He hoped she wouldn’t trash it. Tell him he was out of his mind.
“I liked your ideas. I’m excited to tour the island and get a sense of what you’re trying to capture.” The serene smile she gave him was like a punch to the gut, stealing the very breath from him.
He turned toward her, his knees colliding with hers for the briefest moment. Lust streaked through him, even with such an impersonal touch but he tried to ignore it. “I’m glad you liked it. I have a lot of plans for when we get there.”
She arched a delicate brow. “A lot of plans? I can’t wait to get started.”
“I bet,” he murmured, double meaning behind his words.
They stared at each other silently, the buzz of conversation surrounding them muting to a dull roar. All he could see, focus on, was her. The depths of her pretty blue eyes, the slight upward curl of her lips, the scent of her, clean and sweet even in the crowded, smelly restaurant. An undercurrent passed between them, thick with promise, heady with pleasure, and he cleared his throat. She blinked at the sound, as if he had startled her.
“Let’s get out of here,” he murmured.
“All right.”
She hopped down from the stool and he followed, placing his hand low on her back, guiding her out of the restaurant. They emerged into the stifling night air, the sounds of the city extra loud, and he glanced down at her, catching her gaze.
“Do you mind walking to the hotel?”
“Is the walk as far as the last time we tried this?” The amusement in her tone was unmistakable.
He chuckled. “Much, much shorter, I promise. We’re two, maybe three blocks from the hotel at the most.”
“That’s doable.”
They walked side by side in silence and for some inexplicable reason, he wanted to reach out and grab her hand. Pull her with him down the street, into the hotel, the elevator, her room.
Where he would push her against the wall and kiss her. A real kiss this time, with tongues and heat and soft little moans. He would race his hands all over that slender body, cup her breasts, caress her skin, grind against her until she was panting and begging for it.
Sweat misted his forehead and he tried his best to push the wicked imagery from his brain.
But it was no use. The idea was there, front and center, and his fingers literally itched to take hers. Lace them together, stroke the top of her hand with his thumb. He’d never wanted to be so connected to a woman before in his life.
He recalled the night in the taxi, the way she’d touched his thigh. She’d wanted him then and had let him know it, albeit shyly. She hadn’t made a move whatsoever tonight.
Disappointment threatened and he told himself to shove it deep. He was being an idiot. This woman who wasn’t his usual sort was destroying his brain cells and common sense, bit by bit.
“There’s the hotel.” Her soft voice broke through his lusty thoughts and he glanced up, saw the Warwick Hotel in the near distance. “Thank you so much for walking me here.”
“Want me to walk you up to your room?”
She turned her head so sharply in his direction, he was afraid she’d give herself whiplash. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”
Christ, yes, he wanted to say. “I’m not going to push myself on you, Gabriella, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
“Of course, I’m not afraid of you.”
“Good.” He smiled. “I’ve never instilled fear in a woman before. I’m the nicer brother of the three.”
“I heard you’re the bad brother.” She clamped her lips shut, her eyes going wide.
He stopped in front of the hotel and so did she. Great. So she knew about his past? But then again, who didn’t? “My reputation always precedes me.”
She cocked her head to the side, contemplating him. “You’re actually quite the gentleman.”
If she was referring to the other night, she didn’t know how much it took for him to use such restraint. Normally he would’ve jumped her. Hell, he would’ve had his hand up her skirt and his fingers beneath the front of her panties by the time the cab stopped at their destination.
“I’m trying to walk the straight and narrow,” he said, his voice tight, his jaw aching from gritting his teeth.
“Really?” She tsked and shook her head. “Well, isn’t that a shame?”
Gabriella turned on her heel and entered the hotel, not once looking back.
And leaving Rhett in the dust.
He’ll be any man she wants—except himself.
Big Boy
© 2013 Ruthie Knox
A Strangers on a Train Story
Meet me at the train museum after dark. Dress for 1957.
When Mandy joins an online dating service, she keeps her expectations low. All she wants is a distraction from the drudgery of single parenthood and full-time work. But the invitation she receives from a handsome man who won’t share his real name promises an adventure—and a chance to pretend she’s someone else for a few hours.
She doesn’t want romance to complicate her life, but Mandy’s monthly role-playing dates with her stranger on a train—each to a different time period—become the erotic escape she desperately needs. And a soul connection she never expected.
Yet when she tries to draw her lover out of the shadows, Mandy has a fight on her hands…to convince him there’s a place for their fantasy love in the light of day.
Warning: Contains sexy role-playing, theatrical application of coal dust, and a hero who can rock a pair of brown polyester pants.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Big Boy:
He always meets me at the gate. The chain link swings open, and I pull my car through at a crawl. I don’t look to the left where he’s standing. I don’t want to know who he is yet.
Until I step onto the train, he’s nobody special.
