Temptation

by Robin Covington

  Table of Contents

  TEMPTATION

  DEDICATION

  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

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY–ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY–TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY–THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY–FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY–FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY–SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY–SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY–EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY–NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY–ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY–TWO

  EPILOGUE

  Reader Letter

  Other Books by Robin Covington

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  TEMPTATION

  A Robin Covington New Adult Romance

  Giving in never felt so good.

  She needs to be good.

  At sixteen, Kit ditched her crappy life and moved to Nashville with only $200, her guitar, and a notebook full of songs. She hit it big, but five years of living like a rock star plus a stint in rehab has killed any good will she had with her label. The suits have ordered Kit to shape up or ship out of the limelight. The last thing she needs is a hot, sexy distraction with a sinful smile.

  He doesn’t know the meaning of the word.

  Max Butler is as far from a celebrity as you can get and he likes it that way. A Nashville firefighter, he’s living the single life with a revolving door of parties, friends, and a different woman in his bed every night. When his normal life suddenly collides with the girl on his favorite Rolling Stone cover, he sees the perfect chance to fulfill his ultimate fantasy and see just how bad Kit can be.

  Sometimes bad is so very good.

  With three weeks until Kit leaves for her big tour, Max promises to give her a break from being the good girl--no strings attached. But when hot days lead to sultry nights, the lines get blurred and suddenly three weeks of bad might not be good enough.

  What others are saying about TEMTATION

  "Fresh and fun- I enjoyed every second of this tempting read!" --New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Cora Carmack

  "Meet your new book boyfriend. Protective, strong and multi-layered, Max Butler delivers. This book will sweep you off your feet. Right into the arms of a sexy fireman." --Tessa Bailey, NYT and USAToday Bestselling Author.

  TEMPTATION

  BY

  ROBIN COVINGTON

  Giving In Never Felt So Good

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright @copy; 2014 by Robin Covington d/b/a Burning Up the Sheets, LLC. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Burning Up the Sheets, LLC

  23139 Laurel Way

  Hollywood, MD 20636

  Visit my website at www.robincovingtonromance.com.

  Edited by Kristin Anders, The Romantic Editor

  Copy edited by Kim VanDerwerker, Wordsmith Proofreading Services

  Cover design by Babski Creative Studios.

  Cover Photo Credit: Jenn LeBlanc/Illustrated Romance

  Formatting by Anessa Books

  E-book ISBN: 978-0-9905432-0-6

  Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9905432-1-3

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition August 2014

  DEDICATION

  For my father, who gave me the gift of music at an early age

  and taught me the power of a great lyric delivered with heart.

  I love you.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Kit

  I was going to die in a bathroom.

  Just like Elvis.

  The thought that I might end up as one half of a morbid trivia question—I’ll take “name the music stars who died in the bathroom for $400, Alex”—did not stop the panic from rising in my throat as I struggled to focus my thoughts over the God–awful shrieking of the fire alarms. In the restroom of my record label’s rehearsal studio, the emergency lights gave off just enough light to let me see the smoke creeping under the edge of the door. I was no expert on the ideal smoke–to–actual–fire ratio before you died of smoke inhalation, but I knew I had to get out of here and make it to safety. Now.

  Physically shaking off my dark thoughts, I stumbled over to the row of sinks, grabbed several lengths of paper towels, ran them under water and squeezed out the excess just like they’d taught me in school many years ago. Hey, Mrs. Midkiff; I really was paying attention!

  I caught my dim reflection in the mirror and it wasn’t pretty. Terror was not a good look for me. My long curly hair was in snarls and sticking to my face and neck with sweat, the crimson streaks that were my trademark looked Halloween–costume creepy when paired with my runny mascara and eyeliner and the smeared red of my lip gloss. I hadn’t looked this bad since I’d checked my ass into rehab.

  Coughing at the smoke irritating my throat, I slapped the towels over my nose and mouth, my hands shaking as I desperately tried to get my nerves under control.

  I didn’t want to die. I was only twenty–one years old.

  Succumbing to panic was not an option.

  I took another look at the smoke creeping under the door.

  And neither was staying here any longer.

  The smoke was definitely getting thicker now and I had to force my wobbly legs to take me to the door. I reached out with the back of my hand and touched the metal door to see if it was hot and I almost wept when it wasn’t. I might have a clear path to safety once I got out of the restroom.

  Dropping to my knees, I covered my mouth and eased the door open with my free hand. The alarm was even louder in the hallway and the smoke so heavy the emergency lighting was useless out here. I was now virtually blind and deaf because of the noise. Not a good combination.

