by Meghan March
To the police.
Maybe they could . . . I don’t know. Save me?
I glance over my shoulder, clutching the knob as the door creaks shut, the urge to flee growing as the dim light of the hallway disappears from sight.
“Take a step in that direction and you’ll lose everything.”
My feet freeze to the cracked cement floor as a bead of sweat rolls down my chest. Normally I would attribute it to the sauna-like conditions produced by the whiskey stills, but not tonight.
“What do you want?” I whisper. “Why are you here?”
The chair groans as he rises to his feet, those wide fingers refastening the button on his suit coat, but his face never comes into the light.
“You owe me a debt, Ms. Kilgore, and I’m here to collect.”
“A debt?”
My mind scrambles to think of how in the hell I could owe him money. I’ve never met him before. Hell, I’ve never seen him before, only heard his voice while I eavesdropped. My kind doesn’t mingle with his—well, at least, most of my kind. A few rumors circulated that he kept Richelle LaFleur, a girl from our church, as a mistress until she went missing a year ago. I shut that path of thinking down completely.
“What are you talking about?” Somehow, I manage to form the question.
Two fingers push a document titled Promissory Note across the scarred wood of my desk into the watery pool of light. My eyes lock on the papers, but I’m too terrified to step any closer.
Oh, sweet Jesus, Brett. What did you do? My heart slams against my ribs.
“Don’t you want to know how much your husband borrowed with this place as collateral?”
“How much?” I ask, inching toward him against my will.
“A half million dollars.”
I suck in a shocked breath. “You’re lying.”
With both hands on the desk, he leans down, exposing his face in the dim light. Hard features carved from granite, piercing dark eyes, and an unrelenting stare contrast with the relative civility of the suit that fits him to perfection.
“I never lie.”
A half million dollars? No way. “I would’ve known if Brett had borrowed that kind of money, and let me tell you—he didn’t.”
He shrugs as if the information means nothing to him. And maybe it doesn’t.
“His signature says that he did, and this debt is overdue.”
My eyes zero in on the papers on the desk. If he really did this . . . The effects would be catastrophic.
Four generations of Kilgores have dedicated their hopes, dreams, and fortunes to keeping this legacy alive. It can’t end with me.
“I don’t have the money.”
“I know.”
His response throws me back on my heels. “Then why—”
He moves out of the light and comes toward me. I shrink back against the wall as he advances, blocking my escape route to the door. There’s nowhere to run. He has me trapped.
“Because there’s something I might be willing to take in trade.”
It takes everything I have to keep my voice steady as my heart threatens to burst from my chest. “What?”
He stops a foot from me, and his full lips form a single word.
“You.”
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Sneak Peek of The Fall of Legend
ABOUT THIS BOOK
We come from two different worlds.
I’m from the streets. She may as well live in an ivory tower.
I made my living with my fists. I doubt she could even throw a punch.
Our paths never should have crossed. We never should have met.
That doesn’t change the facts.
I would sell my soul to taste those red lips.
Fight the devil himself to hear her laugh.
Burn in hell to have a single night.
Scarlett Priest shouldn’t even know men like me exist, but sometimes temptation is stronger than will.
If this is how I go down, it’ll be worth every second of the fall.
The Fall of Legend is available by tapping on the title.
CHAPTER ONE
SCARLETT
My body hits the floor with a thump. When my eyes flick open, darkness greets me.
What the hell?
Wait. No. There’s some gray mixed with the pitch black. Maybe even a glow coming from above my head?
Did I fall asleep? Roll off my bed?
I try to sit up, but I can’t move. Why can’t I move? Fear creeps down my spine because I’m 99.99% sure I didn’t fall asleep. I don’t take naps. I don’t have time.
Plus, if I’d been taking a nap, the sound of the Proclaimers’ “500 Miles” wouldn’t be blasting in my earbuds.
Wait. I was running. Not napping. So, why the hell can’t I move? I wiggle, but something that feels like carpet nap rubs against my bare arms.
What in the actual fuck is going on?
The Proclaimers go quiet for a moment before the song starts again. In that precious beat of silence, puzzle pieces snap together, and the blood chugging through my body slows like icy water in a nearly frozen river.
Oh. No. No. Just . . . no. This isn’t happening. The threats weren’t real. They didn’t get me. Even as I try to deny it, my inner voice pops into my head, contradicting everything I want to believe.
They got me. The threats were real. They’re going to kill me. I should have listened to Ryan and Christine. Why didn’t I listen?
That’s right, because I never take stuff like that seriously. And now . . . I flex my hands with my heart thundering, and my fingertips brush against what feels like . . . a rug?
My stomach plummets as reality crashes through my confusion.
I’m rolled up in a rug. Oh. My. Fucking. God. This can’t be happening.
As the Proclaimers wail in my ears, vibrations shiver across my skin. What was that? A door shutting? Are those footsteps?
The murmur of voices comes next. I try to listen, but I can’t make out the words over the music, until . . .
Something knocks into my side, and thankfully, the rug blunts the impact. Did someone just freaking kick me?
