Leonid Unstoppable

by May Ball, Alice

  Contents

  KONSTANTIN

  She’s in deeper trouble than she knows

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  ©

  Chapter 1 Her

  Chapter 2 Him

  Chapter 3 Her

  Chapter 4 Him

  Chapter 5 Her

  Chapter 6 Him

  Chapter 7 Her

  Chapter 8 Him

  Chapter 9 Her

  Chapter 10 Him

  Chapter 11 Her

  Chapter 12 Him

  Chapter 13 Her

  Chapter 14 Him

  Chapter 15 Her

  Chapter 16 Her

  Chapter 17 Him

  Chapter 18 Her

  Epilogue Her

  PARKER KNOWS THAT SHE IS IN TROUBLE, BUT SHE HAS NO IDEA HOW DEEP.

  When she steps into my world, she’ll learn that I’m in charge.

  PARKER

  I need a big scoop to impress my photography professor, so I want to aim for the top. The A-list fashion launch of the season is a dazzling collection of Russian jewelry, and it’s happening in San Francisco tonight. All that I need is to talk my way into the party, on the megayacht Firebird.

  When Parker tries to get aboard Firebird, she assumes that the scarily hot older man she almost runs into must be a security guard. How could she know, she’s out of her depth already?

  KONSTANTIN

  I’m used to ruling my world. High fashion is serious business, it’s not a place for little girls to play. I’ll let the amusing American girl come aboard, but she’d better be ready. My world, my rules.

  Konstantin cant’t imagine the typhoon of emotion he’s about to let aboard and into his kingdom.

  Together they’re caught on a current of passion. A love wider than the bay, deeper than the sea. Rougher than a storm on the open ocean. It’s all about to rain down Parker’s inexperienced little life and crash Konstantin’s arrogant confidence.

  This fast, hot, and passionate romance introduces an older man and a girl who finds herself way out of her depth. The pulse-racing action is meltingly hot and will have you drenched and trembling for more. This standalone romance has no cheating, no cliffhanger, and an absolutely solid, guaranteed HEA. Bring tissues.

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  © Alice May Ball 2020

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, or to any actual events is purely coincidental.

  All the people portrayed in this story are over the age of eighteen, and entirely imaginary. If you think that you know some of them, or that you may be one of them, then you should consider writing fiction yourself.

  Cover Design by Signs of Desire for TzR Publishing

  Chapter 1

  Her

  I’M SCARED SILLY. I just want to curl up and hide, but I need to brazen this out and bluff my way aboard that massive yacht. Silhouetted against the deep orange and purple San Francisco Bay sunset, Firebird looms like a fortress.

  Out on the deck in less than half an hour, the runway show of the season will start. Zavarovski will preview their top-of-the-high-end collection of accessories and if I can bluff my way onto the boat, I will have a grade-A scoop from the party of the year. And I need a grade-A scoop so bad.

  Projected into a mist above the top of the boat, the distinctive purple and blue logo of Zavarovski Precious Crystal, a ‘Z’ laced with a sparkling symbol of infinity. The ‘Z’ spins in a slow rotation one way, the sparkling ribbon like a sideways ‘8’ turns the opposite way. Outside on the top deck, a couple stands, silhouetted under the logo. I get a few shots of them on my phone. Zoom in close.

  My photography scholarship is on a knife-edge. Competition for places is so hot. My professor said, “Photography is the art of the brave and the patient. It’s knowing when the moment will come and being ready. Talent is where preparation and opportunity meet.”

  He was telling me that I need to raise my game. So I’m prepared, in every way. Except in my gut. Now the megayacht looms up in front of me, it looks the size of the shopping mall. And I’m still a distance away. The way I’m feeling now, I’d have a better chance of getting into the party by diving into the bay, swimming to the yacht and then hauling my wet self up the thirty feet of shiny steel hull to get aboard.

  At this moment, I truly believe that dripping wet and half-drowned I could only look better than I do now. This was all such a fucking awful idea. How did I ever talk myself into it?

  My bib overalls and T-shirt look pretty cool in class at the Academy of Arts School of Photography but I feel with a thud now, at a top end, über-glitzy fashion party, I’m not exactly going to blend in.

  The days when people wore real working clothes to events like this are a nostalgic fiction, all beautifully wrapped in a soft-focus pastel haze. If they ever really existed at all. Today, when anyone wears a pair of jeans to a fashion shoot, they’re going to be six-hundred-dollar jeans, artfully and perfectly ripped by third-world kids who should be in school.

  These are not six-hundred-dollar overalls and they haven’t been expensively ripped. They’re just authentic denim workwear. What was I thinking?

