by Angel Payne
Bolt Saga
7
Angel Payne
This book is an original publication of Angel Payne.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.
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Copyright © 2018 Waterhouse Press, LLC
Cover Design by Regina Wamba
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All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For my incredible Thomas, and the Parisian adventures that inspired this!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Continue the Bolt Saga with Bolt Saga: 8
Also by Angel Payne
About Angel Payne
Chapter One
Emma
Riddle me this…
Is it possible to drown in agony and soar in ecstasy at the same time?
And could I get any cornier about swooning over my secret fiancé?
“Don’t answer that,” I mumble to my libido—because the struggle gets even more real, surpassing all clichés and hashtags—as I watch my man, standing on a ridge close to the driveway of our freshly built canyon home, helping a construction crew drill a tunnel into the side of a mountain. The other guys are clad in jeans, T-shirts, and hardhats. Reece Andrew Richards is wearing nothing but his shit-kicker boots, tight leather pants, and a whole lot of sweat. The crew members are using a couple of jackhammers and lots of other loud equipment. My shit-hot fiancé is using only the bright-blue lightning erupting from his fingertips. And every jolt reveals new definition in the tantalizing muscles of his tall, rippled body…
Blatantly reminding me of the excess energy he’ll need to burn off after the excavation…
Ecstasy.
But then agony. I tear my gaze away from Reece as I remember the two extra members in his audience today.
So I plaster on an awkward smile for my future mother-in-law. And his.
Kill. Me. Now.
Before I get the chance to consider doing the deed myself, the man takes a break from his labors to glance over, flashing a grin of his own. Correction. The grin. The Reece Andrew Richards special, a twist of carnality and arrogance so potent, the tabloid media has all but built shrines in its honor. I admit to falling prey to its spell myself on more than a few occasions—though not this one. Right now, all I can do is narrow a glower back that’s filled with one message alone. The next time he invites both our mothers to lunch, while he looks like that, he’d better be prepared to deal with the consequences. Exactly what consequences? I haven’t gotten that far yet, but if there’s anything I’ve learned from loving this man, it’s to have a huge imagination…
“Well, honey. You weren’t kidding when you said to have a big imagination.”
My mother proves, yet again, her uncanny karmic timing—and her ability to take in a view as amazing as this and find it lacking. The acres of land around us, rolling hills carpeted with spring wildflowers, stretch all the way to the tiny ribbon of PCH below. Just past the highway is the sparkling band of the Pacific, gleaming a rich sapphire that blends with the clear Southern California sky. From up here, in the hills just north of Malibu, it’s impossible to fathom that the bustle of downtown LA is only an hour away. The rustle of wind across the bluff is a balmy symphony, its perfect harmony rising from the coastal birds in the shrubs. The air is clean and crisp, smelling of rosemary and eucalyptus and tinged with a hint of sea spray…
And lunch.
Thank God for lunch.
“Who’s hungry?” I sidestep Mother’s snip with one of the best excuses on earth. I already can’t wait for the meal ahead. Anya, my favorite salad creator from the little country mart down in Malibu Village, finally succumbed to the ungodly amount of money Reece offered her to come up a couple of times a week to prep dishes for the construction crews when I can’t. From time to time—actually, on more occasions than I want to admit—she keeps me fueled and going as well. Though we’re finally putting finishing touches on the main residence of the complex, Reece and I won’t be able to completely call it home until the rest is built out, meaning our time is still split between downtown and up here.
So yeah, Anya has been a gift from the gods—and never more so than now, as I escort Mother and Trixie Richards into the house through the Mediterranean-influenced front door with baby bougainvillea bushes planted at either side. We cross the polished Italianate tiles of the front foyer to stop at the top of the wide, curved staircase leading down to the main living room area.
Since Reece had the vision to build the house down, embedding it into the side of the mountain, the grandeur of the place unfolds before us in terraced layers, with iron and wood furniture complementing the arched doorways, stone walls, and native flowers in huge urns painted in swirls of burgundy and blue. The wall tapestries copy that color theme, though are woven in modern swirled designs.
Today, the room’s massive glass doors are swiveled to let in the balmy afternoon breeze, lightly teasing at the glass table Anya has set with white linen and trendy-shaped china. In the center of the table is a vase of freshly picked wildflowers and an ice bucket supporting a bottle of Dom Pérignon.
“Oh, my goodness.” Trixie’s comment is nearly a gasp. “It’s…”
“A little better than the outside,” Mother concedes, adding a delicate sniff.
Trixie flashes a subtle side-eye at her. “I was going to say palatial,” she comments while wrapping a gentle hand into mine. “But not a stuffy palace.” She adds hastily, “It’s regal but relaxed. And very beautiful.”
“Of course.” Mother approaches from my other side, hooking her elbow through mine in a strange show of possessiveness. While the moment has me bumbling for a second, I welcome the awkwardness. Mother has never been the fuss-and-kiss type, but maybe today’s the day we both break out of a few comfort zones. “And the house is stunning too.” She dots that with a quick squeeze to my elbow, succeeding in robbing me of words for several seconds as I’m too busy gulping back emotion.