  I picked the direction that I thought led to the stairwell, briefly considering going back to the studio for my beloved Martin guitar, Jolene. I loved that instrument more than anything in the world but I couldn’t risk trying to find my way back through the twisty hallways of the One More Song Entertainment studios. The thought of never holding it again made me want to lie down on the floor and bawl like a baby, but I couldn’t do it. I’d worked too hard to get clean and bounce back from all the stupid decisions I’d made eighteen months ago. I was just starting to see the future that I could have—one where I called the shots and where I figured just who the hell Kit Landry really was in and out of the spotlight.

  It wasn’t going to be easy—there were so many people who didn’t want me to rock the successful, money–making boat that they’d all ridden on for years. They wanted me to be same girl—America’s country–music sweetheart—and I was just figuring out that I was more; that I could be more. More than the image I’d hidden behind for the last five years. I was determined to have the chance to find a balance between the old and new Kit and that desire kept me crawling on this floor. It kept me from lying down and giving in to the exhaustion that was weighin
g me down.

  The top of my head hit an immobile object with a brain–scrambling thud and I reached up, feeling the emergency door under my fingertips. Thank you, baby Jesus! With the excitement of potentially avoiding death giving me an extra jolt of energy, I lifted up and pushed on the release bar.

  It wouldn’t budge.

  Shit.

  Overcome with the urge to take a deep breath, I dropped to the ground and re–covered my mouth with the cloth. Panic hovered on the edge of reason as I frantically searched my brain for what to do next. I was running out of all the stuff I’d learned in the few years I’d attended school regularly.

  Okay … just staying here sounds like a bad idea, but I can’t see down the hall… maybe I should just stay here… the fire department will see me signed in on this floor… the smoke is getting really thick… don’t cough… makes it worse… damn, I really don’t want to die like this… this will be on one of those awful “How did they die?” documentary shows… I’m just getting my life back…

  Huddled closer to the ground, I tried to breathe in shallow bursts but the smoke was so thick I couldn’t stop coughing, and inhaled more and more smoke. I couldn’t go forward. I couldn’t see enough to go back.

  I was so screwed.

  Paralyzed with fear and only shitty options, I re–covered my face with the towels and listened for any sounds of rescue.

  I was dizzy and disoriented, a heaviness settling in my arms and legs—making it hard to keep my mouth covered. I tried to focus, but my mind was drifting, memories moving through like the way sunlight skated across my eyelids when I was a kid lying on the soft grass near my house—my Daddy and Mama, being on my own way too soon, coming to Nashville alone and broke at sixteen, selling my first record… touring… Jake when he was my first love and the first one to break my heart… my months at Spring Ridge Rehab… the fans… performing…

  Fuck; they were right. It really does pass before your eyes…

  But what killed me were the things I didn’t see. A normal life. A real date with a guy I hadn’t met through my publicists. An end to all the lying and secrets. A family. Marriage. Kids. A home.

  Hell, yeah, to the minivan. Bring it on—at least someday. I wasn’t going to judge something I’d never had.

  And if someone didn’t find me quick… I never would.

  I heard noises in the distance, relief kicking up the adrenaline again and giving me enough energy to raise myself up on my knees. I tried to see if anyone was coming down the hall but the smoke had thickened, the smell of burning plastic, commercial carpet, and electronics getting stronger by the second. Hot tears fell from my burning eyes and down my face, and I knew I was about three seconds from losing my shit. I was a tough girl. Life had knocked me around, but this blow had come from left field and I zigged when I should have zagged.

  Too fucking bad.

  I removed the towels from my mouth and yelled as loudly as I could. Which wasn’t loud at all.

  I sucked in another breath through the towel filter and coughed before trying again. “Help!”

  Oh, shit. That took it all out of me and I collapsed on the floor, ignoring the pain that shot through my chin when my head landed with a THUNK! on the nasty commercial carpet. I hoped to God that someone heard me because I had just blown my entire wad with that stunt. My eyes were sliding shut and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

  A voice, distant and muffled, filtered into my consciousness. “Hey, Dean! I found someone over here!”

  Through the fog in my brain, I registered a pair of rough gloves yanking on my arms and hauling me close to a large body. A mask was placed over my mouth and I sucked in big gulps of smoke–free air. It was delicious. Better than chocolate, I swear.

  “Hang on. I’ve got you. Just hang on.” The smooth, deep voice of my rescuer rushed over me, calming me until I suddenly remembered Isaac, the security guard on duty.

  Pushing off the mask, I croaked, “You’ve got to get…” I wasn’t able to finish the warning because I started coughing, so much that I expected to see my toenails go flying across the room with the next big hack.

  “Is there someone else in the building?” He looked down at me, up close and definitely space–invading because of the thick smoke, but he was able to see me nod. He pressed a button on his uniform and spoke into a walkie–talkie mounted on his shoulder. “Dean, we’ve got a second vic in the building.”

  “Get yours outta here. I’m on it.”

  “My guitar.” I knew it was stupid and selfish to mention an object, but she was like a person to me.

