Love at First Sight Series Boxed Set: (Books 1-5)

by Lynn Cooper

  “I didn’t realize how ravenous I was. I haven’t had a proper meal in months,” I say, worrying he will think me a pig. “Alice is an exceptional cook. Isn’t she?”

  As if pondering his answer, he rubs his freshly-shaven jaw. Although the smoothness of his face begs to be caressed, I find myself missing the previously rough, dark stubble of his five o’clock shadow.

  “Yes.”

  That one-word answer hangs heavily in the room, injecting unease and awkwardness into the air. Without the distraction of conversation, I can’t keep my eyes from wandering over his nearly-naked body. The towel knotted at his waist leaves little to the imagination.

  His still-damp, chestnut-brown hair is a tousled, sexy mess. My fingers itch to push a stray lock from his forehead. It’s attempting but failing to conceal a diagonally-slanted scar across his thick, dark eyebrow—the left one. I want to ask him how he got it, but I won’t. I learned the hard way never to show any kind of interest in the enemy.

  Somehow in Tretan’s state of undress, there’s a vulnerability that makes him seem less threatening. Yet those topaz eyes glow with a feral ferocity that sets my nerves on edge. Their probing and searching feels like an excavation of my soul. Like this man is desperately digging around trying to find priceless, shimmering diamonds in a dark, dank coal mine. His efforts are futile. He won’t discover any precious stones lodged in the crevices of my mind. The only things residing there are fear, frustration and distrust.

  Wanting to hear the deep resonation of his voice again, I ask, “How was your shower?”

  The corners of his generous mouth tilt upward. “Fine.”

  He’s playing with me. I can see how much he enjoys teasing and testing my patience with the brevity of his responses.

  Biting my bottom lip, I gaze nervously between him and the bed. I imagine his broad back pressed against the mattress. The length of his long, muscular legs stretched beneath the blankets. His ripped abs and chiseled chest rising and falling at the edge of a sheet folded down to his tapered waist.

  I take a deep, fortifying breath and make the inquiry that’s been pressing hard against my ribs since he carried me upstairs. “Are you going to lock me in a cage?”

  He frowns angrily and shakes his head.

  “Then where am I supposed to sleep tonight?”

  He nods toward the bed.

  His sudden lack of verbal communication skills is grating on my nerves. He was plenty talkative before he went into the bathroom.

  “Alright then,” I say, planting my hands on my hips while wobbling a little on my injured feet. “Where will you be sleeping? On the settee? In a guestroom?”

  “That piece of furniture is far too small to accommodate my frame. There are no guestrooms in the lighthouse.”

  My eyes grow wide as his meaning dawns on me. “In that case, I’ll be happy to take the settee. It looks really comfortable, actually.”

  He drops the towel and steps toward me. I start at the sight of his sex. The man is hung like a horse—thick, long and strong. My heart gallops erratically, palpitating and losing its rhythm to terror-filled thoughts of him mounting me.

  Placing his big, warm hands on my shoulders he says, “It’s time to turn in, Täubchen. Unless you want to take a shower first.”

  The bikers allowed me a bath once a week. This morning just happened to be the day I got to clean up. Even though I ran through the woods and sweated some, I still feel fairly clean. Plus, I don’t care if I’m a little stinky. Having less than floral armpits will hopefully serve as a deterrent, working in my favor. Not that my dirty physical state ever stopped my previous captors but, in my opinion, Tretan looks like a guy who prefers cleanliness when it comes to intimacy.

  “No thanks,” I say, shrugging his hands off. I don’t think my feet could take standing in the shower right now.”

  He nods. “Okay then, let’s turn in.”

  I watch him make his way over to the bed, but I cannot muster the courage to follow. My body trembles with trepidation. Each breath I take is short, shallow and panicky. I’m hyperventilating. The walls close in, crushing me. I’m seized by the merciless onslaught of vertigo. Swaying, I say in an unsteady voice, “I—I can’t do this.”

  Tretan turns and walks back toward me. “You have to, little dove. Tonight you take the first step toward trusting again.”

  I shake my head emphatically. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one in danger. I am.”

