Table of Contents
Title Page
Mr. and Mrs. Rossi
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
A word about the author...
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
A blush touched her cheekbones. “Can you think about anything else?”
“Sure.”
“Like what?”
“Well, I’m trying to figure out what kind of moan I want you to make next.”
Harley cleared her throat and crossed her arms back across her chest. “What?”
“Do I want to make you moan from a series of love making?” He leaned forward; his hand wrapped around her behind and kissed her stomach. The warmth of his mouth melted her insides. “Do I want to make you moan from a nice massage,” he rubbed her lower back, “or do I want to make you moan from feeding you something delicious.”
“You want to go out to eat?”
“I’m supposed to be asking you out on a date.”
“A date?” Harley repeated, allowing Dante to link his hands with both of hers. Still seated, they were still almost eye level. Their hands clutched together by her thighs. She couldn’t mistake the feel of the cold band and his ring finger. Why did he still have it on? Why was she suddenly aware of her ring sitting in her pocket? She hadn’t kept it on but she did not leave it out of her sight.
“I know asking you out on a date is a bit backwards considering we’ve already had the wedding.”
“And the honeymoon,” Harley added, squeezing his hand and wiggling her eyebrows.
Dante squeezed a bit harder. “The honeymoon is not over, but we do need to come up for air.”
Mr. and Mrs. Rossi
by
Carolyn Hector
Special Tasks Bureau Series
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Mr. and Mrs. Rossi
COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Carolyn Hector
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Kim Mendoza
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2015
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-838-9
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-839-6
Special Tasks Bureau Series
Published in the United States of America
Chapter 1
Harley Tomasello’s eyes fluttered open. Ouch, her head pounded. The bright lights made her squint. She’d had too much to drink and was paying the price for it now. She glanced around the bare room, spotting two brown wooden doors across either side of the room. One hopefully was the exit. Nothing. The room lacked the fresh scent of her three wick vanilla candles scattered on practically every surface in the haven of her own bedroom. Instead, a faint musky mixture of mildew and stale beer filtered through the air. Red neon numbers of a small black digital clock flashed zero five-thirty indicating the time span it became unplugged. A pale eggshell lampshade balanced on its rim next to the clock was unfamiliar to her; in fact, she had no idea where she was and couldn’t remember last night at all.
Her left arm lay flat by her face on a smooth cool white sheet. A sparkling gold band on the ring finger of her left hand began to tighten like a vice grip stemming from her wrist to her throat. When did this happen? She wasn’t married before she went out with her friends. The lug she assumed she married lay beside her and snored beneath a pillow like a freight train. Harley lacked the fear gene and she had no need to panic. She had twenty-five different ways to subdue a grown man if the situation arose.
Sporadic flashbacks jolted her. The evening began with lots of shots. Harley stretched and pushed her anger out with a deep exhale, pissed off at her stupid decision. A hand, with a matching shiny gold band, smoothed the length of her arm. What had she been thinking? Her new husband’s morning wood pressed against her backside, reminding her why she went through with the dare. His huge biceps tightened around her naked frame and his warm breath blew across the back of her neck as he sealed in the darkness with the strands of her dark hair. Harley blinked. The room smelled of stale pretzels, beer, and plenty of sex. Two of the things she didn’t care for. How many shots did she have?
“What the hell happened last night?” she moaned to herself.
Last night’s clothes, strewn everywhere in the small bedroom, answered the rhetorical question. The crisp white linen brushed against her nipples when Mr. Sleepy rolled over, taking the covers—and her—with him. The quick rollercoaster view of the ceiling and then the other side of the bed nauseated her. In the new position, his forearm lay heavy against her stomach. She rolled to her other side and eyed the bald eagle tattoo on his right bicep. A patriotic bedmate, how ironic, she smirked. The fancy artwork stopped just at his elbows—a dead giveaway she’d bagged a government-owned man. These days the military allowed visible, tasteful tattoos. His screamed old school and she guessed when fully dressed, well hidden to the naked eye. Younger soldiers entered the service with tats on their necks, hands, and face. Majority of the time, Harley liked to buck the system but in the tattoo department, her angel wings in the center of her back was as much ink as she wanted to go.
“We got married,” a deep, sexy voice answered from under the pillow.
Disappointed in herself, Harley shook her head for her lack of judgment on the stranger. “I figured.”
“What gave it away?” the voice asked, more alert. “The ring on your finger or your back being blown out all night long from consummating our vows?” His body shifted and as he rolled toward her, his hand cupped her butt cheek and his thumb massaged the spot at the tip of her tailbone. A hard erection pressed against the top of her thigh.
Confident ain’t he, she thought to herself and shivered with excitement, nothing more of a turn-on than confidence—especially one who knew how to back it up. Her body filled with the all too familiar pleasurable ache stemming from a satisfying sexual tryst. He had the body and the moves but with his face covered, she didn’t know what to expect. As he rubbed her back, his muscles rippled, arms flexed like a boxer’s, and stomach defined muscles worth climbing. She’d always had a weakness for a well-built man.
