by Angel Payne
No White Knight
Secrets Of Stone: Book Eight
ANGEL PAYNE
VICTORIA BLUE
This book is an original publication of Angel Payne & Victoria Blue.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are 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. The publisher does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.
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Copyright © 2018 Waterhouse Press, LLC
Cover Design by Emmy Ellis
Cover Photographs: 123RF
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All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
To my love, my life, the one who makes it all possible:
Thomas, you are my knight, my hero, and the man of my dreams.
—Angel
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For my boys and my very special girl: You are my everything, and without your love and support, I would’ve never taken this journey.
—Victoria
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Acknowledgments
Also by Angel Payne
About Angel Payne
About Victoria Blue
Chapter One
Mac
“Okay, ladies—single ladies, that is—it’s time for the bouquet toss!”
The DJ might as well have shouted “Last call” during spring break in Cabo. I smirked at the comparison—which wasn’t a far stretch—as the dance floor, otherwise known as a bunch of flat wood squares fitted together across the private San Diego estate’s back lawn, was packed with female lemmings hoping to catch the coveted ball of flowers about to be tossed by the glowing bride. Giggles, doe eyes, slutty dresses, and sky-high heels abounded.
I was tempted to sneer again.
Until the little throng seemed to part for her.
Her.
The tiny blonde I hadn’t torn my eyes away from for the last six hours.
Damn her.
I would’ve been tempted to say it out loud, if I wasn’t so consumed with thinking about fucking her.
Luckily, I only knew a handful of the wedding guests, or someone would’ve noticed my stalker moves as I navigated the party’s perimeter, darting in and out of Mission-style archways and their terra-cotta shadows, angling for a better view of the dance floor. Not that I gave a rat’s ass what they all thought, anyway. The only element keeping me around at this point in the party was her, the woman who’d consumed my attention from the second I’d spotted her earlier, while the wedding party had mingled with guests before the bride and grooms exchanged their vows.
Ohhh, yes. Bride and grooms—and the three of them still glowed with happiness now, after openly exchanging rings of commitment to their unusual style of love. And I’m the big expert of love all of a sudden? I did, however, know a thing or two about unusual—and that description was getting a workout today when it came to describing that stunning little number and her stranglehold on my dick.
What is this bullshit? The thrill of the hunt? There was nothing thrilling about this muck-fest. As far as I could tell, she hadn’t realized I was at the wedding, let alone near this hilltop or even breathing on the same planet. Funnily, three women out on that dressed-up plywood with her had already tapped their numbers into my cell phone. Just as fast, I’d erased all three. They were invisible to me, even now.
She was it.
The quest. The prey. The big-game kill in a tiny, sassy-as-fuck body.
Damn her.
I still couldn’t stop staring at her.
Taylor Mathews. Well, at least I knew her name. We’d met somewhere in the last few months, though I couldn’t pinpoint the exact day and time. That shit was for people who had time to burn, and I wasn’t one of them. The clock just wasn’t that important to me. Things happened either before or after I operated on a patient.
Before or after I’d changed a life.
I had performed such a feat—emergency brain surgery—on the fairer of the grooms, Fletcher Ford. Taylor Mathews had been at Talia’s side throughout the entire ordeal, but not just “sitting by” her friend. She’d fought valiantly for Talia, even standing up to me when she had to. Not a lot of men had that courage, let alone women. And from what I could glean from overheard conversations, Taylor had even remained in Chicago for most of Ford’s recovery too.
So is she Talia Ford now? Or Talia Newland? That was the last name of the other groom, his dark head tossed back in laughter while watching their woman prepare to chuck her bouquet.
Maybe she’ll just go for the trendy and hyphenate it at Ford-Newland. Keeping the peace, and all that. Can’t be easy, since they’re both such stubborn bastards—not that I noticed much of anything about them beyond the surface facts. Not concerned with the color of their fucking underwear.
Now, Taylor Mathews? I care about her underwear. Even better, about ripping it right off her.
My hypersensitive mind, ping-ponging from subject to subject with its regular fury, had suddenly bounced me into the danger zone. Trouble was, I didn’t want to leave—especially as that blond spitfire strutted to the head of the pack on the dance floor like she owned every splinter in those wooden planks. Just the sight of her shifted me into overdrive, a very dangerous gear for me. I hadn’t had anything more than a quick fuck in two years.
But Taylor Mathews was an engine class all her own.
She drew me, even now. Spoke to me without words. Awakened something inside, calling to base urges on levels I hadn’t experienced in a long time. Who am I kidding? That I hadn’t experienced ever. My throat burned as if I’d just chugged gasoline, rather than the craft beer in my death grip. My bloodstream was churning pure rocket fuel. And my cock?
