Red Hot Alphas: 11 Novels of Sexy, Bad Boy, Alpha Males (Red Hot Boxed Sets Book 2)

by Jo Raven

  William closes his eyes for a second, looking relieved. “I am so happy…to be the first one.” He kisses around and on my mouth multiple times. “You’re mine and only mine.”

  I kiss him back, drawing myself into his embrace.

  “Since you’ve never…” he says, “I must be tender. I owe you that. I wouldn’t want to risk making you anxious about sex. And a woman so beautiful as you are not enjoying her first time would be a crime.”

  He pulls on my panties, making them slide slowly down my legs.

  “I can smell it on you … the desire … and the fear … Don’t worry, Constance. I promise you … I’ll be … I’ll be…”

  I shush him, putting a finger on his mouth, and he trails his hand back up, sliding it tenderly into my folds. The burning I feel down there is not receding. On the contrary.

  He circles around and caresses up and down, making sure I’m ready for him.

  Footsteps nearby make us both stop immediately. Our heads shoot in the direction the sound is coming.

  “Mrs. Wayworth? Are you there?”

  I look at William, hoping he has an idea what to do. He looks at me, pained, and disappears in a upward-flaming whoosh, leaving me alone and not quite clothed enough.

  I throw my panties over the grave, out of sight—no time to put them on again—pull my skirt down, and start buttoning my shirt back up when the grave keeper rounds one of the trees that hides the grave from the path.

  “Mrs. Wayworth?” he says, “What are you doing here?” There is no surprise on his handsome face—he has a grin on his face, as if he thought I was waiting for him there. I would so love to claw his eyes out for insinuating I’m here for something lewd, but I’m too busy covering myself up.

  “I don’t think that’s any of your business,” I say, my voice cold as ice. “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, people are looking all over for you at the mansion. I volunteered to search for you.” He cocks one eyebrow up. “But there is no rush, if you want to stay here with me a little while longer. I bet those good people at the mansion wouldn’t think to come look for you here, anyway … we’ve got all the time in the world.”

  I stand up, still only half-buttoned, and march away, limping but powering through the pain I feel in my ankle.

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” I snap. “I have no patience for your crude allusions. I wish you would stop sneaking around in the cemetery.”

  “No can do, madam. That’s my job.”

  I can hear his grin in the way his words come out of his mouth. Why does this man want to piss me off so badly? He follows me back toward the mansion, a few steps behind me.

  “Sneaking around is your job?” I say, walking with my bare feet on the dirty path—where have I left my shoes? I hear him chuckle behind me.

  “Shut up,” I whisper to myself.

  “Did you find that child you were looking for, madam?” he asks, his voice taunting again. Damn, that guy is annoying.

  I turn around and face him, wondering why he would bring that up again. He catches up to me and finishes his thought: “’Cause I was thinking I could help you get another one, if you’re that desperate.”

  My hand flies to his face, slapping his cocky jaw on the side and making a satisfying noise. I am not a violent person usually, but that man seems to bring out the worst in me. I’m pretty pissed at my reaction—I hate violence—but I can’t bring myself to apologize for my behavior when I see him laugh it off.

  “How dare you talk to me like that?”

  He doesn’t answer but keeps looking at me, that damn grin on his face.

  “Stay away from me,” I command him. “I don’t want to see you.”

  I stalk back to the mansion, leaving him behind.

  “Well, stop hanging out at the cemetery, then,” he chuckles.

  The nerve of that man! I’ll have to do something about him as soon as possible.

  CHAPTER SIX

  BEING INDEPENDENT

  They are looking for me back at the mansion. A few of the servants have run around the property when my mother-in-law did not find me in my room earlier.

  “Please, don’t worry about me,” I say to the maids after they’ve checked that I’m all right. “I used to go freely and wandered around all the time in my old home. I won’t leave the immediate property, but I can’t come here to update you of my whereabouts all the time.”

  Sandra approaches and says, “We were just concerned, madam. They still haven’t found the beast that killed Master William.”

  I realize now why they’re concerned. It’s a thought that had not crossed my mind tonight, even though it did yesterday—I had left earlier when it was still light and the day was beautiful. I had not thought about the beast that may still be haunting the property. And then, after that, I had been too mesmerized to think about anything else but William and his touching me in all the most inappropriate places.

  I blush at that memory and feel the burning desire in my folds still. Damn, why did we have to be disturbed? It takes me a few seconds to shake the overwhelming desire to limp back over there right then.

  “I’ll try to be more prudent from now on. I will stay near the mansion, and I will be back before night,” I concede. They don’t have to know I have every intention of going back to the cemetery to meet William tomorrow morning.

  “I’ll tell Mrs. Wayworth you’re back safe,” Sandra says.

  “I’ll go talk to her,” I say. “How is she feeling, did you…did you notice anything unusual about her?” I ask in hushed tones.

  The other maids take their cue, apparently thinking that I’m fine and don’t need them anymore, and disperse back to their own lives—the ones I never see—that they get to live come night time.

  Sandra looks at me questioningly and shakes her head. “She was just concerned you were not in your room, madam,” she says.

  “Thank you, Sandra. That will be all.”

