big bad ocean, but I love the pier. And so does Mama. So many fun rides! And games to play too! And guess what! Now that I’m a big girl, I can finally go on the ginormous rollercoaster. Yippee! Mama and I sit together, and holding on to her floppy straw hat, she screams as much as me. Whoosh! It’s so fast! So much fun!

  “Pretty please. One more time,” I beg when it’s over. One smoochie and she lets me do it again. I wish my cousin Jeffrey was here too, but Mama told me he came down with the flu and had to stay home with Auntie Jo.

  “Mama, I’m hungry,” I say after we hop off the ride.

  “Me too, baby girl. Let’s get some corn dogs.”

  “YAY!” I love corn dogs.

  Mama buys two corn dogs from a food stand, one for me and one for her. “C’mon, let’s look for dolphins while we eat them.” She takes my hand and we walk over to the edge of the pier. The blue-gray ocean is below us. I know that color from my Crayola box. We watch the high as the sky waves roll in. Mama tells me the water’s very rough today.

  I take a big bite of my corn dog and then ask Mama, “Do you think we’ll see a dolphin?”

  She smiles. “Of course, my precious girl. They’ll dance for your birthday. But I want you to hold my hand and not lean in too close to the railing.”

  I giggle. “Mama, I won’t fall in!”

  She squeezes my hand. Mama’s beautiful hands are soft like velvet. And they’re magical too. They make me feel safe and fix all my boo-boos.

  I keep my eyes out for some dolphins. The sun is so bright it hurts them. Squinting, all I see are lots of squawking sea gulls.

  In the background, I hear music. There’s a concert going on. They always do concerts on the pier in the Spring. I know that song! It’s Mama’s favorite. “Unforgettable.” She sang it all the time after Papa died. It reminds her of him. Mama smiles and sings along. I love the way she sings. She sounds like an angel.

  In the middle of the song, a creepy man walks up next to me. He’s got an eyepatch like a pirate and a cigarette in his mouth. I thought people weren’t allowed to smoke on the pier. He blows out a puff and I cough. I want to tell him to put it out, but he scares me. I move closer to Mama and hope the man will get in trouble. If Uncle Pete were here, he’d arrest him and put him in jail.

  I frown. “Mama, the dolphins are hiding today. Let’s do one more ride.”

  “Patience, sweet girl.” Mama always says patience has its virtues, but I don’t know what she means by that.

  I beg again for another ride and even say the magic word, “please.” Then, just after I take the last bite of my corn dog, I see one, leaping out of the water. And then, another and another! “Look, Mama! Dolphins!” Jumping up and down, I point at them.

  But Mama doesn’t hear me. She’s slumped over the railing. She’s got an ouchie! And she’s bleeding! A whole big bunch!

  She whispers my name. The blood is spreading all over the back of her pretty sundress. Why won’t it stop? I must help her!

  “Mama! Mama!” I tug on her. But I can’t get her to budge.

  I turn to the yucky man for help.

  “Mister—”

  A loud grunt and then he falls to the ground. Face up. There’s blood all around him. Everywhere! His shirt is all red. His eyes are still open, but I think he’s dead. I scream so loud my throat hurts. And then I see him. A scary man with a gun! He fires it one more time—at me—and then he runs away. He disappears into the crowd, but I’ll never forget his ugly face.

  I turn back around. Oh no! Mama she’s gone! Spinning, I search everywhere for her and then I look down. I scream again. Louder.

  “Mama!” She’s fallen into the angry ocean. It tosses her. Around and around and around. She’s drowning!

  “Mama!” I cry out again, tears falling.

  An arm reaches out to me. Her lips mouth three words: “I love you.” Then, her eyes close and she goes under.

  “Mama! Mama!” I sob. “Someone help my mama! PLEASE!”

  The pier is so noisy nobody hears me. She’s floating now. On her back, her hat by her side. Her coral hair is spread out like a sea fan. And there’s a little smile on her face. Maybe she’s all better.

  “Mama! Can you hear me?” I shout out, hope in my voice. “Wake up! Pl—”

  Before I can say the magic word, a gigantic wave crashes over her peaceful body. With a roar, it carries her away.

  “Mama, come back!” I no longer see her. Or will I ever.

  My tears salt the sea.

  The words of Mama’s favorite song drift into my ears.

  I’m crying so loud I can hardly hear them.

  But I know this moment will always be unforgettable.

  Brandon

  Two weeks earlier

  FUCK.

  CLUNK.

  SMACK.

  BLACK.

  CHAPTER 1

  Brandon

  Beeping sounds clog my ears.

  A chorus of muddled whispers surrounds me.

  My eyelids flutter.

  A woman’s urgent voice: “Quick. Get this! He’s waking up.”

