Amour Toxique: Books 1-3 Boxed Set (Books 1-3 Series Boxed Set)

by Dori Lavelle

  Amour Toxique

  Books 1-3 Boxed Set

  Dori Lavelle

  Copyright © 2018 by Dori Lavelle

  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.

  Contents

  Midnight Scent

  Book Description

  Prologue

  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

  Midnight Storm

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Epilogue

  Midnight Rain

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Epilogue

  Also by Dori Lavelle

  Connect with Dori Lavelle

  Midnight Scent

  Book 1

  Book Description

  I find the love letters in my new dorm room, left behind by a previous occupant.

  They're meant for someone else, but the words speak to me. They slide off the page and wrap themselves around my body, touching me in places I never knew existed.

  I'm falling in love with each word, unable to stop myself.

  And I don't even know his name.

  Until they tell me.

  His name is Judson Devereux. They say he’s toxic. Falling for him will be a mistake.

  I want to believe them. I want to walk away. But the words refuse to be erased from the invisible parts of me.

  I'm hooked on the scent of his poison. It’s bad for me. It could kill me. But I’m in too deep.

  *This series contains sexual content, dark themes, and violence that could trigger emotional distress in readers.*

  Prologue

  The light from the flickering candles enflames her copper hair. Some men are turned on by legs, a great ass, or boobs. Not him. Nothing puts his groin on fire like a gorgeous red-head. He can make himself come just staring at those fiery strands of silk.

  She's sitting ramrod straight, her chocolate doe eyes on him—accusing, threatening, hating, and loving him—all in the same glance. That doesn't stop him from wanting to be with her, to bury himself into her flesh every night. She needs time, he assures himself as he loosens his tie. They’ll have a perfect marriage again. He’ll make sure of it.

  He regards her uneaten baked Dijon salmon. “You're not eating,” he says.

  “I told you I wasn’t hungry.” Her soft lips twist into a sneer that only enhances her beauty.

  “Fine. Let’s forget dessert.” He dabs his lips with a monogrammed napkin. “Go upstairs. Have a relaxing shower. You’ll find something nice on the bed for you to wear. I'll be right up.”

  She pushes her chair back and stands without objection. That's my girl, he thinks, watching as she glides up the winding staircase to the master bedroom.

  As soon as she disappears up the stairs, he orders the help to clear the table while he goes into his office to make some calls.

  Twenty minutes later, he’s called some of his business managers and partners across the globe, and signed the important documents his assistant had left on his desk.

  Before heading upstairs, he stops by the wine cellar and picks out a bottle from his vintage collection. He takes his time ascending the stairs, his pants tightening with each step.

  A grin spreads across his face when he pushes open the door with a shoulder.

  The sight that meets his eyes is as heart-stopping as he expected—only not in the way he'd hoped.

  This has to be a fucking joke, he thinks. He blinks once, then twice, but the image is clear as day. His wife’s pale, naked, lifeless body is dangling from the crystal chandelier.

  He doesn't have to check her pulse to know she's gone. He feels it in his gut. Her eyes are empty and red-veined as they stare back at him. Her mouth is parted in a silent scream. Her body sways from side to side. The only thing still vibrant with life is her red hair.

  His numb fingers unravel and the bottle of wine hits the natural stone floor. It shatters and bleeds out in time with his heart.

  There's a note on the carpeted floor below her body.

  It’s over. My love for you is dead. Forget me.

  1

  The fifth soggy photo hits the bottom of the trashcan, making a wet slapping sound as it lands on top of the others. Another memory come; another memory gone. None that I care about.

  As I continue to go through the open album, searching for more water-damaged photos, my roommate, Chelsea Anderson, walks to my side of the dorm room.

  Chelsea, a photography student, is a curvy African-American woman with curly, jet-black shoulder-length hair and an easy smile. Her outgoing nature makes her my perfect opposite.

  At twenty-one, Chelsea is two years younger than me, but brings so much more to the table in terms of life and college experience. Claiming to be an old hat at romance both good and bad, she’s determined to help me find my perfect match. She has her work cut out for her, since men are not on my agenda. My only plan was to get as far away from Boston and my stage mom as possible, and pursue my dream of becoming an interior designer.

  Chelsea and I hit it off the moment we met at the end of August, and were inseparable during new student orientation. She’s my best friend in Oaklow. Oaklow, the place I plan to start again.

