With This ring
Georgia Le Carre
Contents
Author’s Note
1. Freya
2. Freya
3. Freya
4. Freya
5. Maxim
6. Freya
7. Freya
8. Maxim
9. Freya
10. Maxim
11. Freya
12. Maxim
13. Freya
14. Freya
15. Maxim
16. Freya
17. Freya
18. Freya
19. Freya
20. Maxim
21. Freya
22. Maxim
23. Freya
24. Freya
25. Freya
26. Maxim
27. Freya
28. Maxim
29. Freya
30. Maxim
31. Freya
32. Maxim
33. Freya
34. Maxim
35. Freya
36. Maxim
37. Freya
38. Maxim
39. Freya
40. Maxim
41. Maxim
42. Freya
43. Freya
44. Maxim
45. Freya
46. Maxim
47. Freya
48. Freya
49. Maxim
50. Freya
51. Maxim
52. Maxim
53. Freya
54. Maxim
55. Freya
56. Maxim
57. Maxim
58. Freya
59. Freya
60. Maxim
61. Freya
62. Freya
63. Maxim
64. Freya
65. Freya
66. Freya
67. Freya
68. Freya
69. Freya
70. Freya
71. Maxim
72. Freya
73. Maxim
74. Maxim
75. Freya
76. Freya
77. Maxim
78. Freya
Epilogue
Epilogue 2
Coming Next: Sample Prologue
Sample Chapter
About the Author
Also by Georgia Le Carre
With This Ring
Copyright © 2020 by Georgia Le Carre
The right of Georgia Le Carre to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the copyright, designs and patent act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding.
ISBN: 978-1-910575-96-3
Many, many thanks to:
Caryl Milton
Elizabeth Burns
Nichola Rhead
Kirstine Moran
Brittany Urbaniak
Tracy Gray
Author’s Note
To all my awesome, beautiful readers,
Thank you for the support you have shown in 2019 and here’s to you having a wonderful year full of happiness, love, laughter, and stories galore.
Love,
Georgia
Chapter One
Freya
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9TQKyDD9Yig
"Freya!"
I looked up from the dirty vodka martini I was mixing.
“Monsieur Garlic-Cock wants you, darling," George said in his totally inimitable way, as he paused by the service station, a tray of ten cocktail glasses expertly balanced on the palm of his hand.
I could have asked him how he knew Monsieur Bisset’s cock smelled of garlic, but I just laughed at his sass, and said, "Tell him he knows where to find me.”
“There goes my tip,” George said sourly and sashayed away, a gorgeous smile on his lips.
I looked in the direction of the middle-aged French businessman. He raised his glass and nodded at me. Monsieur Bisset flew into town once a month and he usually ended up in our bar to celebrate his victories in the boardroom. His goal seemed to be female attention, usually mine, but he was not too fussy. After a certain point in the night an orifice to wet his cock was more than enough. Of course, being filthy rich he couldn't understand why I kept rejecting his advances. I told him I didn't need money once, and he took that to mean I was holding out for more. In his eyes, I was a lowly waitress who should be grateful that such a fine gentleman as him had looked my way.
I pushed the dirty martini over to Dan, the curly-haired American guy, sitting at the bar. He was a regular, a funny guy. He gave me a wink which I returned before I moved on to mixing the next drink on my order list.
"I see I'm not the only one after you," he commented.
"Would I be as desirable if you were?” I quipped.
"Fair enough," he agreed, taking a long sip of his drink. He put his glass on the bar and grinned at me. "Fuck, this tastes as good as I can only imagine you will."
I took the flirt in good stride. It was part of the job. You want to be a barmaid in an underground cocktail bar in Lower Manhattan, then you can’t be a paid-up member of the #metoo movement as well.
"Come on. Give me a chance, babe,” he cajoled. “It's been months.”
I reached up to the top shelves for a new bottle of rum. I needed it to make a Long Island Iced Tea. As I unscrewed the top I responded to Dan’s unwise remark. “If I ever do Dan, beware. It might end with me sucking you dry—”
He tapped the counter excitedly. “But that is exactly what I want!”
“With a sexual harassment lawsuit,” I dead-panned.
“I’ll take that too,” he said, after a brief contemplation.
My laughter rang across the bar.
"Just make it worth it," he joked.
I blew him a kiss, then delivered the Long Island to the amused, bearded man sitting next to him. He tipped his fedora to me, and I flashed him what I’d been told was my most electrifying smile. Julia came by then with a tray in hand, and passed on another message from Bisset. "He says there's a five-hundred-dollar tip waiting for you if you bring the drink to him yourself." She looked a bit jealous as she said it.
I shook my head to cover my irritation. "Tell him thanks, but my place is behind the bar."
The message was relayed and a few minutes later Monsieur Antoine Bisset himself, made his way over. "You have me wrapped around your little finger, haven’t you," he said, his accent thick with French charm and alcohol.
“No one has you wrapped around their little finger, Monsieur,” I say firmly. And that was no lie. I imagined him to be a man neither easily fooled nor manipulated.
He took his seat and watched me while I worked, until his ogling started to irritate me.
“What else will you have today, Monsieur?” I asked, with a big plastic smile.
He sucked in his breath. “You are a wild child, Freya.”
I waited patiently while he ran his gaze from the top of my fiery red hair, down to my chest, lingering there deliberately, then coming back up to my eyes.
“The usual,” he said finally, his eyes glittering.
I nodded and went to the locked cabinet to retrieve the $4,700 bottle of Louis XIII cognac that was kept specially for him.
