Lucky 7 Brazen Bachelors Contemporary Romance Boxed Set

by Caridad Piñeiro

  Interim curator, she corrected herself superstitiously as she hurried across the lobby. No sense jinxing it.

  Mr. Beasley had specifically told her she must give the new exhibit’s sole benefactor, the mysterious Geoffrey Treynor, the red carpet treatment. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could go wrong with this exhibit. It was the Board of Directors’ pet project. The same board of directors who were going to vote on her new position at the end of the month.

  Well, she could handle it. She could handle a hundred Geoffrey Treynors if she had to, to secure her future.

  How would he react to her predecessor, Miss Treadwell’s, sudden retirement last week? Treynor might not like a young, unknown curator handling his extraordinary collection, especially since she hadn’t even had a chance to look over the files yet, and had no idea what arrangements had been made.

  Stop it, she told herself. No sense buying trouble. She was just as competent as Miss Treadwell. She’d be fine.

  The elevator dinged. Sprinting to catch it before the doors whooshed closed, she rounded a large potted palm and ran smack into a tall, muscular wall of a man. “Oh, I’m so sor—”

  Her briefcase clunked against the man’s leg and clattered to the floor.

  She stared up at him, her heart suddenly lodged in her throat. Her vocal cords seized up, and she was unable to utter a sound, other than an indistinct croak of disbelief.

  It was him.

  Fantasy soldier. Kisser of the Year. Of the Decade. Hell, of a frikkin’ lifetime.

  The man who’d saved her life and stolen her heart.

  The father of her son.

  “My God,” she whispered. “You finally found me.”

  Kiss of a Lifetime: Chapter Twelve

  Lacy reached out and grasped his arms. “Is it really you?”

  Her former rescuer didn’t look anything like he had nine years ago. He was just as tall and muscular, but his hair was neatly trimmed and his elegant suit looked like it had come from Brooks Brothers. He no longer appeared fierce and dangerous. He looked urbane and…prosperous.

  “Lacy?” he asked, his expression shocked.

  She blinked up at him. He knew her name? Then…he must have seen the magazine covers, and read the brief interview she’d given at the consulate after he’d dropped her off…while she was still in a daze.

  But…if he knew who she was, why hadn’t he come sooner? Or even answered her classifieds?

  He stared back at her, not moving. “What are you doing here?”

  “I—”

  And that was when the certain knowledge slammed through her that he wasn’t here looking for her, that he hadn’t sought her out, or found her. That he had, in fact, been deliberately avoiding her all this time.

  She took a fortifying breath to quell the stinging hurt running rampant through her entire being, and snatched her hand from his arm.

  “I, um, I work here.”

  “Ah.” He seemed to gather himself, then he stepped to one side and bent to retrieve her fallen briefcase. He held it out to her.

  “Why are you here?” she asked, gingerly taking it from him, careful not to touch his hand. She didn’t think she could touch him. No, she knew she couldn’t touch him. Not without doing something really stupid. Like falling into his arms. Or bursting into tears.

  He hadn’t come for her.

  He finally broke eye contact, and glanced down at his watch. His fancy stainless steel watch. “I’m here to see Edith Treadwell. I’m late already.” He cleared his throat. “So, I should probably…” His words faded.

  She actually felt faint. He wasn’t even interested in speaking with her.

  Well, why the hell should he? It wasn’t as if they’d been friends, or anything. I mean, what was a virginity or two, taken in the heat of battle? Hers obviously hadn’t even been a blip on his radar.

  She forced herself to nod. “No problem. Go ahead.”

  He hesitated, and gave her the ghost of a smile. “I’ll come find you afterward.”

  Sure, he would. She nodded again, and watched him disappear into the elevator. He’d get a big surprise when he found out Miss Treadwell was gone. With any luck, the receptionist would foist him off on someone else because of Lacy’s appointment with Geoffrey Treynor.

