Pretty Broken Dreams: A Pretty Broken Standalone Novel

by Jeana E. Mann

  “I’m not a princess.” The nickname brings up a lifetime of unpleasant memories. Paparazzi has tracked my every move for as long as I can remember, dubbing me the Princess of Seaforth.

  “Oh, you’re a princess, alright, and your daddy is the freaking king.”

  The moon passes behind a cloud, covering his face in shadows. The darkness heightens my awareness of his body, the rise and fall of his chest, the heat from his skin. My breasts ache. The clouds recede, but not the desire.

  “I can’t help who my father is, any more than you can help who your parents are.”

  “True.” His gaze dips to my mouth and holds there for two infinite heartbeats. “But you definitely got the better deal.”

  “You don’t know my father. He’s not…” The words die on my lips. I have no idea how to explain Maxwell Seaforth, his coldness, or complete lack of interest in his daughters. “He’s not a nice person.”

  One of his eyebrows arches. “What did he do? Ground you from using the yacht?”

  “I’ve never been on the yacht.” I’ve never even seen it. The one time I asked if we could take a vacation on the yacht, Maxwell laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks. Once he stopped laughing, he informed me that vacations were for lazy people and the yacht was for business—his business. The memory still burns. I never asked again. “I haven’t seen him in forever. He works all the time. Every day. All day. Including holidays. The only thing that matters to him is his precious money.” And Sam—he’s obsessed with Sam, but that’s another story.

  “You have everything your heart desires. It can’t be that rough.” He leans back against one of the columns and folds his forearms over his chest. “You have no idea what it’s like to go without food because your father doesn’t pay his support, or wear the same clothes for days on end because you don’t have anything else.”

  He’s right. I have no right to complain. To the outsider, my life is perfect, a fairytale existence. I lean against the opposite post and mimic his posture. A cool breeze ruffles through my hair, providing relief from the humidity. How do I convey the dull ache in my chest whenever I see a family, the endless loneliness of boarding schools and dormitories, the constant sensation of being judged for your last name? I know how it sounds, the poor rich girl whining about the inequity of her life, so I say nothing and stare across the garden.

  “My father’s not a nice person either. I guess we’ve got that in common.” There’s wistfulness in his tone that draws my gaze back to him. “My dad’s in prison for beating my mom to death with a baseball bat.”

  This single sentence sends all my preconceptions about this boy into the toilet, and I feel like an ass. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “When he got done with her, he went after my ten-year-old sister. He beat her so long and so hard, she lost seven teeth and needed plastic surgery to repair all the shattered bones in her face. She suffered irreparable brain damage.” The cords in his neck tighten, and his fingers curl into fists.

  “Why would anyone do a thing like that?” The sheer brutality of the act turns my stomach.

  He shrugs and stares into the darkness. “No idea. It could’ve been anything. Maybe Mom put too much salt on his supper or didn’t fold the laundry. It’s hard to tell. He didn’t need a reason most of the time. The last time he hit me, it was because I tripped over his foot when he was asleep in the chair.” One corner of his mouth curls up in a humorless grin. “But that was the last time he ever touched me.” He flexes his hand, staring at his knuckles. “I packed my bags and left. Two months later, he killed Mom.”

  His eyes lift to mine. Anger, disappointment, and hurt swim in the blue pools of his irises. He corrals his emotions before the next blink of his long, thick eyelashes. I want to comfort him, to take away his pain, and before I can stop myself, I cup his face. He covers my hand with his. The stubble of his cheek tickles my palm.

  “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.” Words seem inadequate to describe the way I feel. No matter how hard I try, I can’t look away from him.

  “I moved away and changed my name.” The break in his voice belies the hard line of his jaw. “I’d appreciate it if you forget I mentioned it. Tristan doesn’t know, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “I won’t tell. I promise.”

  His fingers curl around mine. He draws my hand away from his face and down to his side. The gesture pulls me against his chest. Our noses hover millimeters apart. My breasts press against a torso hardened with muscle. His free hand tangles in the hair at my nape and tilts my head to align my lips with his. The caveman gesture weakens my knees. The mixture of toughness and vulnerability in his touch awakens desire in every corner of my body. Does he make love the same way? I’ve never been with a guy who actually knew what he was doing, but I’ve got a feeling that situation is about to change.

