A passionate standalone romance about a billionaire husband and the estranged wife he never stopped loving…
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Callie: I only ever wanted to be the perfect wife. To prove to myself and a short-term world that Logan and I had a forever love.
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I was wrong. The harder I tried to be flawless, the farther apart we grew, until I never saw my husband. At least not at home—but definitely in the pages of gossip rags with beautiful women in his orbit, like in his playboy bachelor days.
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So I ran before my heart could break completely. But Logan’s found me… and he refuses to let me disappear again.
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Logan: I only ever wanted to be the perfect husband. To prove I could succeed where my dad hadn’t and provide my wife with everything she could ever want.
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I failed. The harder I worked, the more I made, the more I gave to her, the farther away Callie drifted. Until one day she was gone and my entire world went black.
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But I never stopped searching for her. When I find her, we reignite the passion between us—and uncover a whisper campaign to destroy our marriage. Finding who’s responsible and making them pay will be the easy part. Convincing Callie to give our marriage a second chance… that will be hardest fight of my life.
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Enter the world of Bastard Capital: Unrivaled men. Unimaginable wealth. Unlimited power.
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Books in the Bastard Capital Series
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Secret Acquisitions (Book One, Mark’s story)
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Unfinished Seductions (Book Two, Logan’s story)
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Competitive Instincts (Book Three, Finn’s story)
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Intimate Mergers (Book Four, Paul’s story)
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Hostile Attractions (Book Five, Elliot’s story)
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Private Disclosures (Book Six, Dev’s story)
Unfinished Seductions
Raleigh Davis
Copyright © 2018 by Raleigh Davis
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Chapter 1
My roses are pissing me off.
The petals are too uniform, the centers too vague, and the leaves aren’t curling right. But it isn’t the roses’ fault they’re imperfect—as the artist, all the blame lies with me.
The roses growing outside my tiny painting shed are the kind of art that only life itself can do. I rented this house specifically for the garden, with its ancient plants growing high and wild, stone paths cutting through it like fairy trails, and the greenhouse converted into an artist’s studio. I thought I could finally create here, like I haven’t in years.
But the roses in my watercolors aren’t even close. Some days I can get this aspect or the other of them captured on my canvas, and I keep trying to grab all of them, but this painting…
It sucks.
I set the watercolor pad aside, cover my paints, and leave my brushes to soak. The roses don’t have to be painted. I can simply let them be. I didn’t come to this place to get frustrated all over again with my life. I came here to hide and to do what I couldn’t back in the Valley, caught there in a world and a marriage I didn’t understand.
I didn’t do watercolors back then. No, the titans of the tech world only want simple, bright, bold for their logos and from their graphic designers, which is what I’d once been.
No, I still am. I shake my head. I might be Logan Martell’s wife, but I was something before that too. That didn’t go away.
A graphic designer wouldn’t paint in watercolors. She’d have a graphics tablet in her hand, creating with pixels and programs. If she did pick actual pens or brushes to put to actual paper, it’d be ink or acrylics. Bold, masculine tools to create designs with.
Watercolors are girly. Which is why I’ve been doing nothing but them since I left Logan. I needed art that was as far away from him and his world as possible.
I tug my sweater over my hands and push my shoulders up by my ears, trying to capture some warmth. The garden is picturesque but also freezing in the mornings.
Enough painting for today. I don’t need to open the french doors into my little cottage because I’ve already left them open. It’s cool here, way up in Platina, Northern California, and always damp, but I leave the windows open as much as I can. I want to let the real world into my life even if it’s uncomfortable. Being uncomfortable is a novel luxury after my marriage.
The cottage is a tiny house built before they became all the rage. It’s one room basically, with a bathroom and closet in their own nooks and a bed in a loft above. I feel cozy here because it is so small. There’s no empty space for me to rattle around in.
Meowthra uncurls on his window perch and yawns as I come in.
The owner explained that the cat came with the house. “He comes, he goes, he does as he pleases,” he said. “That cat doesn’t really belong to anyone.”
That’s fine by me since I can understand that attitude. Meowthra is more of a roommate than a pet, keeping to his own schedule and disappearing for hours at a time to do his own thing. I leave some food and water for him and give him pets when he allows it. He never asks for them though, which is something I can respect. If I hadn’t begged for love myself, I wouldn’t be in this mess.
I plug in the electric kettle and pull out everything I need for a sandwich. After failing to capture the roses all morning, I’m starving. And I think—I can’t quite remember—I skipped breakfast.
When I pull out the tuna, Meowthra deigns to wrap himself around my ankles, begging for some. In the battle between dignity and tuna, tuna would always win for him.
I bend down to give him a spoonful—he wouldn’t eat it out of his bowl—and as I do, the knock comes at the front door, the one door in the house that’s shut.
I jump up so suddenly Meowthra yowls like I stepped on him and streaks out the back door, which is open.