“Are my seams straight?” I ask, pausing in my walk so I can tip the arch of my foot toward the floor of the train car and point my toe. I glance over my shoulder, the epitome of coy.
I’m Marilyn Monroe from Some Like It Hot tonight. I coaxed Lisa into sewing the black satin dress for me, adding fringe from a flapper costume I found at Goodwill. Lisa says that in this dress, my ass looks like two puppies fighting under a blanket.
The banked fire in his eyes tells me that’s a good thing.
He wears a leather jacket and a newsboy cap. He carries my luggage. When we get to my berth, I’ll tip him, and he’ll smirk at me the way he does.
Rocky is his name. I asked when I handed him my hatbox.
He’s five or six inches taller than me, his body lean and sculpted by hard work. I bet he looks grand with his clothes off.
I toss him a smile, another form of gratuity. “Well? Are they?”
He shakes his head as if I’m doing something to him, and it’s painful, and he’d like me to stop. But all he says is “They’re straight, ma’am.”
I’m ma’am tonight. I like that.
I think it means I’ll get to be in charge, but I’m wrong.
As soon as we pass through the narrow doorway of the berth, he’s on me, his hands spanning my waist, sliding over the curve of my hips. His skin catches the slick material of my dress. He puts his lips on the pulse at my throat and lingers there. I hear him draw in a deep breath, reverent.
I missed you too.
And then his mouth is moving down, down, until he reaches the tightly cosseted swell of my breasts.
“Stop me if you’re gonna stop me, lady.”
I want to lift my leg up and wrap it around his hip, but I can’t lift anything. I’m wearing a garment designed for mincing around. I know, because I designed it.
“You’re awfully fresh.” I can feel the smile on his lips as they brush my nipple through the satin. The tease.
“You married, ma’am?” He addresses the question to my cleavage.
“You care?”
“I don’t truck with married women.” He lifts his head to tell me this, his hound-dog e
yes all soulful and dark. He’s lost the cap. I see it on the floor where our feet have tangled together, Glen-check wool next to beat-up cordovan oxfords and two-tone pumps with bows on the toes.
I spent days finding the right shoes.
“A cad with principles.” I furrow my fingers through his hair. He’s slicked it back, but I loosen it. I like it falling in his eyes. “That’s rich.”
“Who says I’m a cad?”
He squeezes my ass, his long fingers pressing close to where I want them but not close enough.
“Jeez, fella,” I say on an exhale, dropping my head to the wall behind me and letting my eyes drift closed. “I sure as hell hope you’re a cad.”
I imagine the vibration of the train in the wall behind my back as he peels the satin off my shoulders and puts his mouth on me. As he drops to his knees and pushes the dress up my hips. The fringe ought to be an impediment, but he’s the sort of man who can handle a little fringe.
He’s not a cad, though. Not really.
The babysitter is sick, and I hate her.
This makes me a bad person, I know. She sounds so pathetic on the phone, frog-voiced and snotty, and I’m supposed to comfort her. It feels like emotional blackmail. Why do I have to be nice to her when she’s ruining my day?
“I can still come if you want me to.” She means I want to stay in bed and watch reruns of bad television. “I just don’t want to get Josh sick.” Only a very bad mother would expose her child to this pestilence. A very bad, very selfish mother.
I’m not a bad mother. Not usually. But there’s no room in my life for sick babysitters. I have to teach in forty minutes, and I haven’t done my class prep yet. I have office hours afterward, meetings with nine separate students to talk about papers they haven’t started thinking about writing. I have a dissertation chapter to finish if I’m going to manage not to get fired when I come up for my contract renewal in the fall.
Sometimes Josh gets the short end of the stick, but I console myself with the thought that I get it a lot more often.
I’m not a bad person. On the other hand, I’m not such a good one that I’m going to tell my babysitter to stay home. This will be a life lesson for her: Don’t say yes when you mean no.
Maybe if I’d learned that lesson sooner, I’d have told my sister no when she asked me if she could put me in her will as her children’s guardian. Then, when Paige and her husband and my three-year-old niece, Ava, got killed by a drunk driver, I wouldn’t have become the mother of a nine-day-old infant.
But if I’d done that, I wouldn’t have Josh now, and not having Josh has become inconceivable.
Sweet as pie, I ask the babysitter, “Why don’t you come on over? He has a strong immune system. If you feel really crappy, you can show him cartoons.”
Of course, Josh gets sick the next day.
He sleeps badly, waking up every hour and calling for me. I set up a humidifier in his room, rub his back and soothe him to sleep, but by the third time he wakes, I’ve given up on the idea of getting any sleep myself. I rock him in my arms for hours, singing folk songs when he gets fussy.
He tucks his head against my neck, breathing warm against my skin, and I feel so guilty. So inadequate.
I should’ve canceled my office hours and stayed home with him. I should put him in daycare, but I can’t afford it. My salary is pitiable, and I have loans to pay off. So I make do with a couple of babysitters, telling myself he’s better off at home, spending as much time as possible with me.