  The second I flipped open a random catalogue in a travel agency and laid eyes on the breathtaking university town in South Florida, with its narrow, palm tree–lined streets, whitewashed and red-brick houses, and vibrant yet laid-back culture, I wanted to be there. At first I felt ashamed to be starting university later than most,
but Chelsea has helped me fit right in.

  “Ivy, I think we deserve a break, don’t you?” Chelsea raises an open bottle of champagne and two clear plastic champagne flutes, then slumps onto our black-and-white striped couch. She crosses her legs. I’m surprised at her outfit today—a classic red plaid top over taupe linen shorts with a drawstring and elastic waist. Her go-to clothes are jeans and a t-shirt, unless she’s going on a date.

  “Sounds good to me.” I slap the heavy album closed, breathing in the musty smell it releases into the air, and drop the whole mess into the trash. I rise from the floor and sit next to Chelsea on the couch.

  The golden blond liquid crackles and fizzes as Chelsea pours it into the tulip-shaped glasses. She hands me one and it cools my palm instantly.

  “Thanks.” I lean back, watching the bubbles rise to the surface before bursting, and revel in the fruity bouquet of aromas.

  “To hell with burst pipes. To us.” Chelsea taps her glass against mine and takes a sip, briefly closing her dark eyes. “I hope you didn’t lose all your modeling photos. Though, does it even matter? You’re all over the Internet. You can always print them out again.”

  “I don’t care about those photos.” I sip my champagne, washing away the bitter memories of my modeling days.

  Chelsea and I shared a different dorm room before—until we were flooded out. On the positive side, we’ve been rewarded with a killer view. Our previous room faced the street, which was lined with the local post office, a few cafés, the Pansy Blooms flower shop, and the small Costas grocery store. Our new abode overlooks the Dunkin Hall gardens, and if I squint enough, I can make out the distant sea. Sometimes I can even fool myself into believing I hear the crashing waves.

  Nothing calms my mind like the sea.

  The sound of wind chimes fills the air. We both turn to look at my phone on my desk, tucked away underneath my loft bed. My own little personal space. Chelsea has personalized her side of the room by hanging her three landscape photography posters on the wall above her bed.

  “Are you going to get that?” Chelsea drains her glass and pours herself another.

  I shake my head. “Nope. I don’t think it’s important.”

  Chelsea shrugs. “I can’t believe you’re not pissed that your modeling photos are damaged. I would be.” She glances at her thighs, then back up at me with a resigned sigh. “But I don’t think I have to worry about that in my lifetime.”

  “Modeling isn’t as glamorous as you think.” I blink at the slight dizziness brought on by the alcohol. “It was nothing more than a job for me. A career I was forced into.”

  “You baffle me. Who wouldn’t enjoy getting dressed up for a living and smiling for the cameras… oh, and having hot guys drool over you.”

  I slide a hand through my wavy red hair and rest an elbow on the arm of the couch. “I admit, there are some models who enjoy being in the limelight, being admired by strangers. It wasn’t for me.”

  Chelsea’s breath—a mix of booze and minty mouthwash—sweeps my cheek as she leans into me. Curiosity has turned her brown eyes from weak tea to dark chocolate. “I’m sure you had so many guys hitting on you, though. Look at you, even in that crappy man shirt, you look camera-ready. I wish I could hate you right now.”

  I lower my glass onto the varnished mahogany coffee table. “There were several interested guys.” More than several, I want to add, but I bite my tongue. What does it matter? “Not the kind I was interested in.”

  “Have you ever dated a famous person?”

  I smile. “Jason Singer. Ever heard of him?”

  “The actor?” Chelsea blinks furiously. She places her glass on the table next to mine. Stories from my rejected life of glamor excite her like nothing else.

  “Yep.”

  “He’s like the best thing since sliced bread. God, I grew up wishing I could lick his dimples.”

  We both crumple into laughter.

  I pull my legs up and underneath me on the couch. “He certainly likes to think he is.” Since I came to Oaklow, I held back a lot of details about my previous life—the life that suffocates me just to think about, the life I wish would dissolve into the past and remain there. Maybe it’s the champagne or the comfort of Chelsea’s presence, but I open up. “You know what? Jason was an experiment. One that flopped.” Truthfully, I wanted to see what the big deal was.

