by Serena Grey
Awakening
A Dangerous Man #1
Serena Grey
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
AWAKENING: A DANGEROUS MAN #1
Copyright © 2013 by Serena Grey.
All rights reserved.
Contents
Contents
Acknowledgement
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
About The Author
Teaser
For MNC... You I love, always.
Acknowledgements
To all the authors at Kboards, who are always available, friendly, welcoming, helpful, and willing to answer any questions.
To my Beta readers, to whom I totally owe any success this book achieves.
And to all the people who graciously agreed to read and review this book. You’re all the best.
Chapter One
I like to look at the framed picture of the young girl that hangs in my room. She is smiling, and her dark blonde hair is ruffled. She looks happy. I would do anything to get to know her, to see that smile and hear her laugh, but I can’t. She’s dead. She died giving birth to me.
The door opens, and Aunt Josephine walks in. I don’t have a lock, and she never knocks. It’s her house after all, and I am only twelve. She doesn’t look cross, but I know she is, she always is. It’s never anything I’ve done or haven’t done, although she always makes it seem as if it’s my fault. I know now that I can never make her not cross with me. She hates me. She hates that she has to take care of me until I’ grow up.
I am glad that I’m going to boarding school this year, even though Aunt Josephine says that the nuns will ‘discipline my mother’s faults away’. The nuns may be bad, but they can’t be as bad as Aunt Josephine. Nobody can.
She comes towards me. She is tall and thin, and her skin always looks shiny. I look away from the picture, but not quickly enough. Her face is a tight mask of disapproval as she studies it.
“Why do I even bother?” She snaps at last. “Anybody can see that you’re going to end up exactly like her, pregnant with God knows who’s child.” Her black eyes flash, and I can’t stop myself from flinching. “Just don’t think I’ll be wasting another eighteen years of my life looking after your bastard.”
“Sophie? Are you alright?”
I look up from the spot on the wall where I’ve been staring while my thoughts wander, and give Stacey Carver a smile. I have perfected the smile that says I’m fine, even though most of the time, I feel far from it.
“I’m fine.” I tell her, turning my attention back to cleaning a shelf, which is what I should have been doing in the first place. “I was just thinking.”
“You’ve been doing that a lot.” Her voice is so full of concern that immediately I start to feel guilty. She is my boss at the gift shop where I work as an assistant, and she worries about me, more than she should. I wish she wouldn’t, she has enough things to worry about without adding me to the list.
She has already done too much for me. When my Aunt Josephine died very suddenly, a little more than four months ago, and I found out that I had little money, no home, and absolutely no plans, she literally became my guardian angel. While her husband, my aunt’s lawyer, took care of discharging the will and settling the estate, which Aunt Josephine bequeathed almost entirely to the local library, Stacey helped me find a small apartment in town, and gave me a job working as an assistant in her gift shop.
“Really, I’m fine.” I smile again for good measure. She nods and turns towards the front of the shop. She is a pretty woman, small, brown-haired, and always nicely dressed.
I can’t see her face anymore, but I can tell that she is frowning. She is worried because the gift shop cannot afford to keep me much longer. Business is worse than usual, but she doesn’t know how to tell me. For some reason, she feels responsible for me, maybe because she was friends with my mother all those years ago, but it’s time for me to be responsible for myself.
I still have the fifteen hundred dollars my aunt left me. Her estate was worth a lot more. Even though she hardly ever left the house, she had been earning an income from indexing textbooks for years. In a way, I’m glad she didn’t leave me more. If she had shown me any sympathy at the end, I would probably spend the rest of my life wondering if I had misjudged her.
“I’ve been thinking of moving to Bellevue and finding a job,” I tell Stacey.
“A job? Are you sure?” She looks skeptical. “That may be harder than it sounds, in this economy.” She thinks for a minute, and I’m sure she is trying to come up with a better idea. “What about Art school? It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it.”
My mind goes to my portfolio of sketches, back in my apartment. I’ve been sketching for ages, but I didn’t decide on jewelry design until a few years ago. Of course, Aunt Josephine flat out refused to pay for Art School, so I applied to City U, UDub, and Bellevue like wanted. The acceptance letters are gathering dust at the top of the rusty old fridge in my apartment. Now that I have no money, I’m not going to pursue aids and grants to spend four years doing something that’s not my dream.
“Art School is a dream.” I smile ruefully. “Maybe at some time in the future, I’ll go, but for now I think I’ll just try to find a job.” That’s is if anybody will hire an eighteen-year-old Catholic school graduate with zero experience whatsoever.
“Okay.” She is still frowning, but she doesn’t say anything else.
I go back to dusting the shelf. It doesn’t need the cleaning, but I need something to do. I run my dust brush over a polished woodcarving of a forest scene, a colorful crystal vase, and a green ceramic piggy bank.
As I work, Stacey gets up and moves from the front desk to the glass front of the store, peering down the road that leads to Ashcroft Hills Resort, the only thing that keeps our small town on the map. It has a couple of bungalows, a sizeable swimming pool, a spa, a few conference rooms, and it’s just an hour’s drive from downtown Seattle. Brett Carver, Stacey’s husband, calls it the ‘businessman’s’ paradise.
