ALSO BY NATASHA ANDERS
A Ruthless Proposition
His Unlikely Lover
A Husband’s Regret
The Unwanted Wife
The Alpha Men Series
The Wingman
The Best Man
The Wrong Man
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2019 by Natasha Anders
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542094412
ISBN-10: 1542094410
Cover design by Caroline Teagle Johnson
For Oliver, the best little writing assistant I could ever have asked for. Fly high and free, my precious angel.
Contents
Prologue
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
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
Eleven months ago
This party blows. The words flitted through Libby Lawson’s mind—not for the first time that evening—as she propped up a wall and watched people who were really no more than casual acquaintances talk too fast, laugh too loud, and hook up with careless abandon.
This wasn’t Libby’s usual scene. Not that she had a usual scene. Her work as a sous-chef at a tiny but exclusive restaurant in London’s Soho kept her much too busy to attend many parties. But a few of her colleagues had insisted on dragging her out to some media mogul’s rooftop on her one free night of the week. And then had immediately abandoned her.
Libby had no real clue whose party this was, and, after being hit on by several random drunk guys—and one drunk chick—she was about ready to make a discreet exit.
Her feet were killing her; she wasn’t used to the stilettos her flatmate had convinced her to wear. Libby was all about practical footwear. Why anyone would want to wear four-inch spikes on their feet was beyond her.
She ran disinterested eyes rapidly over the gathering of slightly too perfect people and froze when her gaze met a familiar dark, brooding stare.
Greyson Chapman? Recognition, shock, and awareness immediately sizzled through her body and froze her on the spot. God, talk about a blast from the past.
Even more startling was the fact that when he looked up and met her eyes, he seemed to instantly recognize her. Meeting his serious gaze felt like a jolt of electricity shooting through her entire body. He maintained eye contact, and she shoved herself away from the wall and waited as he pushed his way through the throngs toward her.
As an impressionable teen, Libby had always been fascinated by Greyson’s dark mysteriousness. By comparison, everyone else she knew—including his twin—was an open book. But Greyson had intrigued her with his silences, his brooding, and his emotional distance from even those closest to him. She had followed him everywhere, until he had called her a stalker and told her to back off. At fourteen to his eighteen, she had retreated, humiliated beyond bearing to have her crush talk to her like that.
He’d gone to Yale in the United States soon after that confrontation, and she had continued with her life. Seeing him only rarely on his returns home for the holidays. And then not at all when she’d gone off to culinary school.
“Olivia.” His dark, deep voice sent a shudder of intense familiarity through her, and her nipples beaded instantly.
She had always felt that awareness around Greyson, but he had never seemed to reciprocate.
“Greyson.”
“Let’s go.” He held out his hand to her, and she stared at it for a long moment before taking it with a quirk of her lips. His warm, dry, much-larger hand folded around hers, and he tugged her toward the exit.
She was wobbly on the unfamiliar heels but managed to keep up all the way down to his chauffeur-driven luxury car.
He paused to say something to the driver, but Libby and Greyson didn’t speak to each other until they were in the back, side by side, concealed from the driver’s eyes—and all other curious gazes—by tinted windows.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, wasting no time as his eyes trailed over her body and face. Leaving her with goose bumps, aching nipples, and an unfamiliar hot, heavy wetness between her thighs.
Beautiful?
Her throat was dry, and she felt dizzy as she tried to orient herself to this new reality. A reality within which Greyson Chapman thought she was beautiful. She swallowed several times before she felt confident enough to speak.
“You’re not too bad yourself,” she croaked. His lips tilted at the corners as he continued to stare at her with predatory intent. God, what the hell was this? He had never before stared at her with such overt desire in his eyes.
She was wearing a silky black halter-neck jumpsuit with a plunging back. The flowing pant legs and the four-inch heels made her appear much taller than her actual height of five feet seven. Her black, wavy hair tumbled wild and free down her back and framed her face. She had tried to make an effort and knew she looked good tonight, but still, she didn’t think she looked that different from the Olivia Lawson whom Greyson had known and ignored for most of his life.
He was wearing a tuxedo—much too formal for the rooftop party—and it was nearly midnight, which meant that it couldn’t possibly have been his first event of the evening. She discreetly sniffed the air, wondering if he was a bit inebriated. She smelled nothing but the fresh, masculine scent of the probably exorbitantly expensive aftershave he used and a faint whiff of tobacco smoke.
God, he looked amazing. His strong jaw was dark with stubble. And his lean, austere face, so similar to—and yet so very different from—that of his twin brother, Harris, was as beautiful as she remembered. He had perfect, bow-shaped lips; a sharp, arrogant nose; deep-set, dark-blue eyes that could pierce your soul set between thick, lush eyelashes; and straight dark brows. His black hair was conservatively cut, with a side part. Short and no nonsense. Even as a boy he had never seemed interested in having it longer or more stylish.