“Jeez.” I grab the countertop to steady myself. I occasionally get visitors—after being here a few months, I’ve made some friends in town, and some people from my old life, like Julian, make the trek to see me—so I shouldn’t jump like I touched a hot stove.
“What the hell?”
When I hear that voice come through the door, I immediately understand why I reacted the way I did. Somehow my subconscious recognized that knock. It knew who was on the other side of that door.
He knocks again. “Callie?”
I hold my breath, pretending to be dead or gone or just plain nonexistent. If I don’t move, he won’t hear me. And I won’t have to talk to him, won’t have to confront my failures with him.
The doorknob rattles.
He’s not fooled. But then, Logan’s always been the smartest person I know.
“Callie?” It’s a question but also a demand to be let in. “What did I hear? Are you okay?”
The concern in his voice hits me right in the knees. And the gut. When he was focused on me, there was no one who’d ever loved me better, not even my mother.
And when his focus left me, alone and cold…
“I’m fine,” I say as I push off from the countertop. My knees wobble, but they hold. My stomach wobbles even harder, but I don’t have to worry about it holding me up. “I’m coming.”
I’ve managed to hide from him for almost four months now, a remarkable achievement considering his wealth and po
wer. I had help, of course, but I’m still amazed I made it this long.
I knew from the moment I ran that he’d catch up with me one day. Not because he believes I’m his possession or to drag me back like a caveman—no, I didn’t leave Logan because he’d been abusive or even mean or because I’d stopped loving him. I left because I loved him too much.
And I know he’s been looking for me. My mother and Julian know where I am, but they swore to never tell him, not that it would stop Logan. The fact that a PI hasn’t appeared on my doorstep already is shocking.
Maybe Logan knew all along where I was and he’s only now decided to meet me face-to-face. Julian keeps telling me that Logan’s asked about me, that I need to contact a lawyer and start the divorce. I never did, although I can’t explain why.
Maybe Logan’s here to talk about the divorce. My stomach cramps so hard I can’t breathe for a moment.
I’m going to have to face him. Confront the ruins of our marriage.
The door opens too fast, revealing him like a slap. He’s…
I bite my lip, my breath coming hard and rapid. He’s always been handsome, beautiful, gorgeous, all the words you could ever put on male beauty. It’s not just his sharp cheekbones, thick black hair, or pouting mouth—it’s his intensity. When a will that powerful looks out through navy-blue eyes in a face like his, you’re powerless.
At least I was. I won’t be anymore though.
“Callie.” He sets a forearm against the doorjamb, as if he’s exhausted. He does look wrecked, his skin too sallow and his forehead too tight, but it’s a beautiful wreckage. Trust Logan to look heart-wrenchingly sad instead of awfully sad.
“Are you okay? What was that?”
“The cat.” My hand trembles on the door. Maybe I can slam it, hide away again, never have to face the wreckage…
I swallow hard. I never used to be a shrinking violet. I used to be, if not exactly bold, at least unafraid. If I’m going to survive without him—like really without him instead of simply running away from him—I’ve got to be brave enough to talk to him. Brave enough to end things and break my own heart.
I open the door wider. He’s come a long way, and I can’t slam the door on him. Seeing him after so long… I’m addicted all over again. “You should come in.”
I don’t want to talk, but I know we have to. I ran so I wouldn’t have to face him, but he’s found me, so I owe him at least that.
He hesitates on the porch, his gaze running over me. It’s like having the sun look at me—bright, hot, and too much.
“If you’re sure.” His voice is as gorgeous as the rest of him, deep but smooth as silk. Dark chocolate without the bitterness. I want to lick up every drop, even now.
I step back and let him in. I don’t know what he’ll make of my cottage, so different from the house we shared in San Francisco. That place was practically an estate high on Twin Peaks, overlooking the entire city. It even had grounds, with a lawn and a garden and a gazebo. Places in the City, even the most expensive ones, don’t usually have that much space. But Logan did. He can command things other people can only dream of.
Logan walks in after me but says nothing. His gaze stays on me, which means he isn’t even seeing the cottage.
That’s the thing about his focus. It’s so intense it’s flattering—and almost flattening—but it’s also singular. If you’re in its path, it’s great. But if you’re outside, it’s like you don’t even exist to him.
When we first married, I was right there in the center. Then slowly, slowly I was pushed out of his orbit. Until I was invisible and freezing in my own marriage.
I wait for him to speak first, mostly because I can’t think of where to start. I didn’t fantasize about this meeting because I didn’t want to face it even in my imagination. I never knew I was so good at hiding, even from myself.
Maybe that’s why I never contacted a lawyer or initiated divorce proceedings. I didn’t want to imagine seeing him again and facing the end of my marriage. And if I didn’t imagine it, it couldn’t happen.