  He reaches out and gently cups my cheek. The gesture is so tender, it’s all I can do not to lean into it and bask in his kindness. But I know what he’s doing. He wants me to lower my guard. To let down my shield of suspicion and fall for his trickery. Then, like any other predator, he’ll pounce when I am at my weakest.

  He clears his throat. “What do you think will happen if you lie down in my bed?”

  I shrug, trying to sound nonchalant and matter-of-fact. “Oh, any number of things, Mr. Voss. You could gag me, tie my wrists and ankles to the spindles, beat and rape me all night long. Once you’re finished using me for your sick pleasure, you could choke me to death, slit my throat or break my neck, then toss my body over that balcony and into the ocean.”

  “Or I could carry you over to the bed, tuck you in, stay on my side of the mattress and both of us could get a night of much-needed sleep.”

  I laugh my disbelief.

  He furrows his brow, changing his cajoling tone to something more serious. “Do you think you’re the only one in danger here, Täubchen?”

  His question arrests my attention.

  He levels his gaze at me. “This isn’t just an exercise in me earning your trust. I’m taking a tremendous chance, too.”

  “How?”

  “Well, let’s see. After I fall asleep, you could murder me. There are lots of heavy objects in this room which would be more than sufficient to bash in my skull,” he says, pausing to gauge my reaction. When I give him none, he continues. “There’s a sharp quill on the writing desk. One forceful jab into my jugular or a stab through the eyeball into my brain should do the trick. Shall I go on?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” I whisper, feeling ashamed. I was only focusing on the ways he could hurt me. I didn’t even consider how scary it must be for him to have a complete stranger sleeping beside him. Given all I’ve been through and how badly I want to leave here, he probably believes me capable of all kinds of violence.

  “Good,” he growls, picking me up and carrying me across the room. “Now get undressed.”

  “What?”

  “Winston Churchill said, ‘You must sleep with no halfway measures. Take off your clothes and get into bed. That’s what I always do.’ Trust me; you’ll rest better if you lose the negligee.”

  I roll my eyes. “Nice try, but the actual quote is: ‘You must sleep sometime between lunch and dinner, and no halfway measures. Take off your clothes and get into bed. That’s what I always do. Don’t think you will be doing less work because you sleep during the day. That’s a foolish notion held by people who have no imagination.’ Churchill was referring to an afternoon nap, Mr. Voss, not the act of sleeping through the night.”

  He huffs. “I should have known a librarian would bust my balls for misquoting. Nonetheless, your attire has a negative association from a bad situation. If you don’t want to be nude, I can get you one of my T-shirts and a pair of warm-up pants. How does that sound?”

  “Hot. My internal thermostat is pretty high.”

  He cocks the scarred eyebrow. “So it’s in the buff, then?”

  “Yes, but only if you turn around while I strip and slip under the covers.”

  “Deal,” he says, grinning.

  Once I’m settled onto my section of the mattress, he clicks off the overhead light and lies down. The feel of these luxurious sheets against my bare skin is so amazing, I’m afraid I won’t be able to get a wink of sleep. Curling up on my side, I fluff one of Tretan’s king-size pillows beneath my head and cl
ose my eyes.

  Just as my body begins to relax and my mind starts to go blank, he says, “Sweet dreams, little dove.”

  Chapter Six

  Tretan Voss

  I’M FAIRLY CERTAIN MY lighthouse guest will do me no harm. Even with her fight-or-flight response engaged and currently combined with the adrenaline coursing through her veins, she is so mentally, emotionally and physically exhausted, she wouldn’t be a match for me even if I was comatose. Still, I wait for her breathing to even out before closing my eyelids.

  In the middle of the night, the faint sound of Fernando’s parrot squawking from the boathouse wakes me. Surprisingly, I am lying on my side with my front facing Täubchen’s back. In her sleep, she has scooted across the wide expanse of the mattress and now has her firm, round butt nestled against my cock. My left arm is stretched out under her pillow and the right one is wrapped possessively around her ribcage. For God’s sake, we are spooning, and I have no idea how it happened. It’s as if some invisible force pulled our bodies together in intimacy without asking permission from either of us.