  She checked the clock on the lobby wall, and hurried toward the other elevator. And was suddenly hit by a slash of mind-numbing horror.

  No.

  Her stomach roiled.

  No, no, no.

  Fate could not possibly be that cruel.

  Could it?

  Because, oh, my God. What would she do if that man was Geoffrey Treynor?

  Kiss of a Lifetime: Chapter Thirteen

  “Good morning, Mr. Treynor,” the receptionist greeted Trey when he walked into the Institute’s posh office area. “So nice to see you again.”

  “Thanks, Lydia,” he mumbled. “You, too.”

  He was still reeling from seeing Lacy Warrick down in the lobby. Holy shit on a fucking brick. He couldn’t believe it.

  Of all the gin joints in all the world…

  The years had obviously been kinder to Lacy than to him. She’d become a gorgeous woman—graceful and poised and sophisticated. Everything he was not.

  But as much as he wanted to grab her and hold her close, and beg her forgiveness for ignoring her all these years, this was not the time to fall right back into the memories and emotions he’d somehow managed to drag himself out of yesterday after he saw her classified.

  He was here in Charleston for a reason. An important one.

  People were depending on him. A thousand poor artists and artisans around the world, many of whom were widows and orphans in war-torn villages, relied on him for their sole income. Trey wasn’t the only one who would benefit immensely from the prestige the Met exhibit would give his business. They all would.

  But he wasn’t in the habit of breaking his promises, so he had flown out here in person to find a way to make it up to the Charleston Institute of Art for the last-minute withdrawal of his collection.

  So, he shoved down the potent mixture of nerves and excitement that boiled through his body at knowing Lacy was so close by, and went into combat mode.

  Calm. Cool. Efficient.

  He strode to the reception desk. “Is Edith ready for me?” He glanced at the office behind Lydia, expecting to see the cheerful, grey-haired curator, and was surprised to see, instead, a maintenance man unscrewing the nameplate next to the door.

  Lydia gave him a bright smile. “I’m sorry, Mr. Treynor, didn’t they tell you? Miss Treadwell retired last week.”

  “Edith retired?” He frowned, taken aback.

  “It was kind of sudden.”

  No fucking kidding. Millie had just made this appointment a few of days ago. You’d think they would have said something.

  “The interim curator will take your meeting. But she just called to let me know she’s running a few minutes late. Have a seat in her office and I’ll get you a cappuccino while you wait. Would you like a chocolate croissant to go with it? They’re fresh from—”

  He waved her off and paced into Edith’s office. Former office.

  Just great. He was not a fan of going into an unknown situation and dealing with an unknown person. Especially when he was delivering bad news. They were not going to be happy with him for pulling a Houdini with his collection. Not one damn bit.

  But there was no help for it. Too many others were depending on him.

  He accepted the cappuccino and croissant when the receptionist came in with a plate and a piping hot cup. Too impatient to enjoy either, he set them on the desk. And thank God for that, because as soon as she left, the door opened again.

  And Lacy Warrick walked in.

  Kiss of a Lifetime: Chapter Fourteen

  Trey froze in consternation.

  Lacy gave him a cool smile as she closed the door behind her with a firm snick, then walked past him to the other side of the desk and sat down.


  Instantly, the temperature of the room dipped by about ten degrees.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Treynor,” she said, indicating the antique guest chair in front of him. “What can we do for you today?”

  Somehow, he managed to snap his mouth shut. “You?” he blurted out, putting two and two together. “You’re the new curator of Indigenous Crafts?”

  Her bland smile barely wavered. “Is that a problem for you?”

  “No! Hell, no.”

  He gathered his wits. Lacy’s attitude had taken a complete one-eighty from that first moment she’d spotted him in the lobby and reached out to him so sweetly.

  You finally found me! Is it really you?

  Okay, so she’d probably gotten pissed when it became clear he hadn’t deliberately sought her out, that their meeting was pure coincidence. After he’d ignored her classifieds for nine years. He supposed he couldn’t blame her for being ticked off.