  Even the idea of makeup panicked me. Usually I wear next to none. But trying to smuggle my way into an A-list fashion party, I knew that a single stroke of a blush brush would give me away. Some of the best and most expensive stylists in the world will be on that yacht, clinking frozen daiquiris, Emerald City Sours, or Royal Bermuda Yacht Club cocktails. Imperfect mascara on one eyelash would mark me out as a fraud.

  So, trying hard to stare down my own reflection in the mirror, leaning forward on the heels of my hands, I convinced myself that a scrubbed, natural look would be the perfect disguise. It all seemed so believable, back in my tiny studio apartment.

  It doesn’t help that the closer I get to Pier 39, the more sketchy characters seem to be lurking around in doorways and shadows. Wouldn’t that be just my luck. To get mugged before I even get the chance to fail at bluffing my way into the party.

  Practically running, my trip up the carpeted gangplank almost ends in a collision. The broad back of a huge man with immaculate silver hair and an inked snake slipping under his starched collar blocks my way.

  My strategy of choice is the head-on approach–like I know any others, right? “Excuse me, can you help me?”

  As the big man slowly turns, I get a heady taste of his scents. Expensive cologne and a deep tang of natural musk. His eyelid droops, like he’s not really sure if it’s worth his effort to actually look around. His perfect eyebrow lifts so slowly, it makes me feel I should apologize, not calling ahead to book an appointment with his face.

  Seeing how much older he is, and the glint in his eye, my stomach drops through the floor.

  Damn, though. It’s a face I would book an appointment with. It’s a face you’d want to see.

  Waking up. Looking down.

  Looking up.

  Stay focused, Parker.

  At an event like this, even the security detail has the fashion attitude. Whatever made me think I could ever be any part of this business, or even want to try and break into it? One swift look over me, one narrow sweep of his arrogant eye and he will crunch me in half and spit me straight out.

  I’m sort of not helping my concentration. No more than it helps when my
eyes amble down the perfect linen of his shirt, the animal grace that fills the gorgeous suit, or the great length of his body. When my gaze finds itself lost on the front of his pants, it takes me an effort to pull it away. Or to stop my eyes from popping wide.

  “So,” a voice like hot, slow lava. Deep, strong. Accented. I know this is a Russian event, but I can’t believe they shipped Russian muscle all the way here. They could just hire locally.

  “I’m Parker Adams. Here for Icelandic Vogue?” I’m telling him. Trying not to babble. This is what I practiced saying. It sounds ridiculous now. Of course it does. “Only, I had a problem with my email server,” I wave my phone, “I lost the PDF with my barcode.”

  His eyelids lower another fraction. He has the longest eyelashes.

  “What a creative story.” He sounds dangerously bored.

  I’m shocked. Why does he frighten me so much? Is it his age, or the razor glint in his eye, or is it the lazy, arrogant way he speaks, like he owns the world? It’s like he can see straight through me. Why do I like that so much? So much it twists in my stomach.

  “Your English is good,” I tell him, unable to think of anything else to say.

  “You think a little compliment will get you into an event like this?” The faint trace of a smile, or is it just the edge of the sneer, tugs at the side of his mouth. Damn. Nice mouth. Those teeth. He should probably shave more often. I’d like to watch. Maybe help him get a lather up.

  “If you turn out to be a blogger,” he says, the edge of threat in his voice sends chills trickling down my spine.

  “I’m not,” I blurt. I can’t believe it. He’s going to let me in. He would so get fired for this. I should feel guilty. But I don’t. He can take care of himself. “I promise. I’m not a blogger.”

  Which is true. People say that you can hear when somebody tells the truth. You can spot the truth from a lie, because of the simple sincerity. My voice does not sound like simple sincerity to me. If I’d just heard what I just said, I wouldn’t believe me.

  Incredibly, he seems to.

  My suspicions should have been raised right there.

  Chapter 2

  Him

  MY FIRST SIGHT OF her should have warned me. Striding with purpose up the gangplank, I have a sense that she is showing more purpose and confidence then she may be feeling. I love the sheer bluff and I have to admire her for that.

  Heading for a top-line international fashion show in loose dungarees and a T-shirt is a ballsy move. Bubbly blonde hair and a face as fresh as peaches and cream. Plus, the flashing glow in her eyes has me cocked on sight.

  What should have warned me was a slight rush of feeling, like a soft breeze. An instinct, some spontaneous sensation like the sound of a distant bell. A reflex that makes me want to protect her.

  As soon as she gets to the top of the companionway, she almost blunders into me. Even that brief tease of a press from her warm, soft breasts is enough to make me stiffen up. She starts talking to me straightaway, like she thinks I am the doorman.