As she watched, he lifted one of those elegant, capable hands to his bow tie and tugged at it, loosening it and unbuttoning the top button of his crisp white shirt. Making him look almost roguish.
“Have you eaten?” he asked.
“Not really.”
“I hear you’re doing very well for yourself,” he continued, surprising her again. She had never really thought he’d given her more than a moment’s consideration in the years since she’d seen him last.
“I’m doing okay,” she said, her eyes on his lips. There was a wicked curve to the bottom lip, and she wanted to taste it. She licked her own lips in reaction, shocking herself. His intense eyes followed the movement of her tongue avidly. Like a cat watching a mouse.
“Your parents have retired,” he said softly, and she frowned, not really sure w
hy he’d bring that up.
“Yes.” Her mother and father had been his family’s cook and chauffeur, respectively. Libby had grown up in the Chapman house. She had happily played with the twins as a child, at first totally unaware of the huge social and economic gap between her and the boys.
“Good.” The purring satisfaction in his voice startled her.
“Good?”
“That means I can do this . . .” He reached out, cupped her nape beneath her fall of hair, and tugged her toward him. He turned so that he was facing her, and as she watched in fascination, his eyes drifted shut. He tilted his head and slotted his mouth over hers in a hungry, all-consuming kiss.
It was unexpected but so, so good. She moaned, her hands going to his chest and then burrowing beneath his suit jacket and around his back. She wriggled closer and opened her mouth to allow him entry. He didn’t waste any time, his tongue swooping in and laying waste to any semblance of reservations or common sense.
Before she knew it, she was straddling his lap, her mound grinding against the huge erection surging between his thighs. He had her halter undone and her small, braless breasts exposed to his eyes, hands, mouth, tongue, and teeth.
Libby wasn’t very experienced, but this felt like the most natural thing in the world to her. This was Greyson; she’d known him forever. She had wanted him for nearly as long, and now he was here, seemingly from out of nowhere. He was holding her and kissing her and touching and caressing her. She was on fire with need and lust for him, and she couldn’t see any reason why she couldn’t have him.
He was the one who called a halt to things, releasing her lips with palpable reluctance while he fumbled with her halter top, tying a clumsy knot at the back of her neck. She winced when he caught a few strands of her hair in the knot, and he muttered an apology. He dropped his hands to her waist and lifted her from his lap to place her on the seat beside him.
“Greyson,” she moaned, embarrassed by the naked pleading she heard in her own voice.
“I know. I’m sorry. But we’re here.”
Here?
“Where?” she asked blankly.
“I told my driver to bring us back to my hotel.”
“That’s assuming a lot,” she said huffily, gradually coming back to her senses and a little irritated by his cheek. Typical Greyson, always getting what he wanted.
“Too much?” he asked, looking both arrogant and uncertain at the same time. How was that even possible? “Should I ask him to take you home?”
She swallowed audibly and folded her arms over her chest, trying not to react at the slide of the silky fabric over her swollen, sensitive nipples. He looked rather out of sorts himself; his hair was mussed, his tie completely off, his top four shirt buttons undone. And she knew he was still hard, could see it in the hunch of his back as he tried to find a comfortable way to sit.
“Olivia?” he prompted her, and she shook herself.
“Do you have food up there?”
“We can order room service,” he promised.
Don’t overthink it, Libby.
“Okay,” she said cautiously, feeling like she was about to step out of the car and fall down a crazy rabbit hole. He didn’t smile—his expression barely changed at all—but she could tell from the flare of his eyes and the sudden hitch of his breath that her response pleased him.
Libby and Greyson lay sprawled on their backs, staring up at the ceiling, chests heaving after their third energetic bout of lovemaking of the evening. Libby curled up on her side and rested her head on his corded biceps. She trailed a finger down the center of his chest, toward the sexy indent of his belly button.
“That was fun,” she said, dropping a kiss on his well-defined pec. The muscle twitched beneath her lips. His arm curled around her back, and his long, elegant fingers combed through her tumble of dark, wavy hair.
“It was good,” he agreed, and she smiled. Greyson Chapman would never use a frivolous word like fun. She had often wondered if he even knew how to have fun. He had always been so quiet and serious. She had known him her entire life, and she couldn’t recall once hearing him laugh out loud.
She knew he was surprised by the fact that she’d been a virgin; many of her friends and acquaintances would have been as well. She wasn’t shy, or prudish about sex, and she’d had no noble objectives of abstinence before marriage. She had simply been busy and too distracted by her studies and then work to bother with the opposite sex. She had been much too exhausted most of the time to concern herself with dating and often wondered how others found the time to manage a successful career along with a healthy relationship.
