by Meghan March
This woman . . . she constantly amazed me.
A true measure of genius was the ability to take the most complex concept and break it down to the simplest expression. And that’s exactly what Ari had done in her own unique way.
“Do you think it’s dumb?”
I shook my head. “No. Not at all.” A lump rose in my throat when I pictured her racking her brain for something so perfect.
“It was either that or the first ten thousand decimal places of pi, because the infinity symbol seemed too bland. I thought this was a more elegant expression.”
I yanked her into my arms and pressed my face into her hair. “It’s perfect. I love you, Ari.”
“I love you too.”
Nothing else needed to be said, in any language.
* * *
The End
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Haven’t read the rest of the Beneath series yet? You can find it here:
* * *
Beneath This Mask (Simon and Charlie)
Beneath This Ink (Con and Vanessa)
Beneath These Chains (Lord and Elle)
Beneath These Scars (Lucas and Yve)
Beneath These Lies (Rix and Valentina)
Beneath These Shadows (Bishop and Eden)
Preview of Ruthless King
Get ready for the darker and dirtier side of New Orleans with a brand new epic alpha romance from USA Today bestselling author Meghan March.
* * *
New Orleans belongs to me.
You don’t know my name, but I control everything you see—and all the things you don’t.
My reach knows no bounds, and my demands are always met.
I didn’t need to loan money to a failing family distillery, but it amuses me to have them in my debt.
To have her in my debt.
She doesn’t know she caught my attention.
She should’ve been more careful.
I’m going to own her. Consume her. Maybe even keep her.
It’s time to collect what I’m owed.
Keira Kilgore, you’re now the property of Lachlan Mount.
* * *
ONE
Keira
Are those footsteps?
I freeze outside the door to my locked office and stare at the handle like it’s tainted with anthrax.
My younger sisters wouldn’t dare. They know my office is off limits. My parents are 700 miles away in Florida living it up as retirees on the monthly payments I make from the dismal profits of the distillery. It’s barely hanging on, even after four generations of clinging to life making Irish whiskey in New Orleans.
This basement isn’t haunted. This basement isn’t haunted.
I repeat that truth like a chant until my heart slows to a semi-normal pace. My dead husband’s ghost better not be inside, or heaven help me, I’ll kill Brett again myself.
Summoning the same iron will it has taken to dig this company out of the trenches, I grasp the handle, yank it open, and fling myself inside, attempting the element of surprise. Or false courage. Or… something.
“Trying to make an entrance?” The deep voice that comes out of the dark chills me to the very marrow of my bones.
I’ve only heard it once before, through the battered wood of the same locked door I just barged past, but it had been delivering threats I didn’t understand, not asking a question in that cool, controlled manner.
There’s no way I want to be in the dark with this voice.
He’s not a ghost. He’s worse.
He’s the friggin’ boogeyman.
Whispered about in the shadows, but never mentioned in polite company, almost as if saying his name will make him appear—and no one wants that.
I’ve never said it.
I don’t even want to think it now, but my brain conjures it anyway.
Lachlan Mount.
I fumble around, slapping the concrete wall to find the switch, but when I flip it, nothing happens.
Oh Sweet Jesus, I’m going to die and I won’t even see it coming.
My antique desk chair creaks just before the dim glow of my lamp clicks on.
I see his massive hands first, then darkly tanned forearms with white cuffs rolled up. The light doesn’t reach his face.
“Shut the door, Ms. Kilgore.”
Swallowing back the saliva pooling in my mouth at the fact that he knows my name, my hand moves as though directly responding to his command. I grope for the handle behind me, when all I really want to do is turn around and run.
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 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, but his face never coming in to 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 kind, well, at least most of my kind. A few rumors have circled 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 rivet 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 was willing to risk to save this place?”
“How much?” I ask, inching his way against my will.
“A half million dollars.”
I suck in a shocked breath. “You’re lying.”
With both hands on the table, he leans down, exposing his face in the dim light. Hard features carved from granite, piercing 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 sunk five hundred thousand into the distillery, 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 had dedicated their hopes, dreams, and fortunes to keeping this legacy alive. It couldn’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.
“Because there’s something I might be willing to take on trade.”
It takes everything I have to keep my voice steady. “What?”
He stops a foot from me, and his full lips form a single word.
“You.”
* * *
Welcome to the darker and dirtier side of New Orleans. Ruthless King is coming October 17, 2017, and Mount will get what he’s owed. Ruthless King is available for preorder by tapping here.
Ruthless King is book 1 of the Mount Trilogy. Mount and Keira’s story is anticipated to be complete in Fall 2017 with Defiant Queen and Sinful Empire.
Also by Meghan March
Standalone
Take Me Back
Bad Judgment
* * *
Mount Trilogy:
Ruthless King (coming October 2017)
Defiant Queen (coming Fall 2017)
Sinful Empire (coming Fall 2017)
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
Acknowledgments
To the readers who have followed this series from the beginning—thank you. Thank you for making my dreams come true by falling in love with this world and these characters. Please don’t be sad that it’s over. I promise they’ll make cameo appearances in future books. I’m not ready to say good-bye to them either.
To my Runaways—You are an amazing group of souls. Thank you for being my constant cheerleaders.
Angela Marshall Smith—Thank you for everything you do. I can’t even properly express how much it means to me.
Jamie Lynn—You found me with Beneath This Mask, and look how far we’ve come! What an amazing ride, and I can’t wait to see where we go next. Thank you.
My JJL crew—I love you, bitches. So fucking hard.
To every blogger who has read one, all, or some of my books—Thank you for investing your precious time in my words. You make this indie book world function with your dedication, and it is truly appreciated.
To my kick-ass beta readers—Thank you for your time and intuition. I appreciate the gift of your feedback more than you’ll ever know.
To my family—Thank you for understanding when I disappear into my book worlds and am incommunicado for days or weeks at a time. I love you all.
To my author friends who share insight and encouragement—I can’t thank you enough for being the best damn colleagues in the most amazing industry out there. Hugs to all of you.
To JDW—You’re in every hero I write, but none of them can even come close to the real thing. Thank you for showing me what it is to be truly loved. You make my dreams come true, and without you, these books wouldn’t be nearly what they are. I love you.
Author’s Note
I’d love to hear from you. Connect with me at:
* * *
Website:
www.meghanmarch.com
Facebook:
www.facebook.com/MeghanMarchAuthor
Twitter:
www.twitter.com/meghan_march
Instagram:
www.instagram.com/meghanmarch
About the Author
Meghan March has been known to wear camo face paint and tromp around in the woods wearing mud-covered boots, all while sporting a perfect manicure. She’s also impulsive, easily entertained, and absolutely unapologetic about the fact that she loves to read and write smut.
Her past lives include slinging auto parts, selling lingerie, making custom jewelry, and practicing corporate law. Writing books about dirty-talking alpha males and the strong, sassy women who bring them to their knees is by far the most fabulous job she’s ever had.
She loves hearing from her readers at [email protected].