  “I’m here from Icelandic Vogue to cover the event,” she tells me. Who would believe that? “Only, I brought the wrong phone and I don’t have my pdf with the barcode on here.”

  Vogue? I don’t think so. Still, I don’t believe that this gorgeous young woman is a part of my security problem.

  “You have some ID?”

  With a flash of a smile that lights a fire in my pants, she shrugs, “It’s all on my phone.”

  What, does she think I’m an idiot? I don’t believe a fucking word of it. I shouldn’t even think of allowing her aboard. But I admire her brash approach. And, the truth is, I want her where I can see her. I want to look at her some more. I could watch those tits roll and bounce all night. Study her fantastic ass as it flicks and sways.

  Before I can stop myself, I’m imagining her soft, wet lips, stretched over my cock.

  I wave her in, quickly. Before my cock swings out in front of her and forms a barrier all on its own. She hardly even smiles as she heads for the reception. What I do get is a sassy nod. Then a flash of her eyes stays with me enough to keep me distracted.

  There are things that seriously need my attention this evening. She’s not one of them.

  As long as she’s not a blogger, I can allow myself to let her in. Just as a treat to myself. A little stowaway snack of eye candy. Well, little in height, at least. Every other part of her is what the locals would call fun sized.

  After all, I deserve a little light relief. An innocent visual pleasure.

  Tonight’s event will be like all of these events. The yacht is packed out with shiny, thin, brittle beauties. Supermodels, dancers, and the fashion glitterati. Probably not one of them is over a hundred and forty pounds. And they’re all five feet ten or more. They are all great for the clothes, fantastic on magazine spreads. The ads and the news feeds will all feature the runway performers.

  To me, they all look like glamorous, high-maintenance twigs.

  Great for business. For myself, I prefer to look at a natural woman.

  And they don’t come any more real than that little stowaway bluffer.

  Fashion openings, launches and parties are a special kind of hell. Two kinds of creatures gather at these events.

  One type is the immaculately styled, perfectly poised, extravagantly relaxed, shiny people with brittle voices and low purrs, all looking to look so wealthy that when they dress down it’s from Rodeo Drive or Paris or Saville Row. Men with thrilling, razor-cut, spiral tracks in their beards. Close-cropped hair sculpted in knots. Eyewear with LEDs, illuminated edges, and color-shifting lenses. Predatory women, angular and stick thin, bearing gossip as a lethal weapon.

  The other kind are the outrageous ones. The mad, the bad, and people who are dangerous to be anywhere near. Party animals with the emphasis on the ‘animal,’ Feral sex-beasts. Amateur fire-eaters, exhibitionist sexual gymnasts. The people the headline writers never dare to mention, but whom they always come to watch. From a safe, dark corner, of course.

  My little stowaway, she’s not either of those. She is different. She is more than interesting. I have an instinct that a more primal, natural power winds up her sexual spring. And I want to be the one to release it.

  Chapter 3

  Her

  THIS WHOLE THING WAS a crazy idea. I’m going to get myself thrown overboard. I can feel it coming.

  With a deep breath, I concentrate for just a moment on the picture I carry with me on a data card. That one photograph, the picture that convinced me I should try to make something with photography.

  At the entrance, pumping sounds and the hum of chatter seep through the door. My breath jams in my chest.

  A double door, curtained with red velvet, swings open to the reception. In a room the size of a small ballroom, mega-shiny people stand and lean. Everybody looks extravagantly bored. Scents, colognes, and perfumes are so hot and heady, it’s hard to concentrate. Tangy sweet citrus and sandalwood, tingles of cinnamon and crushed-in-the-dark, musky notes, rolling like the undercurrent of storm.

  Bright chatter clinks and rattles like broken glass in a china bowl. Slowly, trying to stay inconspicuous, I mingle, wordlessly. Moving around the room, picking up a canape, raising a glass and tilting it, anything to try and smile, look as if I belong. At the same time, trying to slip by everybody’s radar. However hard I try to circulate smoothly through the crowd, every time an eye catches mine, I bounce away, spinning like a pinball from one place to another.

  I feel like I’m flipping and flapping. I couldn’t feel more obviously like a fish out of water if my mouth flopped open and closed. Slipping around the room, trying to stay invisible, I keep up the tiring act of being perpetually fascinated by something just a few steps away.

  My overalls are not fooling anyone, I know that much. Any accessory or item of clothing worth less than a thousand dollars honks like a klaxon amid the sleek, chic, vivid, bleeding-edge fashion statements.