  The feel of her heavy breasts pressing atop my forearm makes me ache all over with the need to fuck her. How long has it been since I impaled a woman onto my prick? Five years? Ten? So damn long, I can’t even recall the when or even the who. I do know whenever it was and whomever I screwed, I never cuddled them like this. I never lay with them in my arms, snuggling like lovers. It just felt wrong. But now, with this beautiful, broken woman, it feels too fucking right.

  I haven’t so much as kissed her, but I want the taste of her pretty, pink lips and tongue more than I want anything else. More than forgiveness and peace. More than happiness and redemption. Melding my mouth to hers would only be a Band-Aid on a gushing arterial bleed, but knowing that doesn’t keep me from craving it.

  Fearing her reaction and not wanting her to think I broke my promise not to touch her, I quietly and smoothly slip away from the pleasurable warmth of her body. I’m rock hard again but refuse myself any relief. I should suffer for the comfort and joy I just experienced. I don’t deserve it.

  I’ll have to come up with different sleeping arrangements for the remainder of my little dove’s stay. Even as I contemplate the physical separation, I know it will be unbearable. It already hurts like hell.

  Peering out the glass inserts of the double doors to my balcony, I see the lights burning brightly from the boathouse. My best buddy rarely sleeps. I wonder if he could use some company.

  FERNANDO OPENS THE DOOR before I have a chance to knock. He has been anticipating my moods as well as my moves for many years. Salt water and wind have weathered this building he calls home, chipping away at the mint-green paint and scarring the wood-framed windows. “What brings you out, Boss?” he asks, closing the door behind us and sitting down on a hammock he has hanging right inside the entryway. He doesn’t like regular beds but, then again, he isn’t a regular guy.

  Rubbing the back of my neck, feeling knots of tension I hadn’t realized were there, I say, “Do you have the exact coordinates where you picked up the woman?”

  He grins proudly. I know he does before asking, but I like giving Fernando opportunities to shine and feel good about himself. He has sort of an idiot savant thing going on with mental maps.

  “Sure. I found her 37.1829 north and 122.3928 west.”

  I nod, quickly calculating the time and distance of the latitude and longitude numbers he has provided. “The location was 37 degrees north, travel time 18 minutes and 29 seconds, and 122 degrees west, travel time 39 minutes and 28 seconds. That put her in the limo for a total of 57 minutes and 57 seconds, only two minutes and three seconds shy of an hour.”

  “That’s right, Boss. You gonna take her back to those woods?”

  I step over the space heater blowing warm air toward the hammock and place a firm hand on Fernando’s shoulder. “No. I’m going to go hunting in them.”

  Excitement flashes in his slightly-crossed eyes. “Can I come?”

  “I’m afraid not. I need you to stay here and watch over my pet.” I hated referring to the beauty sleeping in my bed in such a crude manner, but it was the term my buddy would understand best.

  “You afraid she might run away, Boss?”

  As the truth in his question hits me like a bullet between the eyes, I smile sadly and say, “I’m fucking terrified.”

  “You really like her, huh?”

  While I’m pondering an answer, my line of sight lands on the parrot in the corner. Her bright blue, green, red and yellow feathers add much-needed splashes of color to the grey interior walls.

  Squinting her beady eyes, her gaze clashes with mine as she squawks, “Raawk! Tretan has a girlfriend. Raawk!”

  Sally—named after Fernando’s favorite guest-starring convict from The Andy Griffith Show—is healthy now. The polymer prosthetic tip that was fitted to her beak is flawless. Seamless and perfect, it allows Sally to eat and speak with ease. I paid a small fortune for it and the surgical services of a genius veterinarian who specializes in ornithology.

  After hearing my name squeak from her beak, I am regretting the investment.

  Staring darts at Fernando, I say, “Did you teach her to say that?”

  He shakes his head so hard, I swear I can hear his tiny brain rattling around inside his skull. “No, Boss! Sally’s real smart. She must have overheard me talking to myself.”

  “You talk to yourself about my personal life?”

