by Sandy James
Rules of the Game
By Sandy James
Kathyrn West has it all—she’s a confident, bestselling author living it up in New York City. Too bad she doesn’t actually exist, and is only timid Maddie Sawyer’s pseudonym. Determined to attend her high school reunion with a man right out of one of her racy romance novels, she plots to find a sexy bad boy who’s up to Kathryn’s standards.
She finds Mr. Perfect shooting pool in a biker bar. He’s a blue-collar hunk who just happens to look great in leather. But the mysterious Scott Brady has some rules of his own: he won’t agree to her deal unless she poses as his girlfriend in front of his family and friends first.
As the reunion nears, Maddie tries to maintain her carefree façade, knowing she’ll soon face some old ghosts. She’s torn between her growing attraction to Scott and the nagging feeling that he’s hiding something important. Will she still want him when she finds out his secret? What about when he discovers hers?
76,000 words
Dear Reader,
April is a bit of a mixed-bag month, isn’t it? In some countries, like here in the United States, it’s tax season, which for many is either a very stressful time or a time of “Hurray! Tax-return money arrives!” We also get Easter weekend, which comes with days off for some. April is also the month where we finally (hopefully) really start seeing the change of seasons from winter to spring, let out a long breath and kick our children outdoors for longer periods of time (surely it’s not just me who does that?).
So I guess it’s only appropriate that our releases this month are also a mixed bag. Carina Press is able to bring you an assortment of titles to help bust you out of any lingering winter blues. The month starts off with a smokin’-hot bang via Abby Wood’s erotic contemporary cowboy romance Consent to Love. Joining her in the first week of April are Sandy James with her contemporary romance Rules of the Game, and Regency romance The Perfect Impostor by Wendy Soliman.
Also in the contemporary romance genre in April we have His Secret Temptation by Cat Schield, Serious Play by Bonnie Dee and Summer Devon, and North of Heartbreak by Julie Rowe. Historical romance author M.K. Chester joins the April lineup with Surrender to the Roman, and Juliana Ross heats up the Victorian era with erotic historical romance Improper Relations. Returning with three more books in her White series is author Susan Edwards.
Talented Natalie J. Damschroder returns with another crowd-pleasing romantic suspense, Acceptable Risks. And if you love that book, make sure you check out her previous romantic suspense, Fight or Flight, from our 2011 release schedule!
For those of you who prefer your romance a bit more…otherworldly, Kaylea Cross’s Darkest Caress is a paranormal romance of magical races, darkly handsome men and fiercely independent women. Ella Drake takes us to her vision of our post-apocalyptic world in Desert Blade, and new Carina Press author Kay Keppler’s Zero Gravity Outcasts takes readers on a science-fiction adventure with a hint of romance.
Fans of male/male romance should be on the lookout for Brook Street: Fortune Hunter, the next in author Ava March’s regency historical trilogy.
Last, but certainly not least, we’re very pleased to present debut author Christopher Beats’s steampunk noir Cruel Numbers this month. Visit Christopher’s alternate historical world in which the North loses the War of Southern Secession, one girl’s talent for analytical machines has made her a valuable asset in the new world, and steam-powered gadgets may give war veteran Donovan Schist the edge he needs to save his life, and hers.
I think April’s schedule of releases is a good reason to wish for just one more snow day—so you can stay inside and read! I hope you enjoy these books as much as we have.
We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to [email protected]. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.
Happy reading!
~Angela James
Executive Editor, Carina Press
www.carinapress.com
www.twitter.com/carinapress
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Dedication
To Leanna—a great friend and wonderful critique partner. Thanks for your honesty and for always having the guts to smack me with the no-no-no stick when I deserve it.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
About the Author
Copyright
Chapter One
The reunion reminder card glared at me from the refrigerator door. The magnet holding it in place had a picture of Times Square lit up at night to remind me that I was a real person in New York. I wasn’t awkward Madalyn Sawyer from Indiana anymore—the one with braces and a hick twang who couldn’t walk a straight line without tripping over her own feet.
Here in the Big Apple, I was Kathryn West. That’s how I signed all my books, the name I dropped at parties my publisher liked to throw, and how I introduced myself at book conventions where I met people who loved me even though they didn’t know who I really was.
My stories were gritty. Rough. Raw. As Kathryn, I wrote of heroines who’d seen the very worst life had to offer and survived. Thrived, even. And happily ever after with the hero was secondary to the heroine coming out of the trial a better woman.
I didn’t believe in happily ever afters anyway.
Kathryn West would be welcome at that reunion. She would have so many funny and raunchy stories to share, everyone there would adore her. Kathryn wouldn’t be dragging all that baggage behind her or trying to keep all her skeletons stuffed deep in her closet.
But what about Maddie Sawyer?
She would be a proverbial wallflower. She would wear an outfit from Target and shoes from Payless. She would laugh at other people’s lame stories, and no one would even remember she’d been there. Once a geek, always a geek.