Right now, I was really trying to ignore that bastard. Like he was agreeing to that bullshit. Every chance he could take, the message got pushed at me like a telegram stamped Urgent. It had been like that for hours, the primal yearning to make myself a part of her, becoming a fantasy fueling the better part of my thoughts for the entire afternoon. I could even pinpoint the exact second they’d begun. I’d been watching her from a strategic vantage point, one of the tables set off from the rest of the wedding bustle, placed for guests needing a reprieve from the Labor Day weekend sun—so while I was cloaked in shadows, she wasn’t. Like I said, abso-fucking-lutely-perfect—until some young hipster jackass tried making a play for her. The douche nozzle couldn’t scrape together two brain cells long enough to read Taylor’s body language, mistaking her surface small talk for a prelude to the winning touchdown. He kept babbling until she faked a buzz on her phone and then a nonexistent text before her “apology” about being needed for some last-minute wedding emergency. I’d grinned from ear to ear as she bounded from the idiot faster than a gazelle spooked by a lion.
But goddamn, did I want to be her lion.
The commotion of the crowd roused me back to the unfolding
“fun” on the dance floor. I refocused in time to watch the bride, escorted by both her proud grooms, flash a conspiratorial wink at Taylor, who nodded like a quarterback about to get the key snap of the game. The crowd oooed and ahhhed as Talia posed between her men, who leaned in from the sides to press tender kisses on her cheeks, freezing that way as the photographer captured their bliss on film.
After that, it was game on.
Talia flashed the group of women one more teasing look—
Before turning and tossing the ball of flowers directly to Taylor.
Pass complete. I chuckled along with the crowd as the little blonde tucked the prize to her chest, preparing to run for the proverbial end zone if needed. After a quick look around to confirm nobody was going to dare fight her for the prize, Taylor relaxed and straightened, her composure returning to regal queen status. Her face was the most fascinating part of the transformation, especially the telling glimmer in her eyes. I wondered if anyone else saw it besides me…how the reigning sovereign only existed on the outside. Inside she was still an imposter, no matter how court-worthy her jewelry or dress.
And what a dress it was. The material, some combination of firm but silky, was spun into the palest blue I’d ever seen, matching the cloudless Southern California sky at the spot where it met the horizon along the Pacific. Her china-doll skin looked even milkier next to the fabric, and I longed to run my fingers across her collarbones, where the skin seemed even thinner. The heart-shaped bodice hugged her frame, and the fabric ended just above her knees, making me wonder if they tasted as good as they looked.
Fuck.
I wanted to taste more than her knees.
A lot more.
Just like that, lust and need climbed on their mental motorbikes, churning my mind into a goddamned festival of filth. I thought of grabbing that woman by the hand then and there and hauling her away someplace private inside the house. Parking her sweet ass on a table, a dresser, a bed, anywhere, so I could hike up that gorgeous blue silk-satin-stiff whatever and then yank her panties off so fast, she’d gasp and writhe—urging her wet pussy up toward my waiting mouth. Then I’d taste her. Drown in her. Suck down every drop of her until she had no choice but to come for me, preparing her sweet cunt for the stretch of my aching cock…
“Holy shit.” My harsh mutter interrupted my fantasies just in time. I shifted balance to get my dick back under some kind of control.
For fuck’s sake. I didn’t even know that much about her. All right, she was gorgeous. No. Stunning. She had an energy, perhaps even an edge, that made a man want to find an excuse for lingering in her vicinity—or, if he was a ballsy hipster, even trying to impress her enough to surrender a phone number. But she needed to eat more, judging by her bone-thin frame—though even her figure, what I could see of it, turned me on. She looked delicate and acted fierce. When that temper of hers was piqued, the cutest fucking Southern drawl set in too. She did it every time. Believe me, I knew. I swear, just the sight of me set off a dozen of the woman’s hot buttons. Don’t get me started on our conversations, if that was what they could be called.
Every. Single. One. Of. Them.
My dick started twitching again. Then throbbing. Just remembering her comebacks and insults, always infused with sass and sarcasm and passion, had actually forced my hand at having to follow and contribute to a conversation. What the hell? I didn’t “converse” with people. I talked, people listened, orders were followed. End of story…
Until Taylor Mathews had started rewriting my narrative.
The woman would not be taken advantage of, that was for damn sure.
Not ever.
“Okaaaayyyyy, bachelors!” The DJ’s shout hauled my attention back. “It’s your time to shine now. Get on out to the dance floor so we can see who catches the garter from the grooms.” He motioned toward Taylor with exaggerated enthusiasm. “That lucky fella gets to slide that thing up this beautiful belle’s leg!”
Wait.
What?
