The Bet: A Manhattan Nights novel

by Natalie Wrye

  A flood of bright fluorescent lights burn down on me. Surrounded by a sea of soccer moms scrambling for last-minute Christmas presents, my eyes scan over the big bright banners celebrating the holiday seasons, the sales signs as far as the eye can see.

  If this was a year ago, I’d be drinking alone in my penthouse, thinking about how much I hate the holidays.

  But I’m actually having fun.

  It’s one of the first times I’m able to do so without food, a friendly drink or fucking, and I know, without a doubt in my mind, that this is new territory for me. A whole new experience.

  Even amidst the throngs of runaway toddlers ripping through the aisles and last-minute holiday shoppers swarming the store, I’m surprisingly enjoying myself.

  Maybe the holiday season is rubbing off on me. Maybe it’s Marilyn’s advice. Maybe it’s something else.

  I have a sneaking suspicion that something else is the sensual woman strutting towards me, looking every bit of a Christmas gift in a Santa-hat and stockings that skim just below her tiny knees.

  She twirls in the aisle and I can’t help but goddamned grin, my breathing growing shallow as she smiles back, fanning a hand along her curvy body.

  “I couldn’t resist. These socks were on sale. Some of the ladies at the office might love it.”

  “So you decided it’s best to dress up as a Peewee Herman nightmare?”

  “Come on.” She scoffs, looking down at the outfit. “It’s not that bad.”

  “Not that bad?” I chuckle as I circle her, carrying a sleigh rides worth of ornaments in my arms. “Keats, you look like an oversized peppermint stick.”

  “Oversized?” She grunts. “I resent that. I think I look just the right size of peppermint. The only thing here that’s oversized is your mouth, Grinch.” She points, heading back towards a second aisle. I slant a hand out, stopping her from leaving, pulling her close.

  “Yes. What a big mouth I do have.” I lean closer. “The better to eat you with, my dear…” My voice sinks, and Violet shudders, looking up at me. Blue eyes tinged with desire, hinting at a hidden longing, I’m tempted to kiss her, take her in my arms and let her violate every part of me she wants to.

  But I let her go.

  Deciding not to defile the eyes of kiddies traipsing through the store, I check my phone in my pocket for the hundredth time since we’ve been here, my concentration swinging back onto the stock market, my hand thrumming through all the charts, lines and numbers with a nervous thumb.

  My composure is nearly shot. Shaky, at best.

  The day markets have taken a tumble, and with the DOW ending on a down swing, my heart beats just a little harder, my joy at seeing a snowflake-patterned Keats made a little less jolly as my cell phone beeps for the billionth time—just another reminder that my bet with David is looming over my head.

  Except the beeps don’t stop.

  Not a notification, no. My cell phone is ringing. And as I sling it from my pocket, my face somehow finds the will to smile when I see the name imprinted on my screen. I pick up with a long, lofty sigh.

  “How have you been feeling, superwoman? Recovering okay?”

  “Trust me.” My sister exhales on the other end of the line. “There’s nothing super about me. I’ve got antiseptic all over my body, bandages all over my ass. Please…if I ever try to drive a car again, just dunk my head in a vat of water until I stop struggling. At least, that would be a cleaner death.”

  “Hey…” I snap back, the word death making my pulse drum. “You’re not fucking dead, Mare. And you’re lucky not to be.”

  “Yeah, tell that to my producers who don’t want to see this new ‘mug’ of mine. They told me to rest until I get better before coming on set. Translation: You look like the Elephant Man…and we wouldn’t want you scaring the kiddies.”

  “Have faith, supermodel." I press the phone closer to my face. “They’ll go right back to judging you for your outer beauty in no time.”

  “You think so?"

  “I know so.” I laugh. “So enjoy the time off. You work hard enough.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” Her tone is softer this time. More subtle. I can tell she’s thinking of something. “Speaking of working, are you still there? I don’t want to see you running yourself into the ground like you always do.”

  I hesitate. “I’m not. I’m doing the opposite, actually. Kind of got talked into Christmas decoration shopping right now.”