“Lots of cars going to the Hills today,” Stacey observes. She is trying not to be too hopeful, but I’m sure she wishes that it would make a difference in sales. She stares down the road for a few more minutes, and then sighs. “I’m going to run a few errands,” she tells me. “You’ll be fine, won’t you?”
I nod in response. I love the shop. The wood carvings, glass sculptures, etched glass, and vanity items we sell are the closest I’ve ever been to real art. It seems fitting somehow that the last place I’ll really know in town before I have to leave is my favorite place in it.
I sit at my desk reading a book for a long time after Stacey leaves. Only a few people come into the shop, Doug Randall, who runs the sporting equipment store, stops by every morning to ask how I am, while his eyes explore my chest, as well as a few other people. There are no sales though, but it’s too early to lose all hope.
I place the book down on the desk and move towards the door. There is an old gilt framed mirror hanging on the wall, and as I walk through the shop, I catch a glimpse of my reflection. I’m wearing my black blouse, a gift from Stacey, and the blue jeans that have become my uniform. I am not pretty, at least I don’t think I am, though Stacey would argue otherwise. I don’t look like any actress or model I’ve ever seen, and I’m not thin enough to be conventionally pretty anyway.
I adjust the barrettes that hol
d my hair back from my face. Stacey constantly goes on about how my hair is my best feature. It is pale gold and extremely thick, hence the barrettes, but I prefer my eyes, they are green, the same color as my mothers’ were.
I continue to the door, and step outside. The air is fresh and crisp, and the wind is blowing dead leaves across the paved street. On the other side of the street, the second-hand bookstore looks sadly empty. There are only a few people about. Many of Ashford’s residents work in Seattle, which is commuting distance away.
I am about to go back into the shop when a car cruises past, coming from the tree lined street that leads to Ashcroft hills. It is a black sedan, with tinted windows, so I cannot see whoever is in it.
I turn around and enter the shop. Through the glass front, I see the car stop suddenly, just past the store, and after a short pause, when it stays unmoving on the street, it slides back to park right in front of me.
I watch, curious. It is probably only someone from Ashcroft Hills, but there is a feeling of apprehension building in my stomach. It’s as if my sixth sense can feel a danger in that car, but I ignore it. There is more likely a sale in it, I decide.
The back door opens, and as I watch, a man steps out.
Involuntarily, I step back, suddenly hoping that the glass will hide me from him. My heart starts to pound, and I can hear the blood rushing in my ears. I am filled with awareness, excited and afraid at the same time, and I don’t know why.
Maybe it’s because I’ve never seen anyone who looks like him before.
His face is breathtakingly handsome, almost as if it was lifted directly from one of the classical sculptures or paintings I’ve seen in art textbooks, and then perfected. His hair is thick and very black, slightly too long and elegantly tousled, framing his exquisite sculpted face. His lips are firm and perfectly shaped. His nose is straight. His eyes, framed by a pair of winged black eyebrows, are the most intense blue I’ve ever seen.
I’m only looking at him, but I feel as if all the air has been sucked from my lungs. I pray he doesn’t come into the shop, and I hope fervently that he does.
I am staring, mouth open, but I can’t stop myself. He is just so... compelling.
His eyes narrow slightly, and I flush. I don’t know why I’m embarrassed. He’s been staring at me too. I look away from his eyes and take in his tall, broad shouldered body in a superbly tailored gray suit. My mouth suddenly feels dry. I swallow.
As I watch, he starts to move towards the door. He is graceful and lithe, yet strong, like a jungle cat, I think.
As soon as the obstruction of the door is out of the way, his eyes are on me again. He doesn’t stop until he is right in front of me. I am five six, which isn’t short by any standards, but I have to look up at him, and when I do, I have a desperate need to lean on something.
He doesn’t say anything. At first I don’t notice because I’m too busy staring at his face. I’ve lost the ability to breathe, which is probably why my mouth is hanging open, trying to get enough air to at least keep me alive.
“Good afternoon.” His voice is cultured and deep. There must be something stuck in my throat, because I can’t seem to get any words out. Say something Sophie! I tell myself desperately, or he’ll think you’re an idiot.
“Good afternoon.” I finally manage, my voice, an unfamiliar croak. His smile deepens, I’m so ridiculous I’m amusing to him, I decide miserably.
“Would you like to buy something?” I ask timidly, knowing that my face is probably a bright red.
He looks amused. I watch, fascinated as a black eyebrow moves up a little higher than the other, “Of course,” he replies, a teasing note in his voice. “I’d like ah...” He looks around and seems to take in the shop for the first time, “a gift for my mother.”
I nod. I have to squeeze by him so I can lead him through the shop. As I pass him, barely an inch from where he stands, I am careful not to look at him. He smells of fresh linen, and soap, with a delicious hint of cologne. I have an overwhelming urge to snuggle close and fill my nose with the scent of him.