But when I’m at home with him, I’m a distracted mother, always trying to get away with as much work or as much cleaning as I can. He wants nothing but me—my attention, my love—and I want to give it to him, only I want so many other things too.
When Paige and I were kids, we both thought we’d have big families one day. I imagined a husband and three children, every little girl’s version of domestic bliss. Then I went to college, and I spent the summer after my sophomore year as a camp counselor in Colorado. The job was relentless. Cabins full of eight-year-olds for three weeks at a stretch. They never stopped needing me for one second. I felt like I was suffocating.
That’s when I decided I wasn’t cut out to be a mother. I was always the better student, anyway. I focused on school and let Paige focus on motherhood. She found her husband, her scrapbooking group, her happy domesticity. I went to grad school and fooled around in an unserious way with unserious boys.
I pet Josh’s back, breathing against the solid weight of his sleeping body pressing into my neck, my breasts, my belly. I wouldn’t trade him for the world.
I want him to have everything, but all he has is me.
Lisa’s students call her Lisa. Mine call me Professor Sharp. I suspect this is no mere accident. I’m a nice person but a hard grader. I kick them out of my classroom for texting, and I tell them things about Indian nations and white-male privilege that disturb their comfortable worldviews.
My students walk into my classroom expecting odes to the American frontier and walk out disgusted with their ancestors, incapable of waving a flag or watching a Fourth of July parade without deconstructing it.
Some of them dislike me for this, but the best ones love having their eyes opened. They sit in my office and wax enthusiastic about prejudice and abuse, nattering on about how the readings I’ve assigned them have recast the way they look at everything.
I used to be like them. It’s hard to remember now, but that sort of critical idealism is what got me into grad school in the first place. These days, I fill my grocery-store cart up with packaged baby foods and state-government-subsidized milk, and it’s harder to get fired up about any of it. The condition of my bank account and Josh’s diaper seem to be about all the worries I can handle.
I’m a professor of American Studies at the University of Wisconsin–Green Bay, the most recent hire in an abysmal job market. I got the job three months before I got Josh. I was packing up to move when Paige died and everything changed.
Now I’m in my second year in Green Bay, and I like it well enough. It’s the sort of place people don’t move away from, which means I’ll be an outsider even if I live here until I die. Which I might. There are pitifully few jobs in my field, and I hadn’t liked being on the market. So many sharks fighting over so little chum.
I’m Mandy to my friends, Amanda to my mother when she calls, which is not all that often. She lives in Oregon, and she’s mourning Paige’s death with long stretches of silence and solo camping trips that worry me. I’ve tried to talk her into relocating to Wisconsin so we can have each other for company and she can help me with Josh. She says she needs the quiet and the high desert to heal.
Josh calls me Mama, which is my favorite name. I love him with a ferocity that scares me. I once made myself retch thinking about what would happen if he died in a plane crash or got sick or abused.
But having a baby is like having a bad boyfriend. Josh will kiss me one minute and smack me in the face with a sharp-edged block the next. If he could talk, he’d say, I need you, Mama. I need you so bad.
It wears me out, being needed.
Lisa calls me a martyr and tells me to stop trying to save everybody and take care of myself.
I do, I tell her. I do.
But it’s not exactly true. One night a month, I let somebody else take care of me.
Worth Everything
Karen Erickson
Can two lost souls find their way to love?
Worth It, Book 4
Anastasia Renaldi’s life is a complete lie. Disinherited from the family fashion-accessory business and informed she’s the illegitimate daughter of the famous—and long-dead—Michael Worth of Worth Luxury, she has no one to turn to. No real family, no job, no identity to claim. Lost and confused, she turns to the one man who can help her obtain what is rightfully hers.
Attorney Gavin Westmore is hired to discover the truth. Does Stasia Renaldi have a stake to claim in the Worth empire? From the moment he meets her, Gavi
n knows what sort of woman Stasia is. Calculating, devious—she won’t let anything or anyone get in the way of her pursuit of a fortune. As long as he can collect his generous fee, he’s fine with it.
But Gavin soon discovers his perception of Stasia is wrong. She truly is confused, a sweet, ambitious woman who wants what rightfully belongs to her. Soon they’re spending lots of time together—and it goes beyond the attorney/client type meetings. The only question is, after untangling the web of lies to get to the truth, whether there will be any room left for love.
Warning: A secret Worth sister? Yes, indeed. Not only will you catch a glimpse of all those delicious Worth brothers one last time, you’ll get to know their sweet, feisty sister—and the man who’ll tame her. All in the name of love.
eBooks are not transferable.
They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B
Cincinnati OH 45249
Worth Everything
Copyright © 2013 by Karen Erickson
ISBN: 978-1-61921-297-8
Edited by Amy Sherwood
Cover by Angela Waters
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Worth Everything: Worth It, Book 4 Page 21