  “You? Christmas? Shopping?”

  “Don’t act so surprised.”

  “I’m not acting at all,” Marilyn answers. “I thought you hated the holidays. In fact, I know you do. I’m going to have to break out the ice-skates.”

  I frown. “Why?”

  “Because Hell just froze over.” I can hear her smile over ten miles away. “Who is this impostor and what has he done with my brother, Heath?”

  I snort, walking waywardly down a white-tiled aisle. “He’s chopped the real Heath’s balls off and shoved them into a shredder, just for kicks.”

  “Uh huh,” Marilyn presses. “And the pod-Heath?”

  “He’s carrying two nutcracker figurines, a pile of tinsel and more Christmas lights than you can shake Santa’s cock at.”

  “He’s fictional, Heath. Fictional characters don’t have cocks.”

  “I’m sure he did before Mrs. Claus got to him.”

  “Oh, I see…” she coos, the pitch of her tiny voice twisting as the wheels spin in her suspicious mind. “There’s a ‘Mrs.’ involved. Give. Who’s the girl, Heath? And don’t pretend there isn’t one. You already told on yourself.”

  The words stick in my throat. I’m tempted to hold back, but I know my sister. She’ll hear it in my voice or figure it out herself, her cute narrow nose always sticking where it doesn’t belong. Mostly in my business. I take a deep breath, savoring her name. “Violet Keats.”

  “You mean the Violet Keats? The Violet Keats you told me you couldn’t stand? My Violet Keats?” she presses.

  “Since when has she been your Violet Keats?”

  “Since we’ve been hanging out every week after you took off to Cali. You do know that I helped her get the job at daddy’s firm?”

  “And you’re so humble about it,” I rumble low.

  “I am.” My beautiful sister giggles. “She didn’t need my help. She’s smart, Heath. Really sharp. She’d be a catch to any firm…or man for that matter. So my question is…” she hums, “what in the world is she doing with you?”

  “Besides making me question if I have a cock anymore?” I snort with a small laugh. “Teaching me a thing or two about the ten different types of tinsels.”

  “Tinsel—I know nothing about it. Call me when the conversation is about lipstick. And who, dear brother, said you ever had a cock?”

  I glance up at the ceiling, my eyes glued to it as I exhale. “‘Preciate it, sis. Nice talking to you. Thanks for the Christmas spirit.”

  She only giggles in response. “Any time, bro. I love you.”

  “Love you too, Squirt.”

  Ending the call, I can’t help but think about how enamored every Sparrow seems to be with Violet Keats, my gaze catching the gorgeous lawyer out of the corner of my eye. She’s absolutely fucking adorable, when she’s loose like this, laughing—herself.

  Within minutes, I send her back to the waiting town car, throwing the rest of the items into the cart. Heading to the cashier, I wonder what will happen when I eventually head back to Hollywood…and how the hell I’m going to get this woman out of my system.

  VIOLET

  I don’t have nearly enough cheer to drown in.

  Tinsel is everywhere, attached along my face and clothes. Streaked across the front of my blue button-down shirt, hanging along stray strands of my ruby hair, any stranger coming into the back seat of Heath’s chauffeured town car might think I’ve been in a hurricane.

  A Tropical Shit-Storm is more like it.

  I’ve been hit by a Category Five
Heath, and the only way I know how to recover is to dive headfirst into a mountain of Christmas.

  Sitting in the idling vehicle, my bags are covered in silver glitter, from top to bottom. My southern, Georgia-bred Grandmother Nelly’s voice is somehow in my head, chastising the holiday mess I’m currently making in Heath’s expensive rented car, but it’s the other voice in my head—the low, masculine one that I’m more afraid of. The one that speaks to me in silk-lined, raspy tones.

  A rumbling, decadent sound that’s in my ear. Seducing me without my permission.

  The wind whips outside my windows, the signs of a new winter storm to come, and as I try to calm my frayed nerves, my fifth attempt of the night, my cell phone rings, sending my fingers flying towards my purse, a trail of white snowflake dust tumbling in its wake.