  I peel my eyes open, one by one. Slowly. Painfully. As if they’ve been super glued shut. The bright light burns my retinas. Everything’s a blur. A haze of bodies scuttles about me. I blink several times. My vision becomes clearer, and then I’m blinded by the flash of a camera. Click. Click. Click. I blink again until I stop seeing spots. A new lens assaults me. What’s a hand-held camera doing in my face?

  “Get in tighter,” orders the woman, her voice growing shrill. “I want a close-up.”

  A pair of lips comes crashing down on mine before I can get my mouth to move. They hold me prisoner
while camera flashes bombard me and the hand-held camera captures the unexpected kiss. The fierce lips pull away, but the camera in my face stays put.

  “Get that away from me!” I croak, barely able to free my tongue from my desert-dry palate. My voice is a rasp and my throat sore as hell.

  I swat at the cameraman with my hand that’s not hooked up to all kinds of freaky, beeping machines. Reality hits me hard. I’m in a hospital. And the pain hits harder. I’ve got a headache the size of Texas. Unable to deter my harasser, I throw the bedcovers over my head.

  “We’ve got enough.” That woman’s authoritative voice again. “We’ll edit in post.”

  Hesitantly, I lower the covers from my face. A stunning, willowy blonde with cat-green eyes hovers over me. Her billowy scarlet lips are parted in a pout and then they break into a wide toothy smile. The cameraman follows her.

  She brushes her manicured hand along my forehead. “Darling, you’re awake. Finally. Smile for the cameras.” She mugs for the cameras while I rub the back of my scalp. A large scab brushes against the pads of my fingertips along with a bump as big as a walnut. I wince.

  “That’s a wrap,” calls out a craggy man with a ponytail. “We’ll pick it up when he blows out of this joint.” My eyes fix on the small crew as they pack up their equipment and file out of the room. The attractive woman stays behind and lowers herself onto the edge of my bed. She cranks her body so she’s facing me.

  “Who are you?” My voice is still strangled.

  She flashes a ring with a diamond the size of a bullet in my eyes. The bling blinds me. I blink again.

  She hesitates for a beat and then purses her full lips. “Your fiancée.”

  A golf-ball sized lump lands in my parched throat. “Excuse me?”

  She flings her full head of platinum hair. “Come on, now. You know who I am.”

  “What’s your name?” I manage in my disoriented state.

  Her feline eyes narrow. “Are you playing games with me, Brandon?”

  She called me Brandon. Yeah, that’s my name. Brandon Taylor. I remember that. But I have no clue who this woman is, yet she claims we’re engaged.

  With a groan, I sit up slowly. It’s an effort. My body feels like it’s been rammed by a bulldozer. Every muscle aches. And my head’s still pounding. I take in my surroundings. I’m in a sleek all-white suite with wall-to-wall flower arrangements. Their overbearing sweet smell assaults my senses. A wave of nausea sweeps over me.

  “Can I have some water?” I ask, hoping the liquid will assuage the sickening feeling and knock some sense into me.

  “Of course, darling.” The woman reaches for a sippy cup on the stand alongside my bed and hands it to me. I take a long sip through the straw. The cool beverage feels good. As it courses down my throat, it quenches my thirst. I take a few more sips and place the cup on my lap. To be more precise, on my cock. It’s soft as a pillow, but thank God, it’s still there. I remember my cock better than I remember my name. It’s a big, hard fucking machine. Or at least it once was. The drop dead gorgeous woman beside me, who says she’s my fiancée, does nothing to stir it. Not even one teeny-weeny testicular tingle. I shudder. I may be in big trouble.

  “So tell me your name.”

  “Katrina. Katrina Moore. Does it ring a bell?”

  Her tone sounds like she’s testing me. I shake my aching head.

  “Are you sure?”

  It doesn’t ring anything, including my balls. My attention is diverted by a stocky man bursting through the open door.

  “Hey, my boy. You’re awake!” He strides up to me and pats me on my back.

  I gaze up at him. Tanned, teeth perfect and pearly white. Hair bottle-brown and greased back. Expensive Italian twill suit and flashy gold jewelry. Forty. Maybe fifty? Yet another unfamiliar face.

  “And who are you?”

  He shoots Katrina a questioning look. His left eye twitches. “Is he fucking kidding?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

  They hold each other’s gazes as if they’re silently communicating, and then the strange man casts his eyes back on me.

  “I’m your manager. Scott Turner.”

  I have a fiancée. And now I have a manager?

  “What do you manage?”

  “Jeez, Brand-man. Your career.”

  “My career?” Reality to Brandon. Come in for fuck’s sake.

  The woman named Katrina interjects. “He seriously doesn’t seem to remember a thing.”

  My so-called manager furrows his dark brows. “He’s bullshitting us.”

  Rage surges inside me. “I’m not bullshitting anyone. I don’t even know how I got here.”

  With a smile, Katrina defends me. “Trust me, Scotty-Wotty, he’s not acting. He’s really lost his mind.”