I’d wished I was Kathryn West more times than I could count.
Then it dawned on me like a smack upside the head. Why in the hell couldn’t I be Kathryn West? I’d invented that persona, after all.
She’d ride up on an extraordinarily loud Harley Davidson with some dangerous guy who had biceps the size of her thigh, a face with a couple of intriguing scars, and an ass every woman in the room would want to put her hands all over. She would drag him by his black leather jacket out on the dance floor and not be embarrassed at using a few grinding moves. She’d drink just enough to be funny. Kathryn West would be the life of the party and the person everyone at the reunion envied. All the women would want to be her, and all the men would want to have her.
All I needed was that guy.
* * *
After striking out in five other bars, I wound up at Trixie’s. At least that would be the name of the place if all of the fuchsia neon lights had been working.
The first bar I’d chosen had great potential. Plenty of buff guys. Oodles of black leather. So much testosterone it left a haze in the air like some masculine version of cigarette smoke.
The third guy I targ
eted finally had mercy on me and told me everyone in the place was gay. Shit, my gaydar had to be way off.
At bar two, the moment I walked in the average age of the customers dropped a good twenty years. Gray hair and black leather really weren’t a sexy combination, and I had to fight hard to prevent images of Grandma and Grandpa dressed like Hell’s Angels from forming.
I blocked memories of the other three bars in hopes of avoiding post-traumatic stress disorder.
Trixie’s in Jersey City looked as good a place as any to end this humiliating night.
The bar area was crowded, smoky and smelled of stale beer. Surely in this group of men I would be able to find a guy who fit the bill. All he had to be was gorgeous in a roughneck sort of way, a good actor and poor enough to need the money I offered.
My tired yet still desperate eyes swept the long wooden bar. This was a saloon and pool hall, for pity’s sake. There had to be plenty of guys to choose from, any of which would knock my old high school classmates on their asses. Figuratively speaking.
Okay, maybe literally speaking.
The music thrumming through the place seemed the ultimate in the irony that constantly surrounded my life. I needed something like “It’s Raining Men,” but what I got was “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.” That sure didn’t bode well.
At least there were plenty of guys to choose from. Almost every barstool was occupied. One by one, I judged them like pieces of steak at the supermarket.
Too much fat.
Past the expiration date.
Just don’t like the looks of it.
Damn it. The guy I needed was nowhere to be seen. Maybe Trixie’s wasn’t my lucky spot after all. Strike six, and you’re—
“You want a drink?” a husky Lauren Bacall voice called.
I want several. Do you make a good mimosa?
I looked over to see a woman with gray hair and the brightest red lipstick I’d ever seen. A half-smoked cigarette sat pinched between her lips, and a bar towel lay slapped over her shoulder.
“Um…I guess,” I replied.
“What’s your poison, sweetheart?” she asked as the three guys sitting close to her turned to stare at me. They appeared to have come straight to the bar from some local meeting of Overeaters Anonymous.
Three sets of bloodshot eyes raked me from head to toe. I might have been desperate, but I was definitely not desperate enough to choose Larry, Curly or Moe.
Where’s Russell Crowe when I need him?
I almost ordered a wine cooler until I realized Trixie’s probably only carried the rough stuff and beer. “Whatever domestic you’ve got on tap.”
She filled a mug from the tap and handed it to me before turning back to flirt with the Three Stooges.
As I sipped my beer, the clink of balls on a pool table drew me toward the attached pool hall. The smoke grew thick. As my eyes adjusted, my mood improved.
This was what I had been searching for all night.
Bikers in black leather encircled all eight pool tables. Some younger than I needed. Some a little older. As I looked at each man, I started to feel like Goldilocks, fearing none would fit the bill.
Then I saw Mr. Just Right.
I wanted a bad boy, of that I was sure. I wanted to walk into that reunion with someone who would make all those judgmental jaws drop. I wanted someone who would make every woman in the room sigh in longing.
And there he was.
No cliché denim Harley jacket for him. Good thing, because I wouldn’t have been able to see those heavenly biceps. A tattoo circled his upper left arm, the type of tat all guys who think they’re badasses wear. Very Celtic. I preferred a barbed-wire pattern, but hey, I was renting not buying. Having any body art was enough, and for some reason, it was a total turn-on. The back of his black T-shirt advertised Corona beer. The sleeves had been ripped off, giving him that rugged look, but he successfully avoided redneck by not sporting a backward baseball cap. His shoulders were sublime.
He bent over the table, aiming for what looked like a difficult shot that would probably make him scratch. That position accounted for why I noticed his ass rather than his face. Damn, but those Levis fit him perfectly.
Shaking myself free of whatever hypnotic spell his faultless butt had woven, I held my breath and hoped the front of him measured up. I was dying to see his…face.
As the ball sank into the pocket without a pesky scratch, he stood to his full height, probably six-three or so. More than enough to be commanding. Black hair. Wavy. Long enough to curl against his neck.