  I answer the phone with a screech, not even glancing at the screen. “Violet Keats speaking.”

  But there’s no answer.

  Nothing but static and bits of silence on the other end. In the relative quiet of the town car’s back seat, with nothing but December winds to keep me company, I feel an uncertain chill run down my spine as I wait for a reply, my shoulder squeezing the tiny black square closer to my face. I frown, wrapping one hand around its base, and my heart beat picks up speed, its pace playing a rhythm that reaches into my ears. I wait a second more.

  “Hello?”

  A harsh breath expels over the phone line. A beat follows. Then two. A voice soon follows after.

  “Oh my gosh,” it sighs, breathy and broken. “It’s me—Em, Violet. I’m so sorry. I must have dropped the phone.”

  My heart slows, finding its steady beat again. “Emily.” I clutch a dusty hand to my chest. “Shit, I thought you were…”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know… I guess the new case I’ve been working on has put me on edge. What’s up?”

  The most chipper secretary in the world assesses me over the phone, and I can practically sense the inquisition in her gold-green eyes. With only not so many months under her belt in her brand new role, Emily Armand is every bit of the overbearing mother I never had.

  Only this “makeshift mother” is twenty-three. And loud.

  I actually cower a little over the phone and under her scrutiny, putting my money on the fact that she’s probably heard every word I’ve been thinking.

  I sigh before offering up an explanation.

  “Want to talk about it? I can help!”

  I snort softly. “God, I wish you could.”

  “No, seriously.” Emily’s voice turns wistful. “I have a Juris Doctorate from CUNY. I know a thing or two.”

  My heart stops. “Em,” I say, leaning farther into the phone. “How—then why are you…?”

  “Just a secretary?” She scoffs on a small laugh. “An ex-boyfriend of mine told me I couldn’t hack being an attorney. Said I should stick to what I was good at: looking pretty and shopping.”

  Huh. A lot like my ex-husband. A man who resented my success from the very start. I exhale slowly.

  “I would, Em, but it’s been trying. I’ll figure something out. Besides, adversity only toughens me up,” I tell her, wishing I could believe it. “Otherwise, I’ll never make it through this court case unless I ditch the tender-assed, softy act.”

  “Toughening?” Em asks. “Tender…? You’re a lawyer, Vi. Not steak.” Her high-pitched voice huffs, and I hear the flip of notebook pages on her end, her usual sign of frustration. “Besides…” she comments, her tone lowering. “I know why you were really late. Might it have something to do with this new slice of beef coming to the office? Or are you still crushing on that older George Clooney type AKA Daddy David King?”

  I roll my eyes, soon hanging up Emily’s call, setting my bags to the side and my thoughts to David King.

  Emily’s supposed “Clooney of a Daddy.”

  And my old boss.

  David King was a legend. Always has been.

  The irony doesn’t escape me that one of the most attractive men in law works for my firm—as I’m sure it hasn’t escaped any other woman within fifty miles. A salt-and-pepper haired daydream with deep set eyes and an even deeper knowledge for the law, David King was everything I’d once wanted to be.

  Fearless. Full of hard-hitting honesty and doggedness.

  The man had once been considered mystical, seductively arrogant. A legend to every upcoming law school student—including me, I’d crushed on him because he was a myth—a story to tell.

  I crushed on him because, like every little girl who dreams of dating her teeny-bopper puppy love, I’d wanted to believe in “something.” Something good—even if it wasn’t real.

  What I’d dreamed about with David King was a fiction tale. A folklore.

  What I’d wanted with Heath? Well, there was nothing fictional about it.

  And every moment I spent with him, every laugh we shared, every joke, every touch was just another stack of cement on the thought that had been forming in my mind.

  My stomach now twists at the thought of him. Not from daydreaming about him, no. Not that. But from the sudden understanding, the overwhelming, tiring and inexplicable awareness, that of all the things I do want, David King—fantasy that he once was to me—no longer qualifies.

  I no longer want him at all.

  It’s a frustrating reality in spite of everything.

  Heath Sparrow was right in all the ways that felt most wrong. Handsome. Devilish. Charming.