  “Your guitar?” he asked and when I nodded he immediately shook his head. “Sorry, I’m not going back for a guitar. My captain would have my ass in a sling for that one.”

  My rescuer lifted me up, murmuring into my ear as he moved down the hallway, “Let’s get you safe and checked out. Just hang on, ma’am.”

  Shifting his hold on me, he shoved against the emergency door several times. It still wouldn’t budge even with his ginormous body ramming against it. That fucking door was really messing with my need to get out of the blazing inferno. Mr. Rescue wasn’t happy either.

  He let out a creative curse and spoke into the walkie–talkie again. “Unit Three. I have a female victim on the third floor. Emergency exit blocked. I’m headed to the windows on the northeast side of the building. Going to the fire escape. Over.”

  Fire escape. Heights. Rickety stairs.

  I pushed down the panic that surged up from my stomach and threatened to splatter all over his nice fireman’s uniform. I hated heights. When my team had suggested my adding some of that Cirque De Soleil stuff that P!nk did in her shows to my concert, I told them that I was all for it as long as they issued raincoats to all the seats under me. I would hurl. Everywhere. I’ve seen me do it.

  But now, I could do nothing but cling to him as he carried me into an office, shut the door, and walked over to the expanse of windows.

  Placing me on the floor, he eyeballed me through the safety glass of his mask. “I have to break out this window.” He positioned my mask more firmly on my face. “Stay here and keep this on.”

  I started to nod my head in agreement but moving made me feel sick all over again, so I slumped against the wall and waited for him. Glass shattered and a clean rush of evening air cooled my cheeks. My rescuer knelt down, lifted me up, and propped me up close to the new opening.

  “Let’s get you outside for a little fresh air.”

  Let’s not. Let’s get out of the building in a way that doesn’t require me to suspend myself three stories above the very hard concrete on nothing but a rusty metal staircase.

  I kept my death grip on the wall as he stepped onto the escape and kicked at the ladder release with a booted foot several times. It shuddered and squealed and made noises that did not assure me of its stability. If he suggested that we jump, I would kill him.

  He swore and turned on his walkie–talkie. “Unit Three. Fire escape on northeast side is broken. We need a bucket.”

  Oh, great. I’ve seen this on TV. I’ve watched “Backdraft”. We were going to leave the fire escape and get into a container suspended on top of the fire ladder. Why was I here on a Friday night?

  That’s right; I was being a good girl these days.

  After confirmation squawked back into his device, he reached inside and lifted me through the open window and over the windowsill. I had shut my eyes tightly the minute it looked like he was going to take me out on the suspended death trap, but when he stopped I couldn’t help myself. I opened my eyes and immediately, involuntarily, looked down. On instinct, I jumped back away from the ledge, grabbing the fireman standing next to me.

  “Whoa, whoa. You okay?”

  Heart pounding, I hid my face against his chest like a little kid. “I’m afraid of heights.”

  He chuckled. “Well, we could go back inside…” When I grabbed him and lurched towards the opening that led back inside, he held me
tighter and stroked my back soothingly. “Hey, we can’t go back in there. Sorry. Fireman humor.”

  I whimpered. Honest–God–whined like a puppy but I couldn’t stop it. I now understood the whole “rock and a hard place” thing. I knew in my head that I couldn’t go back inside, but standing out on this tiny fire escape with smoke around us and the wind blowing was like someone had reached inside my head and arranged my worst–case scenario. But when I rubbed two of my oxygen–deprived brain cells together, I knew this was better.

  Still clinging to him with one hand, I moved the mask off my face. “I really didn’t want to die in the bathroom.”

  His chest rumbled with low laughter. “Most people aren’t real particular about the location. Just the not dying part.”

  I peered up at him in the dark but couldn’t clearly see his face with all the safety gear on. “Are you making fun of me?”

  “No, ma’am; just trying to distract you.”

  “Oh…” I huddled closer to him, shaking uncontrollably. “I can’t stop sh–sh–aking.”

  He chafed my arms with his hands, the rough texture of the gloves causing enough friction to warm me up a little bit. He grabbed the oxygen mask and put it back over my nose and mouth, tightening the strap to make sure it stayed on. “It’s shock. They’ll fix you up once we get you to the bus. Just hang on.”

  Nodding, I took a deep, shuddering breath to steady my nerves. Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry.

  His voice broke across the silence. “What were you doing here on a Friday night? No hot date?”

  I coughed again and shook my head, moving the mask to the side in order to overshare. I babbled when I was nervous. Not a good trait when you had to give interviews to rapid–fire, story–hungry reporters all the time.

  “I haven’t had a date in over a year.”

  “The men you know must be stupid or blind.”

  My head was starting to do that swimmy–thing again, but I squinted up at him. “Are you hitting on me?”