Oh yes, this one would do, but there was one more hurdle. He hadn’t turned around yet.
I tried not to jinx myself by thinking he’d have a face like Winston Churchill—or even worse, Churchill’s bulldog. Everything else was ideal. That would just be my luck to find the greatest body I’d seen in heaven knew how long on a face only a pet could love.
Please let him be handsome. Please let him be handsome. Pretty, pretty please.
The guy who’d lost the match picked up the twenties piled on the side of the table, pressed them into Just Right’s hand, and slapped him hard enough on the shoulder that he took a stumbling step forward.
Just Right rubbed the injured spot. “Thanks a heap, Jason. That’ll leave a mark.”
God, that voice. Smooth, deep and warm. He could recite silly nursery rhymes and I’d be content to sit there all day to listen.
“Serves you right,” Jason replied. “Pretty boy like you needs a few bruises and a couple of scars. Maybe I can break that nose for you. Give your face some character.”
Pretty boy. I sure liked the sound of that.
Just Right shoved the money into his front pocket, leaned his cue against the table and finally turned around.
Mr. Just Right was the Perfect Man, right down to his sapphire eyes.
“Hi,” he offered as he smiled at me. “You’re new here.” His smile revealed teeth so white, he could have been a model for laser brightening treatments.
I was too dumbfounded to speak, so I just nodded.
“Are you here to shoot pool?”
“No. I’m kinda…looking for someone.”
Perfect Man glanced around the room. “Is he here?”
I think I just found him. “Nah.”
Grabbing an empty Budweiser bottle from the edge of the pool table, he nodded at a small table in the corner. “Well then…would you like to sit down and talk for a bit? Want another beer?”
I hadn’t even finished the first. “Yeah, we can sit. But no, thanks, on the beer.”
“Grab the table, and I’ll be right back.”
He walked to the bar where the gray-haired bartender grinned, eyeing him like she was the perfect cougar just waiting for the right younger man
I set my beer down then sat myself down. Watching him in that sexy bad-boy outfit as he headed toward the table, my heart rate kicked into a higher gear.
“What exactly brings you to Trixie’s? I’ve never seen you here before. You sure don’t look like a Harley chick to me.” He took a long draw on his fresh beer. For some reason, it seemed like the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.
“I was looking for…someone.” And I sure didn’t expect to find you. I tried to channel Kathryn. “I need an…escort. To a party.”
His lopsided grin was way too attractive for my peace of mind. “An escort? Pretty girl like you?”
That was it. I was taking him home and handcuffing him to my furniture. “Yeah, well…I guess I’m looking for a…special type of escort.”
“Special? Like me, huh?” His chuckle warmed me from the inside out. “I can’t figure out if that’s an insult or a compliment.”
“Oh, a compliment. Definitely.” I took a long drink of my beer, struggling to find the right way to tell him what I was looking for. The stupid alcohol went right to my head. “I want to knock some people’s socks off. Give ’em a total surprise. I want to show up with, you know, a…a bad boy. Someone who looks a little da
ngerous. The last person anyone would ever expect someone like me to be with.”
A handsome black eyebrow arched in question. “And just what kind of person are you?”
I shrugged. “Safe. White bread. Vanilla.”
“In other words…”
“Dull.” No way around it.
He had the audacity to laugh at me. Then he must have realized I was serious. He took another pull on his beer while his eyes never left mine. “Dangerous, huh? I’m intrigued. What kind of party?”
I kept turning my mug in circles until I made myself stop the nervous crutch. I had to remind myself that the worst he could do was turn me down. Right? “It’s actually more of a reunion. A class reunion. A dinner and dance thing.”
“High school or college?”
“High school.”
“Baggage?”
“I beg your pardon?”
I could sit here and watch that grin all day. He had a dimple in his right cheek, and why that turned my insides into nothing but soup, I didn’t know.
“Are you taking a lot of baggage to the reunion? Old boyfriend you wish would take one look at you and hate himself for letting you go? Sanctimonious bitch you want to show up? What exactly are you dragging with you that a dangerous guy like me is supposed to solve?”
“Um…it’s not like that.” I took another big swallow, hoping to instill some courage. Of course I had baggage. But I wasn’t about to tell him how awfully heavy it was, figuring no one went back to a small town high school reunion without a secret or two hiding in her hope chest. This man was supposed to help me lighten the load a little, not make me deal with it.
He chuckled. “Sure, it’s not.” His eyes stayed fixed on me, and between the next gulp of my beer and his unwavering gaze, my face flushed hot. “Why don’t you have your boyfriend take you?”
I snorted a very unattractive laugh. “Because I haven’t had one in two years.”
“So that’s why you’re trying to pick me up!”
“I’m not trying to pick you up. I’m trying to hire you.” My damned beer was already empty.
Just Right signaled to the lady behind the bar. A few moments later, a fresh mug was set in front of me.