Trixie, thinking we’re only sharing another sweet mother-daughter moment instead of our only mother-daughter moment, remarks, “Lunch smells divine. What are we having?”
“Smells like Anya’s specialty,” I reply as the three of us descend the stairs. “So something gooey, Italian, and perfect.”
Anya, appearing from the kitchen that takes up a few thousand feet of the house’s next level, responds to my theory with her graceful laugh. The woman, with her long fiery curls, cute broomstick skirt, and pink pointy-toed boots, literally looks like she just walked off some fantasy movie set, but this is Anya in everyday mode. “Emma is right. You ladies will enjoy a kale Caesar salad with fresh avocados and chickpeas; then, whole wheat lasagna with zucchini, spinach, and goat cheese, dashed with truffle oil. I also whipped up some oven-roasted green beans and sprinkled them with aged goat cheese and fresh parmesan.”
Mother’s eyes light up. “Magnificent.”
Nearly at the same time, Trixie mutters, “Was that even in English?”
A giggle bursts off my lips. As in, a real laugh. Wait. Is this me, enjoying lunch between the only two women on
the planet capable of making me capitalize the word Stress?
That’s not true either. One more name belongs on that list.
Faline.
But today isn’t for dwelling on the bitch who still haunts my nightmares. It’s for building on the dream of forever with the man who helped me survive her. Who literally swooped in and saved me from her.
Who strides in like a modern-day Errol Flynn now, rocking those incredible leather pants, a billowy black shirt he’s just thrown on, and even a black scarf of some sort tied around his head to keep his gorgeous but sweaty hair off his face.
And stealing my breath all over again.
Damn.
Reece is delicious even without his rugged boots. He likely kicked off the filthy things at the front door when he came in. His bare feet hit the tiles with undeniable strength as he approaches, and the air practically shudders from the impact of his presence. I’m not the only one who feels it. I can see how his energy impacts both Trixie and Mother—though clearly, their intimate parts aren’t as swept away as mine…
Or Anya’s.
It’s impossible to ignore how the woman is affected by my pirate stud, with the pulse in her throat quickening and the roses in her cheeks growing, but it’s not like poor Anya—or nearly any other woman who comes in this close contact with him—can help herself. It is what it is, and I deal with it in new forms every day. Short of ordering Reece to turn the new tunnel into a prison cell instead of Team Bolt’s high-tech command center—and chaining him inside for the rest of his life—there’s nothing I can do but deal with the discomfort and trust our connection. That inexplicable, incomparable bond that seems to strengthen between us every day.
That ignites anew in his silver-gray eyes as he walks straight toward me…
And kisses me…
And floors me all over again.
It’s not a tonsillectomy. To everyone here, it’s probably no more than a fast, casual peck. But to him and me, it’s everything. Fresh fire. Perfect energy. A storm of two souls and an awed awareness we acknowledge with the quick connection of our stares.
Just like that, I don’t care about lunch.
Just that easily, I could jump on him like a hot, horny bunny. Yeah, even if he does keep regarding me like a wolf who wants to eat me alive.
Just that quickly, his gaze flares, indicating he’s read every nasty thought in my head as clearly as his own. Perhaps because they’re so similar…
“Reece.” His mother’s scold is a wedge of ice in the middle of our lusty fire. “Stop crowding in on her like a cretin.”
With barely a falter to his stare or a hitch in his stance, he murmurs, “Hi, Mom. Great to see you too.”
“Yes, yes.” She sounds distracted but betrays her pride as he reaches back, clasping her hand with his glove-covered one. “And that’s all you get for now, until you smell better.”
“Which won’t be until tomorrow night at the Griffith Observatory’s ball,” he returns, to be answered by her instant huff.
“All right, fine. Come here, then.” After she tugs him into a fast hug, the woman pushes back with a sniff only a mother could get away with. “Lord, son.”
“It’s warm outside, Mom.” He swings his gaze back to me with the blatant but silent follow-up. And it’s damn hot in here…
“Well, at least I stopped you from hulking over poor Emma for a moment.”
I can’t help giggling.
Reece can’t stop scowling.
“Mother, I’m her fi—” he falters and draws the word out—“fiii-reaking boyfriend.”
As he murders the words, I tilt my head and feign enough of a light laugh to disguise my study of Trixie’s face. Is she wise to Reece’s near catastrophe of a slip? Yes, he’s my fiancé—in all the ways that matter, in my heart and his—but no way in hell does that mean our mothers need to know too. Not yet.
Because as soon as they know, the rest of the world will know too.
And when the rest of the world knows, so will the Consortium.
And once those bastards get their hands on that kind of information…
It won’t be information anymore.
It’ll be their weapon.
But stressing out over our evil scientist enemies isn’t an inch of help right now, especially when it looks like Reece yanked the “big reveal” in time. I help him out with a charming shrug, telling Trixie, “To be honest, I like him in Neanderthal mode.”
