Priceless
Winter Renshaw
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Description
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
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Epilogue
Dream Cast
Bonus Content
Heartless
Copyright
Dedication
Description
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
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
Italian Glossary - Contains Spoilers!
Acknowledgements for Heartless
Reckless
Copyright
Dedication
Description
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
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Books By Winter Renshaw
Preview of DARK PROMISES
About the Author
Copyright
COPYRIGHT 2016 WINTER RENSHAW
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
COVER DESIGN: Louisa Maggio
COVER MODEL: Joseph Cannata
EDITING: The Passionate Proofreader
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
E-Books are not transferrable. They cannot be sold, given away, or shared. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/).
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
For my husband. Ours is the most priceless adventure of all.
xoxo
Winter
Description
It was New Year’s Eve, and I should’ve been ringing in the night with cheap champagne and bad decisions at home in New York. Instead I found myself holed up in some hotel room in southern California.
But I wasn’t alone.
I was in the company of a fellow stranded traveler by the name of Cristiano. We spent one night together – forced into the same hotel room by the snowstorm that cancelled our flights and changed our lives.
His dimpled smile, panty-melting kisses, and charming wit were a temporary distraction from the chaos of the day . . . or the past year. But as soon as morning broke, I set my sights on getting home. I rented a car, mapped out my 2,749 mile journey, and packed my bags.
Only Cristiano insisted on joining me. He needed to get home, too. His best friend was getting married on Saturday. And he refused to let me go it alone. It wasn’t safe, he said.
Trekking across country with an alluring stranger was certainly one of the more adventurous moments of my life. Falling for him was certainly one of the most daring. But uncovering his secrets? That was the most challenging. And the truth I learned . . . would shatter us both.
Chapter 1
Daphne
I’m pretty sure wine is the only thing that is going to save me today.
Or one of those tiny bottles of vodka they give you on the plane.
And at this point, I’m willing to save a little time and drink it straight: no mixer, no chaser.
Checking my watch, I mentally calculate that I’ll be on my flight in less than an hour, biting my nails until we take off and the in-flight beverage service comes by.
Shoulder to shoulder with grouchy holiday travelers on New Year’s Eve in a small, southern California airport isn’t ideal, but my twin sister, Delilah, called me this morning, frantic and telling me the doctor thinks she’s going to go into labor any day now despite the fact that she’s not due for two more weeks. She was spouting off a bunch of things about centimeters and contractions, all the while sounding like a crazy person. I tuned out the part where she discussed the current state of h
er cervix in great detail and tuned back in just in time to hear the panic in her voice when she realized there was a good chance I might not make it home in time.
“I’ll be there,” I promised her at the time. “No matter what. I’ll move heaven and earth. I won’t miss it. Don’t worry. Just keep your legs squeezed together really, really tight.”
She laughed at the time, but I still heard the worry in her voice. Our oldest sister, Demi, will be there, and obviously Delilah’s husband, Zane, but being twins, we’ve always done everything together. We’re impossibly close. And it would break my heart not to be there.
Glancing around the crowded airport, I scan the length of the line before me. At least eight people wait ahead, and the woman currently congesting this process seems to have her shit strewn out on the tile floor, rearranging items and shoving her giant hair dryer and moving several hardcover Stephen King books from her checked bag to her carry-on.
Sighing in commiseration with my fellow travelers, I watch as she zips her bag and hoists it back onto the scale. The face of the Jet Stream airways attendant says it all, and the woman begrudgingly yanks her bag away and attempts to reconfigure her baggage situation once more.
It’s safe to say we’re going to be here a while.
Out of pure boredom, I take another gander at the folks in line behind me. It appears I’m in the company of predominantly baby boomers and parents with young children who aren’t having any part of this travel stuff. I’m guessing all the people my age are wisely out living it up, ringing in the new year with cheap champagne and bad decisions.
God, I was hoping I’d get a chance to make a bad decision tonight.
Guess there’s always next year . . .
Two years ago, I rang in the new year in Paris with my Parisian lover who turned out to be a royal scumbag.
Last year, I rang in the new year at home with my family, quietly nursing a recent breakup with a professional football player named Weston. He was still madly in love with his ex but kept his feet planted in denial until I finally showed him the writing on the wall. And that was the end of something that could’ve been pretty freaking amazing.
A job interview at a small, private fine arts college landed me here this week, and I was planning to meet up with some old college friends in Vegas tonight, but Delilah’s cervix thinned, or whatever, and now here I am.
I’m seconds from facing forward again to reassess the state of this slow moving line when my eye catches a tall man, approximately my age, with messy dark hair and a laser sharp stare pointed directly at me. My heart skips for a second, and I face the front of the line. I’m not sure it’s possible to physically feel someone staring at me, but my entire backside is tingling and warm. Not the front. Just the back. My ass, if I want to get specific.
I’m half flattered, half annoyed, and one-hundred percent determined to ignore his shameless behavior when all of a sudden a loud chime plays above the chatter and drone of anxious travelers.
“Attention passengers,” a woman’s muffled, muddled voice comes over the intercom at Seaview International Airport. “Flight 802 with nonstop service from Seaview to Dulles International Airport in Washington, D.C. has been canceled. Please report to your nearest Red Jet Airways desk for further information.”
I lift a brow, release a breath, and silently sympathize for the hundred-plus passengers whose hopes of ringing in the new year in another part of the country have suddenly been dashed.
The line moves ahead, and I grip the handle of my wheel-y bag and move ahead an entire eighteen inches.
Yay, progress.
A man in front of me wears a frown as he checks his phone.