  Sandra exits the room, leaving me alone with the tick tock of an ancient clock for sole companionship.

  I take the stairs to the bedrooms floor and knock once, lightly, on my mother-in-law’s door. I kind of hope she went to sleep, seeing how badly we ended our discussion this afternoon, but the door opens on a disheveled Emily, her eyes wide open and darting on me.

  “Are you all right? Are you hurt?” she asks, pressing.

  “I’m fine. I’m sorry I made you worry. I had no idea someone would look for me.” She looks relieved. “I’m used to roaming around free … I hope that’s okay.”

  “Of— of course it is,” she says, apologetic. “This is your home, you’re free to do whatever you want … We were just worried.”

  “I never intended to frighten anyone. I’ll be more prudent next time and will let someone know when I am wandering around the property.”

  No, I won’t, I think to myself. I cherish my independence.

  “I called your parents at the restaurant, but your mother was not concerned. She said you’re used to have long walks, way past anyone’s bedtime.”

  “It’s true. I understand how it could be worrying for someone not used to my habits—”

  “Constance,” she interrupts me, looking down. “I’m sorry … for this afternoon … I— I think I’m out of my mind with grief. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” I assure her, putting my hand gently on her arm. I enter the room, guiding her to lie on the king-size bed. “I don’t know what it’s like to be a mother, but I think I can grasp the terrible loss you’ve experienced.”

  “It’s horrible, Constance,” she says as I cover her with a quilt. “How can I accept that I will never see my son’s face again? We were so close, you know. I spent years as his personal tutor, and I’ve taught him most of what he knows.”

  “He was home-schooled?” I asked, curious, realizing I don’t know much about my childhood sweetheart’s actual childhood.

  “I started home-schooling him wh
en he was six years old. He has always been a great student, always eager to learn and do his work, never complaining. My little soldier,” she says, a little smile reaching her eyes at the memory for a split second, but the haunted look comes back quickly and with a vengeance.

  The words “Your son is not gone” are scorching my mouth. I can’t bear looking at her like that, distraught and depressed, when I know something that could give her back some taste for life. But I can’t tell anyone yet—who would believe me, anyway? I need to figure things out. If William is not gone, maybe there is some hope? I need to talk to him.

  “You need to rest,” I command, clicking the bedside lamp off. “I’d love to talk about William tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it. I would like to know more about my husband.”

  “I would love that,” she says, grabbing my hand and pressing on it gently. I press back, hoping some human contact will help ease her pain for a little while.

  I turn around and make my way to the door, hoping she can find some sleep now that the stress I caused her has dissipated. As I grab the knob to close it, she calls me.

  “Constance?”

  “Yes, Emily?”

  “Thank you.”

  Just before I close the door on myself, I answer: “I look forward to tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE GIFT

  I have been unable to sleep all night. The heat wave has definitely settled in our part of the country, but it’s mostly the heat that burns inside of me that keeps me awake.

  I keep hoping William will join me in my bedroom. After all, I saw him the other night, as a boy, running from the mansion … that was him, right? Surely he could appear here if he wanted to? I wonder why he hasn’t.

  The sun is starting to rise—I can see it from my windows. In the morning light, it’s harder to believe what I have experienced last night. No one in their right mind would give credit to this story, and an army of psychiatrists would probably be brought in to examine me if I ever said a word about what I’ve seen.

  But even now, my missing panties are the only proof I need.

  The help will start their day soon, but my family and my in-laws will not be up for hours. I have the time to run to the cemetery and…

  And what? What is going to happen? I have no idea what to do with the knowledge I have. William is dead, but he’s not—not completely. What can be done? Can I help him? What does he want? Does he need anything?

  I only know what I need. I need to feel his arms around me…I want to see him naked again, touch him, and have the wedding night I didn’t get to have.

  What about the future? My thoughts don’t wander that far ahead yet, held back by a deep need to protect myself from my growing feelings.

  I put on a light robe and my slippers, and I rush as quietly as I can manage down the stairs, hoping that no one woke up already.

  As I arrive at the cemetery, I notice a strange, awful smell creeping around. I walk quickly to William’s grave and call him, trying to keep my voice low—sounds travel far at those strange hours of the morning. The only answer I get is from a raven on a branch, crowing at me. It doesn’t look like it’s afraid of me, more like it’s telling me to leave him alone. I wonder if it has a nest nearby.

  William is a no-show. I wonder if it’s because it’s morning and the sun is up. I have no idea how all this works … Surely it’s not like for vampires, right? And then I realize that the fact I’m wondering how it works means I believe. I know it’s true, I know I didn’t imagine him last night and the night before. That was him, the fleeing little boy. I will have to figure out the how and the why later. Now, the next step is to understand what’s happening and to try to help him, but I have no idea where to start or who to turn to in order to get some answers.

  But what is that smell? It’s terrible, and it makes me want to puke. Like rotten eggs, or…I don’t know exactly what. I imagine I won’t get to see William until tonight, so I flee the cemetery, hoping that horrible odor will dissipate during the day. Nothing will keep me from coming back there tonight.