  “No.” Chelsea’s eyes widen. “Come on, spill the beans. Did he suck at kissing or something? Don’t you dare leave any juicy bits out.”

  I laugh until my eyes water. “I’m going to have to disappoint you,” I say when I catch my breath. “There aren’t any juicy bits. We only went on two dates. The kiss killed it for me.” A shiver runs down my spine at the memory. The moment Jason pushed his too-big tongue into my mouth, I almost gagged. I knew then, even with my lack of experience, that there had to be more to kissing than choking on someone else’s tongue. “Trust me: he’s not all that.”

  “That’s a damn shame.” Chelsea returns to her champagne. “He looks so delicious on TV. He looks… he looks like he knows how to use his stuff, you know.”

  “We both know looks can be deceiving.”

  “Let’s move on then. Goodbye, Jason. Any other famous guys?”

  “Not really. There might have been, if I’d had more time for going out and dating.” As a homeschooled pageant child, and later as a top model, I didn’t have much time left over to be lived. Now’s my chance to hopefully recapture the time I lost running from one photoshoot to the next.

  The corners of Chelsea’s mouth quirk up in a sad smile. Her warm eyes tell me she feels my loneliness. “Well, forget the past. You’re here to start again, to have fun.”

  “Damn right.” I rise from the couch and glance out the window at the blanket of night. “I better make up my bed. I’m exhausted.” I approach the corner with the rest of my unpacked belongings and lift up a see-through bag filled with my bedding—various shades of red, lavender, and blue butterflies scrambling for space on a snowy white background.

  Chelsea stands as well. She’s a little unsteady on her feet. “You did more than me today.” With a deep sigh, she eyes her overflowing metal platform bed. She prefers it to the loft-style bed, which makes me feel on top of the world. “It’ll be a long night for me. And I still have to finish a presentation on human emotions for Friday. I haven’t even edited the pics yet.”

  “You better get to it, then.” I toss my freed bedding onto my bed and climb up after it, only to throw it all down again. The individual pieces land on the couch. I proceed to flip over the old mattress, determined not to think about what the previous occupant did on it. As I lift one end, something catches my eye: a small package tucked under one corner of the mattress. Careful not to fall from the ladder, I stretch to reach it. It’s not actually a package, but a stack of letters held together by a thin ribbon the color of pink cotton candy. I turn the stack of letters over in my hand, lips pursed.

  “What’s that?” Chelsea calls out. I glance at her. She’s holding one of her many pairs of jeans in her hands, about to fold them.

  Before I can answer, curious Chelsea is up on a chair and next to me. “Love letters. What fun.” She snatches the letters from my hand.

  “You don’t know that.” I finish flipping the mattress.

  “They have to be love letters. No one hides innocent letters under a mattress.” Chelsea frees one of the folded pages. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

  I can’t help myself. I lean in to see. Both our eyes scan the hand-written note.

  I’m a complete failure at trying to forget the feel of your body in the circle of my arms. Your heart plays the most perfect song. One written just for me. My blood still hums to the rhythm of your tune. I miss the sound. I miss all the sounds of you. Your screams, your moans as you moved underneath me, fill my mind every night. Do you remember, Jen? Does your body still hold the memories of me pulsing inside you? Until we’re together again, I hope you also fail
to forget the love we’ve made. Hold on to me. I’m yours forever.

  J.D.

  2

  “Holy crap.” This time it’s me who pulls out another letter. I try hard not to tear it while yanking it from the ribbon as my heart flutters inside my chest.

  “Now these are the kinds of words that bring romance to life. You can smell the passion.” Chelsea is practically vibrating next to me.

  I lean over to Chelsea so she can see. I hold my breath as I take in every word. Next to me, Chelsea’s breath is coming in quick, audible gasps.

  My beloved Jennifer,

  If you think your silence will stop me from loving you, you don’t know me at all. Nothing will ever make me give up on us. How can I, when you invade my mind, my senses? I’m drowning in you, but I’ll be damned if I come up for air. Each time I lick my lips, I taste you. You taste of summer rain and strawberries. I long to taste you in the flesh again, to slide my tongue between your lips. I hunger so much for the sweetness of your skin. I want to taste you in places you can’t reach, can’t even see. I dream of being able to trace a path across your body until I reach my favorite place, tucked away just for me. Babe, I ache for you every night. For now, the memories breathe life into me. They keep me whole until I can return to you.