A shrilling sound interrupted her mental intoxication of looking at him. Somewhere in the tornado of clothes on the floor, her cell phone in the pocket of her jeans began to ring. Not wanting to leave her spot, she decided to let whoever was calling leave a message.
“Damn,” she hummed, biting her bottom lip, “we really got married?”
He flicked up his ring finger an inch before her face. “It appears so.”
“Okay sleepy, why did we get married?”
“Something about your baby getting married.”
Harley’s heart lurched against her chest as a foggy vi
sion cleared in her mind.
“But on your fifth shot,” he said from under the pillow, “you explained your niece got engaged before you and how life’s not fair and what not.”
An unfamiliar shrill broke through the air. She must have still been a little tipsy because she swore she heard the beginning of Welcome to the Jungle, by Guns and Roses, just the initial guitar introduction. A black mobile device vibrated against the top of the bare dresser. Above the oak dresser, the cheap polish she’d slathered over her nails yesterday stained the bright melon colored walls with eight crimson strips when he gripped her wrists and held them over her head while he devoured her mouth and neck. A flash of heated memory entered her mind of his hand holding both wrists against the wall while she sat naked on top of the dresser while he feasted upon her breasts, her thighs stretched to the limit wrapping around his waist.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. Harley held out her fingers to investigate the scratched off polish from her manicure yesterday. The faded crimson color which had been painted on in honor of the school colors at Hannah’s graduation now scarcely covered the center of her nails. The edges of her medium length talons chipped away unevenly and down to her cuticles.
The milestone in the Tomasello household was marred by the announcement of her niece’s plans to get married to a boy no one met. Harley always considered herself to be a screw-up in the family but Hannah’s announcement hours before her mother and father planned on boarding a ship for a summer cruise took the cake. To honor the noble decision, Harley remembered commiserating at her favorite bar with her best friend Tai. But who the hell heard of a National Decide to get Married Day? Damn Chet Rossi, who owned the bar, for having dollar drinks and an on-line ordained minister available?
“Your phone is ringing.” She nudged him, lifting the covers to get a better look of his rock-hard body. Hopefully lifting her arm to stifle a fake yawn masked her curiosity. With him still on his side facing her, Harley got a good look at the dark hairs spreading thinly from the center of his chest, trailing over his belly button to the base of his full-on early morning erection. She rubbed her fingers together hoping to take away the itch to reach out and stroke his hair. Black hair sprouted at his chiseled jaw line. She willed the pillow to move a little more and then his phone rang again.
“Ahh fuck,” he growled, throwing the pillow off his face to his side of the bed when the guitar riff sounded off again. The bed sheets made a rustling noise when he kicked them off and tossed them on the floor. He rolled out of the bed unabashed of his naked firm hot ass. And as far as asses went, he had one of the finest she’d seen—tight, firm and no tan lines. “Rossi?”
Rossi, so that was her new last name for the last six or so hours. While he answered the phone with his back still turned to her, she reached down to the floor and searched for her jeans in a pile of clothes. When she found them and shook them out, she sat on the edge of the bed. She stood to wiggle the dark denim over her curvy hips, and the arches of her feet ached and a flash of constant flexing and pointing after each plateau of orgasm entered her mind, sending a ripple down her spine. The copper button popped through the buttonhole of her jeans at the waist, she turned back and looked at her…husband. Despite her bout of depression over her niece’s engagement, the idea of marriage made Harley queasy. Any dream of walking down the aisle in white had left a long time ago. Her harsh lesson in reality at an early age hardened her thoughts on the institution.
With Rossi’s broad back still turned she continued to admire the beautiful artwork stretching along his backside forming one of those ancient tribal signs with a swirl dipping from his right arm down his right side. He obviously had a high threshold for pain. She caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror on the wall.
Rumpled black hair fell in front of his eyes. With a shake of his head Rossi tossed his hair out of his face. Dark set eyes, Romanesque style nose and cultivated cheekbones only found on a sculpture, greeted her. Damn shame she’d already slipped on her jeans. His beautiful face alone enticed her to go another round, but any chance would have to wait. Her phone buzzed, signaling text messages were waiting for her. She’d missed three of them from her niece. The first text needed downloading, which, when she went to select download, her phone rang.
The caller ID came from work, a picture of her latest boss with his mouth open in a screaming fashion—something he did quite a bit. Whatever happened must have been serious because Detective Steve Lundy did not call her, of all people. As she pondered what could be wrong, the red and black phone in her hand buzzed with an incoming call.