“Not in that dress, you don’t.” Mother keeps her tone light but goes full Anna Wintour with her face, looking panicked at Reece’s proximity to my flowery A-line tea dress. “Princess and the Pirate works in the world of romance novels and nowhere else, missy.”
“Amen,” Trixie murmurs, prompting Reece and me to trade a secret glance. Correction: a hurried look of horror. While we’d conceived this lunch with a larger goal in mind, to warm up both sets of our parents to the concept of our wedding taking place here sometime in the next couple of years, the subject of them getting along had never been broached—probably because it was too surreal.
“But I like romance novels…” My mumble is a caterpillar of sound beneath Mother and Trixie’s fresh chatter, which jumps from the virtues of the A-line silhouette, to every gown the royals have worn in the last three weeks, to the latest TV bio-drama about the royals, to the scandal surrounding some British actor not even related to the royals, to said actor’s love child now topping the charts with her pop-hip-hop-rasta-rap song about it…
“Holy shit.” Reece dares to push a little closer in order to mutter it for my ears alone. “They’re already comparing notes on pop divas?”
I drag in a deep breath. I don’t know whether it’s sad or hilarious that his aroma of mud and sweat is actually guiding my senses back to a semblance of Zen. “This is either really good or really bad.”
He nuzzles his lips against my cheek. “Well, let me know how it goes.”
I jerk away by a few inches, gawk already in place. “Where the hell are you going?”
A shrug of his sculpted shoulders. “You want the command center excavated in a few weeks?” Then a glance of heated intent to my lips. “Besides, if I keep standing this close to you, all I’ll want to do is fuck you.”
“Mr. Richards.” I feign a scandalized whisper, sliding a surreptitious hand beneath his shirt and against his bare abdomen. “With your own mother one room over?”
“Keep touching me like that, Bunny, and I won’t even wait until the bedroom.” Despite his all-but-a-promise growl, the kiss he lowers to my nose is chaste. “Can’t wait to hear about the fun. Take notes so you can fill me in later.”
My soft groan trails in the wake of his backward step. “You’re such a bastard.”
“The bastard you love.”
“Regrettably, yes.”
“Lucky for me, yes.”
And just like that, I’m a puddle of smitten for him once more. “Lucky for me too,” I murmur, squeezing his fingers. More than anything, I wish we didn’t have to be touching through the barrier of his gloves. I yearn for the tingling heat of his bared, glowing fingertips along my naked, vulnerable skin, corresponding to his wicked, whispered words in my ear…
A heavy gulp vibrates the rugged column of his neck, indicating he’s still on the same mental page. But he breaks our contact with a rough grunt, long enough to jog his sights out toward the patio, where Trixie and Mother have wandered with glasses of champagne offered by Anya. Thankfully, having gotten her hormones under control, the pink-booted one has wandered back to the kitchen.
“Hey, Mom?” Reece shouts. “I’ve got to go back to work—but in no universe is that permission to yank out the baby album for Em, okay?”
Trixie displays her stylish purse, which probably couldn’t fit half a good romance novel. “And where, exactly, would I be stowing said album, my son?”
“On the Swarovski-covered brick you fondly call your phone?” When all he receives to that is his mother’s dismissive wav
e, he mumbles to me, “Seriously, don’t let her go there.”
“But whhhyyyy?” I take advantage of the fact that my own maternal unit has wandered out to gawk at the negative edge pool and steal a quick snuggle against his chest. “Baby Reece? Sounds like fun.”
There’s a dark rumble from the middle of that chest. “There is nothing fun about you seeing my penis in a diaper, sweetheart.” But the new tension in his body belies a different story. Though his chest is always the texture of a muscled wall, the mien now defines every inch of him—even the angles of the gorgeous face I look back up to.
“Okay. Got it. No diapers.” I rub the center of his sternum. “Now you going to tell me what else is going on?”
For a heartbeat that feels like an eternity, he doesn’t return my gaze. Finally, with a violent jerk of his head, he forces out a tight smile. “Nothing, baby. Really.”
Sharp arch—of both brows. “You know what a girl thinks when she hears that, right?”
The humor beneath his chuff is a little more authentic. “Okay, then nothing important.” He busses my nose again. “I mean it. Now go have fun.”
Yet another pointed glare. “I’m getting you a dictionary for your birthday, mister. Nothing? And now fun? You know the rest of the world has different definitions for those, yeah?”
As his well-calculated answer, I receive only the slow curve of his knowing grin and a perfect view of his incredible backside before he clears the stairs with a couple of electric-fueled bounds and disappears back out the front door.
“Reece Andrew, you really are a bastard.”
My grumble isn’t even a tiny consolation as I steel my nerves for what the next couple of hours may bring—especially as I rejoin Mother and Trixie in the middle of a debate about whether the newest “it” film couple used camera angles and cock socks or really “did the deed” in their hottest love scene. How the hell is a girl supposed to eat a full meal, even the incredible one before me, after hearing her mother use the term cock sock?