In half a second, I forgot all about the ham’s hokey phrasing, homing in on the implication of what he’d just said instead.
My hands. On her leg. Up her leg.
Far up her leg.
The crimson flush on the woman’s face gave away how the concept had hit her brain like shock paddles. She’d definitely forgotten how this stupid ritual worked when making such a pro catch of the bouquet.
Well, isn’t this going to be interesting?
The recognition instantly jolted my mind and body to autopilot—though it was my personal version of it, usually saved for the times a patient was split open for me on the operating table. The intensity was the universe’s glaring reminder of how my knowledge and skill were the only things saving this person’s life. Though the stakes were different now, they felt just as important—just as key to validating I had a purpose on this planet beyond mere existence.
Whatever.
Cosmic dribble aside, I was certain of one key thing. While this was a hell of a lot more complicated than brain surgery, I refused to accept failure.
Whatever.
That meant some key prep work. I hustled onto the dance floor, driven and determined, though kicking myself for not having my camera at the ready to capture the look on Taylor’s face as I did. Our gazes locked for a few seconds, and I inserted half a smirk in place of stopping and admitting those blue depths nearly drowned me like the midnight wave they resembled, before she averted first. That didn’t hide the little twitches at the corners of her mouth, making me guess at what incited them. Was she dealing with nervousness? Happiness? Excitement? Or covering up a case of sheer dread?
She gave me no time for further deciphering. The next moment, her emotions were schooled again behind a mask of gorgeous detachment. She stared with impressive blankness into the mob of guys collecting around me.
Fuck.
I had to catch that goddamned thing.
Which meant high-alert tactics were officially in order.
With a fast sweep, I wheeled in on the center of the crowd and indicated to them all that I needed a tight huddle. With arms hooked around the guys to either side of me, I leaned in and assumed instant quarterback mode. Thank fuck everyone seemed copacetic about the new pecking order.
“All right, fuckers, listen up. The blonde with the bouquet? She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s mine.”
The guy to the right of me, flashing tatted muscles and a huge grin, nodded. “Prime choice, dude.”
“Good. Because I’m going to catch that garter or will beat down the fucker who does.”
“We’re behind you, buddy.”
I thanked the guy with a solid smack to the back while circling my stare back around the group. “Everyone else good?”
While the rest of the group didn’t do much but grunt and stare, I sensed the overall receipt of my message, especially when I straightened and clapped my hands, breaking the huddle.
Round One handled.
Now for Round Two—represented by the groom selected to perform the garter-tossing duties, a sublime and smiling Fletcher Ford. Or maybe his shit-eating grin was because his own hands had just been underneath his woman’s filmy white dress, reaching for the treasure up her own thigh—“treasure” being open to interpretation. Were the woman’s panties now tucked in his pocket along with the garter? Or maybe he and Newland had ordered their bride not to wear anything down there today. I snorted. I didn’t know those two that well, but instinct told me they were the kind of kinky bastards to do just that.
My kind of kinky bastards.
The thought made it easier for me to motion Ford over. I wasn’t comfortable with the buddy-buddy rah-rah act just for the hell of it, but right now I was a man on a mission, and he strode over as if sensing just that. At my motion to lean in closer, he complied.
It was time to talk like men.
“Dr. Stone.”
“Mr. Ford.”
“Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way
…”
I barely gave his sarcastic chuckle a look. Humor often seemed a waste of time to me, and this was definitely one of those occasions. “Down and dirty? I catch the garter, all right?”
“Uhhhh.” Another snicker, this time more arrogant. “All right. I can’t make promises…”
I rammed his shoulder with mine. Hard. More wasted time on sarcasm. “You can, and you will,” I dictated from between locked teeth. “You owe me.”
“That I do.” He was sober now. Properly so. Probably had something to do with staring into the face of the doctor who’d made it possible for him to be alive for his wedding day at all.
“So this’ll happen?” I pressed. His answering grin, which could’ve lit the whole San Diego skyline, came as proper confirmation.
I watched as he jogged back over to Drake, letting him in on the plan too, before swinging my attention back to the other side of the dance floor—and the adorable little blonde now comprehending how thoroughly her fate was sealed.
She gaped, eyes wide and mouth wider. In return I smirked, but just a little. She volleyed by tightening her features into a glare, realizing exactly what I was up to. I returned the shot by waggling my eyebrows, letting my lips broaden into an arrogant, evil smile.
That’s right, spitfire.
I’m coming for you.
If I had my way, she’d be coming for me by the end of the night. At once, at least twenty scenarios bloomed in my mind. All the sinful, filthy things I could do to quench the blue flames raging in her gorgeous eyes.
Rope, tape, cuffs, zip ties…