  Chapter 7

  Cam - Twelve Years Ago

  I CAN’T BELIEVE I confided my dirtiest, darkest secret to a girl I’ve known less than a day. What the hell is wrong with me? But one look into her green eyes reassures my doubts. She’ll honor her promise to keep my secret.

  Memories of my father invoke an anger I can barely control. He stole my mother’s life and my little sister’s future. I’m more infuriated with myself. Instead of running like a coward, I should have been there for them. The passage of time can’t erase my guilt. Every night, when I close my eyes to sleep, I see their faces, replay the scene in my head, wondering how I might have changed the outcome.

  “Cam.” Vanessa’s soft voice calls my name, stirring something low in my belly. How long have I been staring? Her eyes are wide, compassionate but not pitying.

  My fingers tighten in her hair. Every fiber in my body needs to kiss her. She’s soft and pliable in my hands. Her nipples stab into my chest. I want her in a thousand different ways—most of them illegal in the state of Kentucky—and I’m pretty sure she’d comply. Sex soothes the beast raging inside me, but I refuse to use her like that. She’s too vulnerable, too sweet, for a revenge fuck. I save that for the women who pay me.

  Headlights sweep across the garden and briefly illuminate the gazebo. A car door slams. Footsteps crunch over gravel. I gently push Vanessa away, but I can’t resist stroking my fingers through her long hair first. Another place, another time, I would’ve been between her thighs without a second thought.

  “That’s Mr. Avondale.” My voice cracks. I clear my throat. “You’d better go. You don’t want to get caught out here like this.” With me.

  She stares into my eyes. No matter how hard I try, I can’t look away from her. I sweep a thumb over her trembling lower lip. There are a million reasons why I need to walk away, but I can’t think of a single one. Fuck caution. It’s never done a thing for me. I snake an arm around her waist, pull her to me and take what I want.

  When my lips part hers, her tongue meets mine with equal ardor. In two heartbeats, we’re writhing against each other. Her mouth is soft and sweet and tastes of honey. My cock swells. Her hands bury in my hair and tug hard enough to make me growl. I back her up against the column and revel in the feel of her body molding against mine. I can’t get enough.

  “Wait.” Her command halts my wandering hands. I swallow and ease away from her.

  “Sorry.” Cool air rushes between us. Sometime during our kissing, the temperature has dropped, and the air smells of rain.

  “No. It’s okay. I wanted it.” Her gaze dips to my mouth before returning up to my eyes. “But I promised Trish—” The tip of her tongue darts out to moisten her bottom lip like she’s tasting me there, and damn if it isn’t the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

  “Promised her what?”

  “She likes you.”

  “But I don’t like her. I like you.”

  “I like you, too, but it wouldn’t be right.”

  I draw in a cleansing breath and sweep a shaking hand through my hair. “Pretty, rich, and loyal. Just my luck.”


  Drops of rain patter on the grass. A light illuminates one of the downstairs windows.

  “I’d better go,” Vanessa says.

  “Yeah.” Thunder rumbles in the distance. I watch her jog across the lawn. By the time she reaches the house, her hair and clothing are soaked. At the back door, she turns and lifts a hand before disappearing inside. I wait another ten minutes for my erection to go down before walking back to the house, oblivious to the downpour.

  When I open the gate to the pool, Mr. Avondale is waiting beneath the awning. He’s still dressed in a three-piece suit, a cigar dangling from his fingertips. His gaze runs up and down my length. With a twitch of his hand, he flicks ashes onto the pavement.

  “Hey,” I say and give him a cool head nod. Mr. Avondale can be a dick.

  “Good evening, Cameron.” The crown of his head barely reaches the top of my shoulder. I get some satisfaction when he has to tilt his chin to look me in the eye. “Out for a walk?”