“Tomasello?” Harley answered sweetly, knowing the man did not like nor respect her, other than doing one of the few things he deemed women were good for. A firm believer of, if women wanted to work in a man’s world she was going to have to accept man’s behavior, Lundy didn’t hold back on his crude humor. Sergeant Steven Lundy was all bark and all bite.
“Harley, get off your ass and get down to Little Mexico at three-points! For once we can actually use you.”
“Good morning to you, Lundy,” Harley replied calmly, “what’s going on?”
“Get your sweet translating ass over here and you’ll see for yourself. And bring your equipment and backup, you’ve been asking to get out to this side of town. Oh, and if you haven’t had breakfast yet, I suggest you don’t. It’s pretty gruesome out here.”
The newlyweds ended their calls at the same time. At last she got a good look at him and smiled in appreciation of her drunken stupidity. At least with beer goggles she still had good taste. He ran a large hand over his forehead. Hot barely described the word she would use. His wide smile probably won over a lot of hearts. His black hair wasn’t too long but not military short as she usually preferred. She clamped her fingers around her phone to keep from crossing the room to stroke the curly locks forming below his ears.
“Dante,” he said in a deep voice that vibrated her bones.
“Harley,” she responded weakly with a half a smile. It seemed silly for this awkwardness to pass between them all of a sudden. Bare except for her jeans, she crammed her phone into her back pocket then wrapped one hand around her waist and the other on top to support the weight of her breasts. This awkwardness brought a heat to her cheeks. What did one say to the one-night-stand she married? Harley wasn’t used to talking, she preferred to leave them with an understanding: she’ll call when she’s ready.
Dante, as she just learned, shook his dark head. “Nah, not after last night.”
“What?” Harley replied with a coy smile. “I just learned your name.”
The distance between them shortened in two long strides of his powerful legs. His right hand cupped the back of her neck, resting his thumb by her ear and brought his face close to hers. “And I learned every inch of your body last night.”
He kissed her gently across her lips. It was the kind of kiss that made Harley forget about the typical pre-kiss thoughts; breath check, exposure of too much tongue, or potential slob.
“About last night,” Harley sighed, touching the corner of her mouth with the side of her thumb. Her legs wanted to buckle but she managed to stand still. Who kisses like that? How did she potentially forget what she wanted to say next? There was something she needed to discuss with him, but what was it exactly? “I think we need to talk.”
“I’d love to talk to you,” he moved back a step and grabbed his jeans off the floor, and pulled them on. He looked as good in them as he did without. “But duty calls.”
That was her line! With her line of work it was easier to have a dependable fling with a friend also not looking for a relationship. Unfortunately, her casual partner found himself in love and so Harley had to end things. Love was not on the menu or in the cards.
“I have to get to work too, but we need to figure out what to do about this marriage. This ring might be the real deal.” When she pinched it between her fingers, the gold band did not give or fold.
A bubble of di
sappointment burst in her chest as he covered his chiseled body with a black T-shirt. The material fit snug against his pecs and abs. The more she stared, the more she remembered the minute he walked in the bar. A good cup of coffee would bring the whole night together.
“They’re real,” groaned Dante, “Chet doesn’t go half ass.”
“And you know Chet, how?”
Dante flashed a smile capable of tempting her to forget about work, forget about talking. “He’s my cousin.”
“Great,” Harley rolled her eyes exaggeratedly, “I’m related to Chet.” She’d gone to school with Chet, attended his bar as a weekly ritual, and knew him to be, for the most part, a stand up kind of guy. Not quite as drop dead gorgeous as his cousin, but he would keep you laughing. Chet Rossi loved to indulge in pranks. Their senior trip almost got cut short when he broke into the principal’s bedroom at night and placed a full sized scary zombie clown half under her bed. She prayed at the thought that last night’s ceremony was Chet in high gear.
“It won’t be all bad.” There was a hint of teasing in Dante’s eyes. “Here,” he stretched his hand outwards, “hand me your phone.”
Asking to hold a woman’s phone ranked up on the list of no-no’s such as asking her weight or true age. Her shoulders withdrew backwards, her body turned away. “For what?”
“So, I can call you later and we can figure this out,” he brandished his long ringed finger.
With his phone in plain sight on the dresser Harley squared her shoulders and crossed the room in six steps. “I’ll put my number in here.” As she programmed her number into his cell, she watched him shake his head and grin.
Damn, he was sexy.
****
“Nobody will ever say you don’t go to great lengths to get what you want.”
Dante ignored the grimace over his team member’s face projected onto the screen of his cell phone mounted on his dashboard. “Cole, we’ve been working together for Special Tasks Bureau for how many years?”
“Fifteen.”
“And in those fifteen years have I ever been wrong?” Dante’s eyes glanced at the GPS’s red button flashing to his location. He let up on the gas to slow down. “Leonardo Marchette is here and I will do anything to get him this time.” He purposely left out what everything entailed last night. Until he figured out what to do with his hellcat Harley, he’d keep the information to himself.
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