  Unconvinced, Scott twists his thin lips. “Does Kurt Kussler mean anything to you?”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He’s the character you play on TV. The number one rated show that’s made you Hollywood’s highest paid actor. And every woman’s wet dream.”

  I’m an actor? A Hollywood heartthrob? All I know is right now I’m a nut job. “So, how did I get here?” My voice falters.

  “You seriously don’t remember what happened?”

  “Not a clue.”

  Shifting, Katrina fiddles with her engagement ring. “Scott, I think it’d be better if he heard it from you.”

  Scott’s expression darkens and then it relaxes. “You were struck by a car. It was a hit and run. You’re lucky I called it in. I saved your ass. You suffered a skull fracture, underwent surgery, and have been in a coma for two weeks. It’s been headline news. All over the Internet and TMZ. And don’t get me started on Twitter. You’ve got more followers than Justin Bieber.”

  Justin Bieber? TMZ? Digesting his words, I stroke my jaw. A bristly beard scrapes my hand. I must look like a caveman.

  Katrina cups my other hand, the one with all the IVs. “You had me so worried. I’ve been by your side praying you’d recover.” She plants a hot kiss on my cheek. It does nothing to arouse me. More worry washes over me as she runs her fingers through my hair.

  “Darling, we’re going to have to get you cleaned up and into shape. You should be just fine by the time the wedding is televised.”

  Impulsively, I yank my hand from hers. “What are you talking about?”

  Her face lights up. “We’re getting married and the whole world is going to watch. On a special edition of my reality show, America’s It Girl. My ratings are going to go through the roof.”

  A sinking feeling sets in. I don’t remember a goddamn thing. And you know what, maybe I don’t want to.

  CHAPTER 2

  Brandon

  The next three days in the hospital are ones I’ll remember. I get my first taste of fame, and I’m not sure I like it. Once word gets out that I’m alive and well (except for my memory loss), every nurse, attendant, and doctor stops by my suite on Cedar’s VIP floor for my autograph. It’s like a circus. My hand is so sore I may need a sling.

  Katrina shows up every day, in one designer outfit after another, and sits with me for an hour or so. Now that I’m out of my coma and on the road to recovery, she’s got better things to do. Like shop and work out. And, of course, plan for our wedding.

  Each time she visits, she brings along a slew of tabloids to jog my memory. I am headline news. The front page of last week’s Enquirer is plastered with a photo of me in my coma all hooked up to gizmos and monitors and my teary-eyed fiancée by my bedside. Or should I say deathbed. The all-caps headline: “DOOMSDAY FOR BRATRINA!” Bratrina? What bonehead came up with that? I cringe.

  Older issues from last month feature photos of Katrina and me in happier times…out to dinner…at a movie premier…at the beach. I read the articles and study the pictures. We look and sound like the hottest couple in Hollywood. But no matter how hard I search my brain, I can’t remember a damn thing. Nada. Zippo. Zilch.

 
“How did we meet?” I ask my fiancée on my third day of being conscious. Despite her goddess-like beauty and come-ons, America’s It Girl still doesn’t do a thing for me. Not even a little rise.

  Sitting nearby on an armchair and thumbing through one of the tabloids, she looks up and rolls her eyes. I’m not sure if she’s frustrated with my memory loss or pissed off for the interruption.

  “Through Scott. He’s my manager too. He hooked us up at the Chateau Marmont. Remember?”

  A hint of sarcasm underscores her last word. I shake my head no. “And how long have we been together?” Despite all the articles I’ve read, the details of our relationship are sparse.

  Crossing her long, toned bare legs, she quirks a small but seductive smile. “Almost two months. It was love at first sight. The minute we fucked our brains out, we couldn’t be apart.”

  So, I fucked my way into her heart. But why can’t I feel anything for her there or elsewhere? Amnesia sucks dick.

  “And when did I propose to you?” My eyes soak in her engagement ring with its sparkling mega-sized marquise diamond. Must have cost a bloody fortune, but I have no recollection of buying it. Scott, who handles all my finances, must have a record of it somewhere.

  “Just before the accident.” She holds up the Star magazine she’s reading. A close-up photo of her, looking tearful, her ring in full view, dominates the front page. Headline: “Tragedy Strikes after Brandon Pops the Big Question!” I glimpse the publication date. If my calculations are right, it came out the Monday after my accident.

  I snatch the newspaper from her and flip through it until I get to the cover story. Photos of Bratrina grace the pages. I quickly peruse the article. So, I proposed to her over a romantic meal at my Hollywood Hills house the night before the accident and purchased the gazillion carat ring at Tiffany’s. I have no memory of the event or, for that matter, of my house. I’m eager to see it. And to get out of this antiseptic hellhole where a doctor or nurse is either fawning over me or poking me every fifteen minutes for my vitals. I’m feeling pretty good. And now that I’ve shaved, look almost back to normal.