  “Yeah, couldn’t sleep.” I glance toward the door. Something about his tone puts me on edge, but before I go, there’s something I have to say, even though it pains me. I extend my hand. He takes it reluctantly. “Thank you for welcoming me into your home. I appreciate the hospitality. Your family has been very generous.”

  “You’re welcome.” He draws on the cigar. The tip glows red in the darkness. “Tristan thinks highly of you.”

  “He’s been a good friend.” I inch toward the door. “Well, I don’t want to keep you. Think I’ll hit the sack.”

  “Hold up, son. We need to set a few ground rules.” His eyes bore into me, and I know as sure as shit what’s coming next. “Excuse my bluntness.”

  “Okay.” I stare back at him, refusing to be intimidated, and brace for whatever’s coming.

  “First.” He lifts his index finger. “Stay away from Trish. If I hear that your dick has been anywhere near her, I’ll cut it off. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” I bite back a smile. Spoken like a caring father. I can respect that. And now that I’ve met Vanessa, my wandering dick wants nothing to do with Trish.

  His eyes narrow, and he lifts another finger. “Second, you will not bring girls into this place.”

  We’re in the middle of freaking Kentucky. I’m not sure where he thinks I’m going to find these girls, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve got no interest in ruining my meal ticket for the summer. “Done.”

  “Third, you’re a guest in this home. I expect you to follow proper etiquette and remember your place.”

  It’s his final request that sticks in my craw. I swallow back the bitter words on the tip of my tongue but don’t look away. I refuse to give this jerk the satisfaction, no matter how much money he has or how high his social standing. “Shouldn’t be a problem. I’m sure you won’t let me forget.” Squaring my shoulders, I turn and walk to the door.

  For the next hour, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, too pissed for sleep. No matter how hard I try or how far I travel, I can’t seem to get away from the cloud of inferiority clinging to my heels. I worked two jobs putting myself through high school, and still managed to graduate as valedictorian. With the help of a kind guidance counselor, I won a scholarship to a respected university, where I met Tristan. Despite my best efforts, I’ll never be an equal to people like Mr. Avondale or Vanessa. I have dreams, and none of them include being a second-class citizen.

  Chapter 8

  Vanessa - Today

  AFTER THE FIASCO of my work day, I can’t wait to get into my new hotel room where I can escape the pressure of work. It’s late, and the sun has been down for hours when I finally make my way across the street. I wait at the front desk of the upscale lobby while the clerk searches unsuccessfully for my reservation. The sassy black pumps that looked so great in the store window pinch my feet. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, attempting to ease the pain. The clerk narrows her eyes and glances at me over the top of her computer monitor.

  “What do you mean you don’t have any rooms?” I ask. Weariness saps the strength from my legs. All I want is a hot shower and a place to lie down, a nice glass of cabernet and a chance to erase Cameron Blackwood from my head.

  The line of the hotel clerk’s mouth tightens. “There is no reservation for you.” She enunciates each word with clipped precision.

  “My assistant called this morning to confirm. Here’s the reservation number.” I show her the email on my phone. She’s unimpressed.

  “Regardless, there’s nothing in the system.” She scans the computer screen then nods. “And I’m afraid we’re fully booked. There are three conventions in the city this week. We’re an exclusive establishment. We have a waiting list, and I’m afraid I don’t see your name anywhere on it.”

  “Could you please check again?” The ache between my temples intensifies. Maybe I need to skip the wine and opt for aspirin instead. I’ve been waiting two weeks to transfer from the airport hotel to here, and I’m not eager to continue the hour long commute each day.

  “I’m sorry,” the clerk repeats for the tenth time. “I can only follow what the system says.”

  “Well, your system needs an upgrade, because I have a reservation, and here’s the confirmation.” I wave my phone in front of her face. “It’s right here.”

  “I’m sorry, madam. Without a reservation, it’s out of my hands.”

  “I’d like to speak to your manager.”

  “I am the manager.” She taps the name badge pinned to her lapel. One corner of her lips curls in amusement, fueling my temper.