  “Jesus, Lacy,” he said, a sort of desperate warmth flooding through him that felt suspiciously like happiness. “It’s really good to see you.”

  Her brows rose infinitesimally. “You know my name.”

  He did. And there’d hardly been a day gone by he hadn’t invoked it in some manner—in wishes, in fantasies…in curses.

  “Yeah. I read your magazine interview.” He gave her a wry smile. “Pretty tough to miss that cover.” Especially when it had been staring down at him from his wall for nearly a decade…

  Her lips thinned. “No, I suppose that’s true.”

  He shifted uncomfortably as the temperature dipped even further. She wasn’t giving him an inch.

  He’d hoped…

  Yeah. Talk about fantasies.

  “Anyway.” He glanced around the office, at the classy furniture and the bookcase filled with priceless antiquities. It all suited her perfectly. “Congrats on the job. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. This was what you wanted to do, even back then.”

  Her gaze dropped, and a shadow chased through her eyes. “Yes. It was.”

  He turned, and delicately ran finger over a Greek funerary vessel on display, memories of that day rushing through him—and of the misery he’d suffered for weeks afterward, haunting that stupid little museum for traces of her.

  He inhaled a calming breath. “I hope your box of papers arrived in one piece. I had to do some fancy talking at the consulate to get them to send it to you at Duke.”

  Her eyes snapped up to his in surprise. “That was you?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “It was the least I could do. Considering…”

  Again, she looked away, her cheeks flushing. “Thank you for that. I…I couldn’t have graduated without my research.”

  “Glad I could help.”

  A few seconds ticked by in silence.

  She folded her hands on the desk. “So. What can I do for you, Mr. Treynor? Is everything in order for the exhibit?”

  He wrestled himself back to the present, and debated whether he should sit down or stay standing in preparation for being thrown out when he delivered his bad news. Though, what he really wanted to do was round that desk and take her in his arms. Kiss her senseless. Tell her how often he’d thought of her. How much he would give to have any kind of chance with her.

  He stopped himself, and stayed rooted where he was.

  That would just be asking for a world of hurt. He had not forced himself to keep his distance for all this time, just to blow it now.

  Lacy Warrick of the old-money Atlanta Warricks was still a universe or two out of his league. Even with his newfound wealth and growing reputation for good works, he was not the kind of man her family would ever, in a million years, allow to be in her life. He’d been through that wringer with a half dozen other high-society women he’d dated, even casually. His background was too unsavory, his history too rough, ever to be truly accepted.

  And hell, a sweet woman like Lacy wouldn’t want a man with his issues, anyway.

  He knew all that. Knew it was no use. But he just couldn’t help saying, “You look beautiful, Lacy. Even prettier than I remembered.”

  For a brief instant, the cool façade dissolved, and she looked stricken. Then her neutral mask descended again. “You look good, too.” Her lips curved slightly. “Different. A lot different.”

  He ran a hand over his short hair, and chuckled. “Better for business.”

  “So I gather. You’ve done well for yourself.”

  “I’ve been lucky,” he said with a shrug.

  In his career, anyway. Not so much in his personal life. He’d never quite been able to purge himself of the memory of their short time together in that closet. He couldn’t explain it. It wasn’t as if they’d had deep discussions or exchanged life philosophies…or even had a single damn thing in common. But something had clicked between them that day, and it wouldn’t leave him alone. No other woman, before or since, had ever made him feel the emotions he’d experienced in Lacy’s arms.

  “Well,” she said briskly. “Thank you for entrusting the Charleston Institute of Art with your incredible collection, Mr. Treynor.”

  “For God’s sake, call me Trey,” he interrupted, and gave her a look that said he clearly remembered taking her virginity.

  Her cheeks flagged, and for a brief moment the air between them thickened with awareness.