I’m a smart woman. Savvy. I’ve lived in Manhattan my whole life and survived three mugging attempts. I’m not a shrinking violet, but neither of the two women’s self-defense seminars I’ve attended for charity covered what to do when you wake up rolled in a rug after being kidnapped by someone who has probably made repeated death threats against you.
The song’s volume dips for some more chanting about all the things the Proclaimers would do for the woman they loved, and that’s when I hear the roar.
“You did what?” a man bellows loud enough to suck the breath out of my lungs. He sounds furious—and powerful.
Fear unleashes a cold sweat over my skin.
“You said she could fix it!” Another voice, this one higher pitched, breaks through the Proclaimers’ voices before the song picks up intensity again, drowning them out.
Who said I could fix something? Fix what? Where? My brain races, but it’s more sluggish than normal, given the fact it’s weighted down with a billion tons of dread and the urge to shrink and run.
More murmuring. More confusion rioting in my head.
Fix what? For whom? Does this mean they’re not going to kill me? Because I would really like not to be killed today. Or tomorrow. Or really ever.
Then I start rolling. Literally. Like a rock thumping over on its side when kicked.
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God!
Think! Think!
My body tumbles until I’m discombobulated and the earbuds fall from my ears. Bright light blinds me as I’m freed from the rug and land on my back, staring up at the ceiling.
The scents of leather and carpet cleaner hit my nostrils as I bolt to my feet, tilting to one side like I’ve had too much to drink. I spin around, searching for an exit, but a big han
d lands on the bare skin of my shoulder.
His palm is hot, like it was just yanked from a pocket or clenched in a fist. His touch sends tingles racing down to my fingertips.
Whoa. That’s never happened before.
I jerk away, stumbling forward to catch myself on the arm of a leather chair. “Please don’t kill me. Whatever you need me to fix, I’ll fix it.”
My head bowed, I say the words to the ripped-jean-covered legs of a man standing a few feet from me, even though I have no idea when I decided trying to reason with him was a good idea. With self-preservation running the show right now, all bets are off on me behaving rationally.
I brace for a blow or some form of verbal assault, but none comes. Other than the faint sound of the Proclaimers drifting up from my earbuds on the floor, a heavy silence blankets the room.
I wait for the man in the ripped jeans to move. To come toward me. To kill me. But he doesn’t.
“Fuck.” It comes out softly, like he’s speaking under his breath and doesn’t mean for me to hear it.
“Please,” I whisper, finally finding the courage to look up at the rest of the body connected to the pair of massive denim-clad legs. “Please don’t hurt—”
My voice goes silent as I stare into the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. He could make a fortune off those eyes alone. Mostly because they’re set in a ridiculously attractive face that shouldn’t be attractive at all due to a slight crook in the nose and the faint white line of a scar stretching across one of his sharp cheekbones. Shaggy dark blond hair hangs in his face as his lips press into a harsh line.
This beast, albeit a gorgeous one, is going to kill me.
The voice in my head delivers the final verdict, a conclusion it reached because somehow, to the bottom of my soul, I know this man isn’t afraid to cause another person pain. Raw, savage energy flows off his body in waves, and my teeth threaten to chatter at its intensity.
Beautiful and brutal. That’s what I’d caption the shot I’m mentally taking right now of the last face I may ever see.
This is it. I should have listened. But I didn’t. This is all my own damned fault.
I bite down on my quivering lip and straighten my shoulders as tears well in my eyes, tears I won’t allow to fall.
Not yet.
First, I’m going to bargain with the grim reaper.
* * *
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Also by Meghan March
Magnolia Duet
Creole Kingpin
Madam Temptress
* * *
Legend Trilogy
The Fall of Legend
House of Scarlett
The Fight for Forever
* * *
Dirty Mafia Duet:
Black Sheep
White Knight
* * *
Forge Trilogy:
Deal with the Devil
Luck of the Devil
Heart of the Devil
* * *
Sin Trilogy:
Richer Than Sin
Guilty as Sin
Reveling in Sin
* * *
Mount Trilogy:
Ruthless King
Defiant Queen
Sinful Empire
* * *
Savage Trilogy:
Savage Prince
Iron Princess
Rogue Royalty
Beneath Series:
Beneath This Mask
Beneath This Ink
Beneath These Chains
Beneath These Scars
Beneath These Lies
Beneath These Shadows
Beneath The Truth
* * *
Dirty Billionaire Trilogy:
Dirty Billionaire
Dirty Pleasures
Dirty Together
* * *
Dirty Girl Duet:
Dirty Girl
Dirty Love
* * *
Real Duet:
Real Good Man
Real Good Love
* * *
Real Dirty Duet:
Real Dirty
Real Sexy
* * *
Flash Bang Series:
Flash Bang
Hard Charger
* * *
Standalones:
Take Me Back
Bad Judgment
About the Author
Making the jump from corporate lawyer to romance author was a leap of faith that New York Times, #1 Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author Meghan March will never regret. With over thirty titles published, she has sold millions of books in nearly a dozen languages to fellow romance-lovers around the world. A nomad at heart, she can currently be found in the woods of the Pacific Northwest, living her happily ever after with her real-life alpha hero.
She’d love to hear from you. Connect with her at:
www.meghanmarch.com