“They’re saying almost two feet of snow in some parts,” I hear him tell his wife. “And even more tomorrow.”
His wife covers her mouth with her hand, her eyes holding worry. “I was hoping we’d be able to get back before the storm hit. You think they’ll cancel ours next?”
The man shrugs, dragging his thumb down the screen of his phone as he reads. “Possibly. The storm’s moving north now. Parts of Maryland are without power already. All of Baltimore is covered in a sheet of ice.”
She clasps a palm at her chest, twisting a gold cross necklace between her fingers, the corners of her mouth pulled down. “Surely they’d have said something by now. Our plane boards in an hour.”
“You’re right, Margaret,” he says, slipping his phone in his pocket and putting his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “We have nothing to worry about. They’d have canceled by now.”
The line moves ahead once more, and I check the time before scanning the area behind me again. Tucking a strand of white-blonde hair behind my ear, I peek from the corner of my eye and accidentally meet his gaze again.
The dark-haired guy.
He’s still staring at me.
Whipping my attention toward the front of the line, I realize there’s a good three-foot gap between me and the couple ahead. That’s what I get for paying more attention to the Greek Adonis behind me and not watching the line.
Clearing my throat, I pick my bruised ego off the floor and pull my bag ahead. The lady with the overweight bag appears to be long gone, which explains why the line’s finally moving.
Dragging in a long breath, I dig my hand into the front pocket of my jeans to retrieve my ID. I stuck it in there before I got in line because I hate to be that person standing at the desk, dumping out their ridiculously overstuffed purse in search of their license because they failed to prepare for their turn.
I’m a bit of a budding world traveler. I love to fly. I love to jet-set across oceans and continents, countries and states. I’ve flown dozens of times in the last few years alone. Preparation is my middle name.
My heart jolts a little when the tips of my fingers feel nothing but the cotton lining of my pocket. I check the other side, my blood running cold with panic. The line moves again. I’m next. Sitting my purse down, I shove both my hands down the front and then back pockets of my jeans, digging deep and coming up with nothing but lint. I’m sure I look like a crazy person, but I’m dead set on finding my ID.
It’s in here.
I know it is.
My mind functions in warp speed, replaying my earlier steps and wondering if there was any possible way I somehow thought I put my ID in my pocket but actually forgot. Mentally retracing my steps, I think back to my hotel room. My bag was packed. My purse was lying on a table by the door. I checked out. Hailed a cab . . .
My mind runs blank.
I could’ve sworn I grabbed my ID from my wallet after I paid the cab driver.
Yes.
I was standing on the sidewalk of the drop off lane.
I know I did.
There’s a quick tap on my shoulder and a shadowed presence behind me. My body freezes as I’m startled out of my own thoughts, and I turn to face this person that dares to interrupt me at this horribly inopportune moment.
“You dropped this . . . Daphne.” The handsome stranger wears a half smirk and flicks my driver’s license between two fingers before handing it over.
“Oh, God.” I swipe it from his grasp. “Thank you.”
“Sorry for staring,” he says, his eyes almost smiling, as if he’s not truly sorry. “I wanted to make sure this was you. You should be more careful. This gets in the wrong hands and you never know what could happen.”
My words catch in my throat as my brows meet. I’m appreciative of his good deed but not in the mood for a lecture.
“Next,” the woman behind the desk calls out.
His gaze flicks over my head, and I turn around to see that I’m, in fact, next.
“That’s me,” I say. Turning back, I start to tell him, “Thanks for . . .”
But he’s already returned to his place in line.
I check my baggage, get my boarding pass scanned, and make a mad dash toward security. The waiting area just outside security is packed like sardines in a can, and squeezing myself t
hrough the thick crowd proves to be a bit of a challenge, but I make it to the escalator and breathe a sigh of relief when I see the actual security line isn’t half as long as I thought it would be. I’m sure a lot of that has to do with stranded travelers, and I can’t help but feel for them.
I’d hate to be in their shoes.
I’d probably cry.
By the time I make it past the initial checkpoint, I’m yanking off my shoes and shoving all of my things into a gray bin. Checking my jeans pockets, I’m doubly relieved to feel the hard plastic of my ID in the left front pouch.
As much traveling as I’ve done over the last couple of years, I should be a pro at this. This so isn’t me. I’m not this disorganized. I’m not so easily rattled.
“Next,” the security guard calls. We make eye contact and he motions me forward, his front two fingers bent and his lips holding a flat line.
I step forward, let them scan my body, and immediately receive a green light. Glancing back, I watch for my gray bin to come down the conveyor and unintentionally spot the tall, dark, and mysteriously fetching stranger readying to come through. Wearing fitted indigo jeans and a simple gray t-shirt that clings to the curves and muscled bulges that make up his torso, he motions for the guard to step closer, and then he says something. The guard then turns to another and makes some kind of hand signal. A third guard appears from out of nowhere and pulls the stranger aside to begin a patdown.
Weird.
My bin finally comes through, and I grab my purse and leather Oxfords, locating a nearby bench so I can get these things back on. They’re easy to pull off and impossible to put back on. I should’ve known better than to travel in these, but at least I won’t have to take them off again. This is a non-stop, direct flight from Seaview, California to JFK International in New York.
Tugging and pulling, I wriggle my heel into my left shoe and prepare to begin again with the right.
“You don’t have to do that, you know,” a man’s voice says from my right.
I glance up.
It’s him. Again.
“You don’t have to go through the x-ray machine,” he clarifies. His brows meet when he glances up at it. “It’s invasive. I don’t like it. You can request a patdown.”
Priceless (An Amato Brothers/Rixton Falls crossover) Page 1