She couldn’t believe she had so meekly done his bidding tonight. Following him out of that party like an eager little puppy. She hadn’t given it a moment’s thought, and she wondered: Had she reconnected with Greyson at the restaurant instead of a party, would her work have taken precedence as it had on so many other occasions? Or would the end result—them in bed together—have been inevitable? She tilted her head to look at him, and yes, she had no doubt at all that she would have been in this exact same position, regardless of where or when they had met again. She would probably have followed him right out of the restaurant at the merest haughty crook of his finger.
It was a humiliating realization. She was still such a giddy girl when it came to Greyson.
She had stayed in contact with his brother, Harris, of course. They texted and called each other often. He was one of her dearest friends, and she couldn’t imagine not maintaining contact with him. But she had lost track of Greyson. He was literally the last person on earth she’d expected to see tonight. So very far away from his home in Cape Town.
And while she would never in a million years have believed they’d wind up in bed together, there had been a sense of inevitability to their union. This man, who had avoided her at all costs and had never so much as looked at her after her sixteenth birthday, was now her lover, and it was incredibly surreal.
“The condom broke,” he pointed out gruffly, and she pushed herself up onto her elbow to look down into his remarkably unperturbed face.
“Did it?” She wasn’t particularly concerned; she knew how fastidious Greyson was about his health. And pregnancy was highly unlikely, considering she had finished her period just a few days before.
“Yeah, the first time.”
“I’m not on the pill,” she said, and he shrugged before stretching and yawning languorously.
“You were a virgin,” he said after his long, catlike stretch, his voice completely lacking inflection.
“I was. No time for lovers.”
“You want to get married?” he asked.
“Eventually,” she responded, baffled by the question.
“I meant to me.” His voice was still ridiculously nonchalant, and Libby huffed an incredulous little laugh.
“Don’t be preposterous,” she said dismissively, curling up against his chest as one of his hands dropped to her butt cheek and squeezed.
“I’m serious.”
She lifted her head again and met his sleepy blue eyes curiously.
“Why?” she asked, entertaining his silliness for the moment. Greyson wasn’t one to really make jokes, but this couldn’t be anything other than a jest.
“Why not? We’ve known each other for years. And we’re clearly sexually compatible. I have to settle down at some point, and I think we’d be good together.”
Marriage. To Greyson.
For a moment she allowed herself to fantasize. Once, long ago, she had dreamed of just such an eventuality. To have ownership of his heart and his body. To allow him the same over hers. She played that out in her mind for a moment. Imagining the life they’d build together. He would finally allow her into the dual fortresses of his heart and mind. She would know his every secret, understand what made him tick. And she would use the knowledge to make him adore her as much as she had once adored him. As she could so easily come to adore him again. It was a heady little
fiction. And she knew it stemmed from the vestiges of her long-ago adolescent crush.
Her current reality was exciting and surreal enough without adding to it with ridiculous fantasies.
Besides, he couldn’t possibly be serious.
“I don’t need a husband,” she pointed out, feigning insouciance with a roll of her eyes. She thought about that broken condom. Was that where this was coming from? And what if—against all odds—she was pregnant? She wouldn’t have to marry if she was, but it would be better. She stared at his beautiful, stern features for another long moment and acknowledged that she still felt that absurd pang of excitement mixed with desire, awareness, and fascination when she looked at him. She deliberately forced those emotions aside. Hating how vulnerable they made her feel.
“Fine, what about dinner, then?” he suggested idly. “Tomorrow night?”
“I’m working.”
“I know. I meant afterward.”
“That’ll be after midnight.”
“If you prefer, we could call it a midnight snack?”
“All right.” Her response needed absolutely no thought. There was no way she was going to deny herself the pleasure of his company. The chance to spend time with him and get to know him better.
He smiled. A small lifting at the corners of his mouth; his pleasure wasn’t evident on his lips so much as in his eyes, which lit up in an expression that could only be described as delight.
“Fantastic.” His free hand dropped to her other butt cheek, and he squeezed appreciatively, moving her until she was straddling him. “Are you sore?”
“It’s not too bad.”
“Good,” he purred. “Now kiss me.”
Chapter One
Present day
“Where’s Greyson?” Libby moaned. Her brother-in-law, Harris, smoothed her hair back from her damp forehead.
“He’s on his way,” Harris promised, and Libby sobbed as she reached for his hand and squeezed painfully. She hated that Greyson wasn’t here. She had tried to ignore the first signs of labor, denying reality because she couldn’t quite believe she would be doing this without her husband.
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