  When I get back in the house, I see some of the help are up and working. There are sounds coming from the kitchen, and a few people buzzing past me in the hall, on their way to their duties.

  “Mrs. Wayworth? Is everything all right?”

  Sandra is entering the hall, not yet wearing her housekeeper’s uniform.

  “Good morning, Sandra. Everything is fine, thank you for asking.”

  “Can I help you with anything? If you are ready to have breakfast, I can have something prepared and served in about fifteen minutes.”

  “I don’t want to disturb you all,” I say. “I can go back to my room and wait for the others to be ready for brunch later.”

  “Please, it’s no problem at all. Our cook will be happy to prepare something for you in the meantime,” she says, encouraging me to go sit in one of the living room’s armchairs. “What would you like to eat?”

  “Coffee and toast would be nice, thank you. And please, thank … the cook … for me.”

  “Javier. I will,” she says, a smile on her face.

  I smile back, happy that the help in the house is so nice. I was a bit afraid at first that they’d act strange around me—after all, I was their new, unexpected manager, and I am sure they were all very fond of William. There were a lot of people at the burial, all of them shedding silent tears in the background. I had no idea they would so easily extend their loyalty to me as well, the new person in the house.

  I notice a lot of books on the living room’s shelves. I will have to get some books to read—all of my old books are back at my parents’ and will only arrive in a few days when my parents are back there and able to pack my things.

  I browse the titles on the shelves … Divina Commedia, The Lesser Key of Solomon, Tartarus … Nothing I’ve heard of, but admittedly I’m more of a romance books kind of gal.

  There are a lot of old books, most of them dusty and musty, which is almost unbelievable—the army of hired maids spend their days cleaning everywhere. I sneeze and get away from the books in a hurry. How can they have missed those? I make myself a mental note to ask them to dust the shelves before I start digging into the books they hold and adding them to my reading list.

  As I turn around to go back to the armchair, I realize that Sandra is standing at the door with a tray. Her eyes betray her discomfort and her mouth is half open, as if she is about to say something, but she is silent.

  “Sandra?”

  She finally moves at my words and walks to the center of the room.

  “Mrs. Wayworth, would you prefer to have your breakfast here or in the dining room?” she asks, avoiding my eyes.

  “Is there something the matter?” I ask, worried. What could have happened for her to act like this?

  “Not at all, madam. If madam allows it, I will bring this to the dining room and go do my duties.” She walks away with the tray, puts it down on the large table in the adjacent room, and bows her head before leaving without another word.

  I sit at the dining table and munch on a slice of toast, comforted by the aroma coming from the cup of coffee. My mind is wandering, but I’m not really thinking about what all of this means: the fact William is dead—but isn’t—and what is going to happen next.

  I daydream about William’s hands on me, his mouth kissing mine with so much passion I felt I could have been set ablaze as well. I wonder what it would feel like to have him inside of me. I have no idea how sex with a living person is, but I’m sure the fact he is back from the dead and still wanting me so much is a big part of the extra excitement I’m feeling right now. It’s even better than my romance novels—except for the part that my husband is dead, of course. That thought brings me down at once.

  “Are you feeling well?” says Emily. I hadn’t seen her come in.

  “I—I— Yes, of course,” I stutter.

  “You seem flushed. Do you need someone to bring you a fan or a cold bev
erage? Sandra!” she calls.

  “Oh— n-no, no, I’m fine, really.”

  Emily sits down in front of me at the dining table. She looks like she’s feeling better. The circles under her eyes are not as dark as they were yesterday. I’m hoping she had a good night of sleep.

  “Yes, madam?” says Sandra, standing at the door. Her eyes are darting over at the bookshelves.

  “Bring some cold iced tea to the table.”

  Sandra walks away immediately. I wonder how Emily does it—never saying please, but having a tone so gentle that she doesn’t need to. I would be unable to give orders without saying please, thank you, and practically apologizing for making people do things for me.

  “Do you remember you knew William when you both were small kids?” she asks out of the blue.

  “I didn’t. I had almost forgotten about Binniboy,” I confess, “but then I remembered about him the other night. I asked my mother if she remembered him too, and she told me then that Binniboy was really William. You can imagine my surprise.”

  “Billy Boy, right, that’s what we used to call him,” she says with a little smile. “William had a hunch you would maybe have forgotten. It was a long time ago. He had asked us to let him broach the topic with you when the time was right. Little did we all know…” Her voice becomes a whisper, and the tears start pooling in her eyes.

  I take her hand in mine, squeezing her fingers gently. Sharing what I know would be such a relief for Emily … but then, how could she ever believe me? I would open fresh new wounds in her already distraught heart.

  “Listen,” she says, but she gets interrupted as Sandra comes back in the living room with the iced tea Emily asked for. She puts two big glasses in front of us, already filled with ice cubes and lemon slices. The pitcher of iced tea is full and smells really good—it’s going to feel so nice, drinking something cold in this horrible heat.

  Emily nods her thanks. “That will be all.”

  Sandra hesitates at the door for a second and then leaves us alone.

  I pour the ice tea in our glasses, filling them. The ice cubes are tinkling, one of the only noises we can hear in the house—the help is really good at working in silence.