  She cleared her throat and glanced away. “Okay. Trey. The exhibit is—”

  He let out a huff. “Screw the damned exhibit!” It was the last thing he wanted to talk about.

  She blinked, clearly taken aback.

  He’d had enough of this. He hated the impenetrable wall she’d erected between them…even though it was his own damned fault, and he knew it. There were just too many things he wanted to say to her.

  “Lacy, I’m sorry,” he blurted out before he could pull the words back. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer your ads. Believe me, I wanted to in the worst way.”

  Her eyes widened, consternation ripping through them.

  He drilled his hands through his hair. “I had to drink myself into a stupor for two days every damn August after Mercenary Life came out,” he confessed, striding back to the desk.

  Her cool mask of indifference crumbled. “Please don’t,” she said, her voice cracking on the words. “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “It fucking does matter,” he said, leaning over the desk toward her. “You obviously think I don’t give a damn about you. That what happened between us back then meant nothing to me. But you are so fucking wrong.”

  After a moment of stunned silence, she came up out of her chair and pinned him with a look of pure disbelief. “Am I? If you felt so damn bad about not answering, why didn’t you?” She slammed her hands down on the desk, and the air crackled with her anger. “Why did you let me endure nine whole years of waiting, wondering if you were lying dead somewhere, or in some horrible prison, praying to hear just a single word from you? Why, Trey?”

  He leaned closer, and told her the goddamn truth. “Because it could never have worked. I was not the kind of man you wanted in your life.”

  Her jaw clenched tightly, and she leaned in, too. “I think I made it pretty damn clear that I did.”

  “You were an innocent coed,” he gritted out. “I was a goddamn mercenary. A hired killer!”

  Their noses were nearly touching over the desk. She was shaking, her voice rough when she said, “Okay, fine. You were bad news back then. I get it. So, what’s your good excuse now?”

  At that, nine interminable years of frustrated longing swamped over him in a deluge of need. With a guttural growl, he shot his hand out and grasped her behind the neck. “No excuse whatsoever.”

  She gasped.

  The air charged.

  They stared at one another for an endless moment, each daring the other to make the first move.

  Her eyes darkened and he felt a shiver run through her.

  It was all he needed.

  Still grasping her neck, with his other hand he swep
t the papers and files off the desk. In a single leap, he landed on the desktop on his knees before her. Her eyes went wide as he tugged her closer.

  “Trey—”

  “No more excuses. This is what I want.”

  He whipped apart the two sides of her feminine suit jacket. Heart thundering, he popped open the top button of her prim white blouse.

  Her face blanched, and she sucked in a breath.

  But she didn’t stop him.

  He felt a moment of sublime power—the same heady surge of dominance and control he used to feel when he sensed victory in battle.

  He undid two, three, four more buttons, then put his hand inside her blouse and slid it under the fabric of her bra. He cupped her bare breast in his palm.

  He was on his knees on the desk, but he towered over her. He released her neck slightly, and used his thumb to tip her chin up. He wanted to watch her as he touched her trembling flesh.

  Another shiver spilled through her. Her eyes were slumberous and heavy-lidded, but she kept them open. And watched him back.

  Wanting her response, needing to know he could still master her body, he grasped the hard bud of her nipple and squeezed.

  She let out a soft cry. “Trey,” she pleaded, and finally, she reached for him.

  He caught her hand, and slowly brought it to the hard ridge of his arousal. “This is how badly I wanted to answer your ad. Every fucking year. Every goddamn time I’ve thought about you since that night I let you go.”

  Her eyes glistened, and the taut silence stretched.

  “You should have answered,” she whispered, her voice catching. “You should have answered.”

  He left her hand on him, and reached up to cup her other breast. He squeezed and thumbed the sensitive tips until her breath came in short, hot bursts, and her hand clenched on his cock.

  “I’m answering now,” he said, low and heavy with the need to claim her again. And again. And again. Until she was his, and only his.

  How could he have ever thought he could stay away from her?

  Why had he waited so damn long?