  He shrugs. “It gets kind of lonely down here,” he says, rubbing his eyes like a sleepy baby. “I talk to my parrot about you because you are my favorite person in the whole world. I want you to be happy.”

  I hang my head, raking my hand over my face before lifting it again. “And you think having a girlfriend would make me that way.”

  “I sure do, Boss. Your pet’s awfully pretty, ain’t she?”

  “She is.”

  “Did you kiss her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Will you tell me and Sally when you do?”

  I can’t help but smile at the pure, childlike enthusiasm dancing in his eyes. “The two of you will be the first to know.”

  “Raawk! Tretan’s a treasure. Raawk!”

  Shaking my head at that damn parrot, I say, “Get some rest, Fernando. You’re on duty tomorrow. I’m counting on you.”

  He gives me an imperfect salute and snuggles down deeper into the hammock.

  Locking the door behind me, I inhale the cold night air then watch the heated vapor of my breath curl out on a puffy, white cloud. For the first time in a really long time, I didn’t mind hearing my first name said aloud. It was an amazing, freeing feeling. It made me wonder how much I might actually like hearing it on Täubchen’s lips while my hips rock against hers, making her moan in pleasure.

  Maybe having sweet, sexy, positive associations or even silly parrot ones attached to my name will somehow cancel out all the devastating, horrible, agony-filled ones that spewed from my parents’ mouths like venom.

  Tretan, you ruined all of our lives.

  You destroyed our family, Tretan.

  Fucking hell, Tretan, you killed your sister.

  We never want to see you again, Tretan.

  Chapter Seven

  Nora Adams

  THE FIRST LIGHT OF morning filters in from the balcony as I sit up in Mr. Voss’ big bed and yawn. I must have slept the sleep of the righteous because I didn’t wake up even once to go pee. All of my life, I have awoken in the middle of the night for that very reason. Even while being held captive by the bikers, my body still kept its bathroom schedule. Luckily, all of those evil assholes were asleep when I used the bucket they left inside my cage.

  I look around the room, but the man I want to see and talk to is nowhere in sight. I should feel relieved he isn’t here but, oddly enough, I think I might sincerely be missing him. Deciding now is as good of an opportunity as any, I make my way to the bathroom. Amazingly, my feet aren’t killing me. In fact,
as I pad across the hardwood floor, they feel almost normal. So much so, the desire to shower dictates my next move. While sitting on the toilet, I unwrap the gauze Tretan had so carefully applied last night. Dropping the soiled dressing into the gold-colored, wicker wastebasket, I step into the shower stall and slide the frosted glass door shut.

  Rivulets of warm, spraying water rush over me like a soothing, healing river. I welcome the pressure from the showerhead. It’s unbelievably strong. I suppose the lighthouse literally being positioned right up against the Pacific Ocean has a lot to do with it. Not seeing any regular bar soap, I use the earthy-scented body wash that smells like Tretan. As I suds up the softest, plushest washcloth I have ever felt, I find myself humming. Working the lather into my hair, I try to recall the last time my mouth made such a happy, melodic sound. It was before my father left me at the mercy of my monstrous mother.

  While I’m rinsing my hair and body, I feel a powerful presence in the doorway. Letting the water run over my face, I turn my head and crack open one eyelid. Tretan is leaning against the jam, wearing a snug-fitting, black turtleneck, a pair of black jeans and black combat boots. He looks lean and lethal. Muscular and menacing. There’s a dangerous glint of purpose in his eyes I didn’t see last night.

  “The soles of your feet must be feeling better,” he says, smiling.

  “Much better, thanks to you. I hope you don’t mind my taking a shower.”

  “Not at all. I want you to make yourself at home.”

  I frown. “But this isn’t my home. It’s yours. You won’t let me go to mine.”

  He pushes himself off the doorframe and stands tall. He has to be at least six-foot-three. Even from the shower stall, I have to lift my head to see his handsome face. The dark stubble has reappeared overnight and now shadows his strong, square jaw. The contrast of dark facial hair against lightly-tanned skin accentuates the cleft in his chin, making me go weak in the knees. Thoughts of running my tongue over that sexy indentation causes my chest to heave and my nipples to tighten.