I recover myself just in time. “What do you have in mind?” I say instead. “We have um... a selection of items you can consider.” As I move ahead of him through the few shelves and tables where the gifts are displayed, I can feel his eyes on my back, which makes the skin from my neck to the back of my legs tingle with warmth. I turn towards him, and jump when I find that he is right behind me.
I step back quickly, not because I mind being so close to him, but because my heart is beating so loudly I’m sure he must hear it. I swallow and continue. “We have um... These glass sculptures are all made locally,” I start, aware that my voice sounds breathless. I wonder if he can tell that his presence is affecting me so much. I am painfully aware that his eyes have not left my face, even for an instant.
“What’s your name?” His voice stops me mid-ramble and I blink in surprise. What is my name again!
“Sophie.” I stammer, “Sophie Bennett.”
“Sophie.” He repeats, coming from him, it sounds sensual, not the name I’m used to.
“And how long have you worked here, Sophie?” His voice is soft and fascinating.
“I... um... a few months.” I tell him. Why can’t I stop stammering?
“Interesting,” He looks curious. “College?”
I shake my head, and silently I wonder how he can find any of the boring details about my life interesting.
“How old are you?” He asks suddenly.
Why does he want to know? I frown and lick my lips uncertainly. “Eighteen.”
His eyes follow the small movement, and for a moment, I feel a sense of fear and excitement. He looks back up into my eyes, and something in his intense gaze makes my insides start to quiver. The feeling is new and delicious, and I don’t want it to stop.
He takes a small step back, there is something like regret in his eyes. “You’re very young.” He says softly.
I don’t know what to say to that. I may be young, but he doesn’t look much older than I am. He looks about twenty-five, or perhaps a little older. I wonder if I should keep talking about the items we have for sale, but I have a feeling that he is not particularly interested.
We are staring at each other again. I wonder what he is thinking. The quivery feeling is still in my belly, and getting more insistent. Everything about him reminds me of the things my body has been telling me for months. The things I haven’t had the nerve, or the opportunity to explore. I suddenly have a very intense vision of exploring those things with him, and I blush furiously, certain that he knows what I’m thinking.
If he notices my blush, he doesn’t show it. His eyes skip around the store and finally settle on the book I’ve been reading. It’s an old edition of Fanny Hill, from the second hand bookstore. He looks back at me, an eyebrow raised, and a half smile tugging at his lips. I blush again, sure that, unlike a lot of people, he knows what the book is about.
“I’d like the glass swan.”
I have no idea what he just said. “The what?”
He lips twitch again, and he inclines his head towards a smallish figure of a swan on a lake. It’s all glass, transparent but with little hints of color. It is very beautiful and costly.
I nod, feeling silly. I pick up the swan and take it to the front desk. My legs feel like plastic. “Do you want it wrapped?” I ask, trying to sound professional.
He nods, still smiling. “And delivered.” He dictates an address in Seattle, which I jot down carefully.
He hands me a card. As I reach out to take it, our hands touch briefly, and I feel a sudden surge of awareness. I quickly pull mine away, silently commanding it to stop shaking. I can’t look at him. He only touched your hand, for God’s sake!
David Preston. That’s the name on his card. I mouth it silently as I process his payment.
“I want to see you.” I freeze at his words. For the second time since I saw him, I literally cannot breathe. The strange quivering in m
y belly moves lower. “What are you doing tonight?”
I manage to find my voice. “Nothing.” I confess.
“Then have dinner with me.”
I bring myself to look at him. I’m unsure, afraid, and feeling rather faint. It is beyond comprehension that this perfect man is asking me out on a date.
“He cocks his head, “Please.” He says, though he doesn’t look as if he is pleading. He is still smiling, but his eyes are burning darkly.
“Yes.” I accept, wondering what else I’m agreeing to.
“When do you finish here?” I wonder hopefully if, like me, he cannot wait for tonight.
“Five.” I tell him.
“I’ll be here.” He smiles, revealing perfect white teeth. His smile tugs at some deep part of me, and I want to sigh. A few moments later, he is gone, with only the slight hint of his cologne in the air to convince me that I haven’t been daydreaming.
Chapter Two
It’s almost five, and I’m still finding it hard to believe that David Preston is not a figment of my imagination. Stacey has left already, happy with the sale of the swan, the only sale we have made today. I get ready to close the shop, filled with tension at the thought of my dinner date.
In the bathroom at the back of the shop, I brush my hair and check my reflection in the mirror. I don’t have any makeup, so I apply lip balm to my lips and pinch my cheeks a little, reminding myself buy a few items, maybe lip-gloss, and mascara, as soon as I can. There is no one to disapprove anymore, now that Aunt Josephine is gone.
He is standing outside the shop when I come out of the bathroom. He’s changed out of the gray suit of earlier, and is now wearing black pants, with a pale blue shirt, and a dark jacket. He looks effortlessly stylish, and a thousand times more handsome than I remember from this morning... if that’s even possible. Next to him, I probably look juvenile and uncouth.
I smooth my hair nervously, trying, without success, to control my heart rate, which has gone exceedingly high. I walk to meet him, locking the door behind me.