  With a smile that sent a lightning bolt between my thighs and the easy walk of a man with a golden cock, Heath Sparrow doesn’t just put people at ease… He seduces them into it.

  And I’ve been seduced by him from the moment we met.

  It wasn’t enough that David was considered the phenom at the firm. The second Heath walked onto the floor, he had shown that it was his to take. And the firm wasn’t all that belonged to him…

  Every day, I give more and more of myself to him.

  To the seductive playboy. My CEO. My boss.

  And every day, I fight—like hell—with myself not to want to give him more. Bouncing between the urge to tear him limb from limb and tear his clothes off, I battle with my body not to do both, a small tidbit I would never share with anyone.

  Not even my closest girl friends.

  I’d had to choose between career and love before…and lost a bit of both in the process. As a woman in charge of her own life, I still struggle with one or the other all the damn time, and what is most frustrating to me is that at the moments I least expect, life comes along and spits all over my perfect plans.

  “Why Heath?” My body wants to scream. “Why now?”

  He was supposed to be a fuck. A fling, at the most. So why couldn’t I get this fucked-up fling out of my head? And more importantly… my heart.

  Both my head and my heart are still hammering by the time Heath slides back into his seat. I’m a veritable mess when he returns, his body still chilled as he swings in beside me, his warm, minty breath blowing over his freezing cold hands. He rubs them in front of me with a laugh, glancing at the driver up front.

  “Where to next, Rudolph?”

  “It’s up to you, sir.”

  Heath’s face is full of joy, sprinkled with tinsel and glitter as he grins in my face, his thin nose red at the tip as he questions me. “M’lady? Where would you like to go?”

  My heart beat slows as I stare at him. And as I reach up to swipe the shiny strands of Christmas sparkle from his sandy hair, my chest squeezes from the sudden emotion, the unexpected gift I didn’t know I needed from Heath giving me pieces of my battered past back. Pieces I’d forgotten felt so good.

  All in the span of one evening.

  I glance up at him, knowing what will my answer will be. His eyes widen when I answer.

  I lick my lips, grinning. “Your place.”

  Chapter 20

  HEATH

  I needed to be with Violet Keats again tonight. For reasons I don’t
even want to admit.

  I had to see if she was as sexy as I remember her being. Was her voice really that low and husky? Were her eyes really that goddamned blue?

  Couldn’t have been.

  She can’t be as irresistible as I remember. She just can’t. The booze, the engagement party, the ambiance—it all had to have been playing a trick on my mind.

  I never fixated on a woman … Until now.

  She’s been the hardest to shake. And a part of me—stubborn and sick—was in desperate need to get rid of her. To shake her out of my system.

  The poisonous parts of me needed to nix the disillusionment that I’ve been having about her so that I can get back to being the Heath I was always comfortable being—the Heath who didn’t have mid-day fantasies about a woman he doesn’t know, the Heath who only has a hard-on for one wily woman.

  She wasn’t my first one-night stand. Not by a long shot. I just needed my cock to remember that so I could go back to making him normal again, and when we step out of the heated car and into the chilled night air, when Violet bunches in closer as we cross the curb outside of my apartment building, I can’t help but to put my arm around her—to pull her tiny body into mine and take in her fragrance.

  The scent of sweet strawberries and cream.

  I can practically taste it—taste her.

  The rising elevator to my penthouse seems to take forever. With Violet cuddled closely under one arm, we walk slowly to the front door of my luxury apartment, each step agonizing, the long walk nothing but a wake-up call that this—what I have with Violet—is real.

  Realer than anything I’ve ever had with any woman.

  I insert my key into the entry’s opening, turning the lock. But before I can push the door open, I spin Violet in my arms, brushing thick auburn-red strands off her shoulders, my fingers sliding down her back to follow. I gaze into her gorgeous face, finding lust.

  Finding all the answers I need.

  I bend down to her, my fingers grazing across her tiny waist. My gut tightens.

  “You don’t have to do this, Keats,” I probe. “You know that, don’t you?”