  “Do you know who I am?” I detest name-droppers, but I’m running out of options. The hands of the brass clock on the wall behind her point to midnight. I could call Sam or Venetia, but I hate to wake them so late at night. The thought of spending the night on my office couch is less than appealing.

  “Yes, madam, I know who you are. Your father was a regular patron. However, he always had a reservation.” The woman’s sneer hardens. She lifts the telephone receiver. “May I call a taxi for you? Perhaps one of the other hotels can better accommodate you.”

  “They’re all full. Besides, I don’t want to stay somewhere else. I want to stay here—across the street from there—where I work.” I point to the twin towers, looming tall and ominous above the sidewalk.

  “Is there a problem?” The deep, familiar voice sends a shiver down my back. I don’t have to turn around to know Cam’s standing directly behind me. I can feel the heat from his body against my shoulder.

  “There’s no problem, Mr. Blackwood. This woman is trying to book a room without a reservation,” the woman says. “And I’ve told her three times that we’re booked solid through next week.”

  “I have a reservation.” The pitch and volume of my voice rises until heads turn to stare.

  “Susan, Ms. Seaforth is an associate of mine. Surely you can find something for her?” A whiff of his cologne hits my nose; subtle, spicy, and masculine. The throat of his shirt is unbuttoned, revealing a glimpse of black chest hair and tanned skin. The tail of his tie hangs from a breast pocket. “What about the Preston Suite?”

  “But that’s reserved for Mr. Haskins.”

  “I spoke with Mr. Haskins earlier today. He’s in Prague for the next month.” He leans an elbow on the counter, a cajoling smile playing about his lips. “I’ll talk to him about it tomorrow. Now, see what you can do for our guest.”

  “Certainly, sir.” Susan returns his smile, a faint blush tinting her cheeks.

  “Great.” While she taps on the keyboard, Cam turns his attention to me. “You’re out awfully late. Been hitting the bars?”

  “No.” His accusation sparks my insecurity. I ignore the desire to smooth my hair. I’ve been mulling over financials non-stop for the better part of sixteen hours. I’m probably a mess. “I was working and lost track of time. What’s your excuse?”

  “Last I checked, I don’t need one.” The arch of his left eyebrow lifts a little higher.

  “It’s
taken care of, Mr. Blackwood.” Susan beams at Cam. “You’re in 1408, Ms. Seaforth, fourteenth floor, left out of the elevators.” She slides my credit card and room key across the counter. Cam passes the credit card to me but retains the key.

  “Susan, you’re a miracle worker. I’ll put in a good word with your boss.”

  “You’re my boss, sir.” A blush spreads across her cheeks. My exhausted brain tries to process this information. Cameron owns the hotel. It seems I can’t get away from him.

  “So I am.” He winks at me, taking a final stab at my pride, before giving Susan his attention. “Tell me, beautiful, do you have any messages for me?”

  “No, sir. No messages.” Her expression is dreamy, hopeful. “Please, let us know if there’s anything we can do to make your stay more pleasant, Mr. Blackwood, anything at all.”

  “Have someone bring up Ms. Seaforth’s luggage, would you? She’s brought all of Sax Fifth Avenue with her.” He circumvents the pile of my suitcases, trunks, and boxes. With my room key still in his grasp, he strides toward the elevator. “Come along, Vanessa.”

  His proprietary tone fires up my temper. I trot after him. I hate his air of command, the way he assumes I’m following his orders without a backward glance. But I can’t help admiring the way his trousers hug the hard muscles of his ass as he walks. At the bank of elevators, he presses the call button.

  “I’ve got it from here, thank you.” The doors open. He steps inside, and I have no choice but to follow him. I reach for the key. He holds it aside, just out of my reach. When I make a grab for it, he lifts it higher. The corner of his mouth curls in a sadistic grin. I put my hands on my hips. “This isn’t first grade.”

  “Funny how fate works, isn’t it?” White teeth bite into the firm flesh of his lower lip, lips that are kissable and soft. A chuckle shakes his broad chest. “In case you missed it, you’re at my mercy.” His gaze drops from my eyes to my mouth. “Here and in the boardroom.”