I didn’t want to go on as we were, but I also didn’t want my marriage to end.
He lifts his palms, his mouth twisting. But nothing comes out.
I wrap my arms around myself. Suddenly I wish I’d closed the windows and all the doors, pulled all the curtains closed, and sealed myself in the cottage.
“Why are you here?” I ask. Might as well get the hard conversation over with. Even so, I brace myself to hear the D word.
He looks like he can’t believe what I just asked. “You’re my wife.” He makes it sound like I’ve stolen something from him. But I belong to myself—I can’t steal myself.
“Am I?” I ask softly. The question is meant for me more than him.
“I’m here because…” He swallows hard, choking something down. His voice is as rigid as his stance. Like he’s trying to hold back a volcano of emotion. “Did you think I wouldn’t look for you? That I wouldn’t come for you when I found you?”
He makes it sound like he’s come to save me. Even if I don’t want to be saved.
“I wasn’t kidnapped,” I say. “I chose to leave. And not to contact you.”
Logan lifts his hands again, the gesture helpless. “Why?” he finally asks. “Just… why?”
I shake my head. “I… I can’t explain it.”
His expression hardens. “Was it Julian?”
Of course it can’t be Logan’s fault. It has to be some outside force, which is why I can’t explain why to him. It’d be like explaining the color blue to someone who has never seen it before.
And it was Julian, but not how he thinks. Julian is my friend, has been for a long time, and nothing more. He’s a venture capitalist like Logan, and when I realized I needed to leave, I knew I’d need help. After being dependent on Logan for so long, there were so many things to prepare for—money, a house, utilities—everything that Logan had used to take care of for me.
“Julian is my friend,” I say. “I’ve told you that before. Many times.”
His expression never changes. “You left with him. You said to contact you through him. You never said anything to me, and he…” His eyes darken with rage. “He fucking flaunts it.”
That sounds like Julian. He’s never warmed to Logan, and since they’re competitors, he’d want to get some digs in.
“I didn’t leave with him.” I’m getting angry too, the hot pulse of it loosening my arms, pursing my lips. “He helped me find a place to stay—and he wasn’t staying with me.”
“Fine.” I can tell he doesn’t believe me though. Logan is as intense in his jealousy as he is in everything else. “But again: Why? I gave you everything—”
I cut him off right there. “How long did it take for you to notice I was gone?”
His shoulders sag, and he runs a hand over his face. He’s wearing a heavy coat, and it’s scattered with mist, twinkling in the light from the windows. “I was frantic when I realized.”
Which isn’t an answer at all. “My mother knew where I was. Julian knew where I was. So did all my friends.”
He slices me a look. “And you told them not to tell me. They said I wasn’t to contact you.”
I can only guess how intimidating he must have been, demanding answers from them. They’d held strong anyway.
“Then how did you find me? A PI?”
His lip curls. “You said you wanted me to stay away, so I stayed away, like a perfect gentleman. Finally your mother said something.”
“My mother told you?” Mom is an old-school feminist who tried to raise me in her radical, bra-burning image. I went in this marriage so full of hopes, ready to prove her wrong: Look, a marriage can last. Two people can be equals. Logan and I will be equals.
I’d loved Logan desperately, and I thought love would be enough. That we’d forge this perfect, transcendent marriage, free of our parents’ baggage, because our love was just that strong.
But it wasn’t, and my mom hated Lo
gan in the end for hurting me. Not all her lessons took, but she’s the last person I expected to take Logan’s side.
“Why would she tell you?” After holding out for so long, it didn’t make sense.
His smile is so bitter my mouth aches. “Because I told her the magic word.”
Everything slows and the seconds stutter as they tick by. Because I know exactly what word he’s referring to.
So this is it. This is the end.
We met when Bastard Capital, the venture capital firm he runs with five of his closest friends, wanted to rebrand and update their logo from the do-it-yourself one they’d put together back when they were all working in a garage. They were just out of college then, having hit it rich with a stock-price prediction program.
By the time I met them, they were major movers and shakers in the tech world and wanted their brand imagery to reflect that. So they hired the design firm I worked for, and I was the lucky designer they’d been assigned.
The Bastards are all attractive and all very rich, but I wasn’t moved by that. My firm wasn’t cheap, and I was used to meeting the demands of young billionaires.
But Logan… Logan was like no other man I’d ever encountered.
When his eyes first met mine, I felt like I couldn’t fill my lungs. Like if I didn’t kiss him, I was never going to breathe again. Which is over the top, yes, but so is love. And that’s how we fell for each other—intense and fast and gasping for breath.
Once we were married, when I knew he loved me, I felt like I could inhale again. Like my every breath was full and pure.
But that’s the problem with loving someone so much you need them to breathe: when they leave the marriage behind, you suffocate. And that’s exactly what I did for the last year of our marriage.
Unfinished Seductions Page 1