I picked up one of the large glass goblets I’d been keeping warm on top of the coffee machine and poured a healthy amount of the ridiculously expensive drink into it. I swirled it to further warm the drink then, with the proper reverence for the price of the drink, placed the goblet on a coaster in front of him. “Should I send the bottle over to your table?”
“God no! I
t’d be wasted on those fools. Not one of them would know the difference between cooking brandy and one of the finest cognacs in the world,” he said. “I might take it with me on my way out. Perhaps it’ll be enough reason for you to stop by my hotel room and share a glass with me.” Without breaking eye contact, he slipped his usual hundred towards me.
I took the cash, folded it, and tucked it into my back jeans pocket. “There will never be a reason in the world big enough, Monsieur.” I smiled to take the sting away.
He took an elaborate sniff of the potent fumes, then a sip of the sinfully smooth luxury of his drink. “Ahhh …” he moaned at the pleasure. “You know, that pussy of yours is not going to lick itself. Someday you’re going to come to your senses and come with me, Princess.”
Dan roared triumphantly. “Join the line Mon-fucking-sieur.”
Nothing personal, all just part of the job, I told myself as I turned away to take care of the other patrons waiting to be served. That’s when my eyes suddenly met his.
I froze.
Right there in the midst of the crowd … he was watching me. His gaze was icy blue … and cold, and unmistakable and just as always, my stomach flipped.
I blinked, and briefly lowered my head in disbelief.
He was here?
Why?
When I had myself under control I lifted my stony gaze to him, but he was gone.
A frown furrowed into my forehead as my eyes roved across the bar. Every sound and sight beyond that of his haunting gaze faded into the background as I searched around the dimly lit space for him, but he had disappeared like a puff of smoke. After a few seconds I started to wonder if I’d just imagined him.
But why the hell would I?
I hate him. He was an arrogant, insufferable, rude, sanctimonious, annoying, ignorant, uncivilized, brutal thug. Immediately, I abandoned the search for such a low-life, and turned around to settle my breathing. It was uneven, and it aggravated me to no end that even imagining seeing him never failed to stir the most unpleasant storms inside me.
“Bastard,” I swore under my breath as I turned to a customer waiting to get my attention. But it was now a feat to focus on his order. He had to repeat it twice. I nodded and set to work, but my mood had turned sour. The rest of the night became an ordeal. I kept expecting him to turn up even though I had told myself a thousand times that he was just a figment of my imagination.
I usually headed out of the bar with a little skip in my step at the end of my shift at 3am, but thanks to the memory of that devil, I felt taut and irritable.
I’d just turned the block when I found Bisset waiting on the deserted side street, his foot against the wall. I wasn't surprised, but I was disappointed. Despite his clumsy advances and smutty jokes, I’d considered Garlic Cock fairly decent and able to respect set boundaries. Meeting outside the bar meant there was no going back.
Chapter Two
Freya
"You're waiting to harass me, Monsieur?” I asked coldly.
He smiled charmingly. "Never, mon chéri. I thought, maybe, the bar is too crowded for you to … express your interest. Perhaps, you are shy in front of your employers and colleagues. I thought maybe—”
I cut him off. “You figured wrong. I’m not interested in you.”
"That's unfair, baby girl. Just look at you … I’m about to lose my mind just staring at you."
I sighed. "Look, don’t make this ugly. Maybe you have drunk too much, but if you stop now we can laugh about this the next time you come to the bar.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Well, I'm going home. Alone."
He stepped in my path, his hands spread out and I could smell the alcohol I had fed him, pungent and overindulgent.
“My car and driver are right around the corner,” he slurred. “It's running, waiting for you. Let's go for a drive. I'll show you some very beautiful places. Secret places. Where rich people go to feed their needs. You’ll never get the chance to see them on your own.”
My stomach turned at the thought of the ugly things he had in mind. "I've lived in this city for five years. I've seen all that I need or want to see of it.”
“No, you don’t understand,” he rasped urgently, his eyes shining. “This city has an underbelly. An exciting place that only those in the know can hope to experience. I promise you will love it.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.” I attempted to walk past him again.
Suddenly his face changed. The affable Frenchman was gone. Here was the real thing. The thing I would have seen if I had said yes at any time. “What will it take?” he asked, "because I'm not going home without you tonight."
I lost my patience. "Out of my way," I said and tried to push him aside, but he grabbed my hand and turned me violently around. It twisted my wrist and the pain made me wince.
He drew me to him and brought his nose close to my neck. Sniffing me he pressed his unimpressive cock against me.
"Do you feel what you do to me? Just give me one night," he pleaded. "I'll fuck you so good you'll never forget me.”
I was as still as a tree. "Let me go.”
Of course, he didn't listen.
I gave him one more chance. “Monsieur, let me go.”
Instead the fool pressed his lips to my skin for a kiss.
I pushed myself back and smacked a blow so hard across his face I knew he saw stars.
Shocked, he staggered away from me and hit the wall. His mouth was agape with disbelief. "You fucking bitch," he said in wonder as he pulled away the hand he had held to his bruised face. “You hit me!”
I shrugged. “I did warn you.”
He came for me then.
I wanted to roll my eyes into my skull.
He grabbed my shirt and pulled me up to his face. "How dare you? You fucking cheap whore!”
I struck his wrist hard with the edge of my hand, and he howled in pain. You can’t blame a man for making that racket when his limb has shifted out of joint. To his credit, he lunged again for me, but his legs crumbled under him from sheer pain. It sent him crashing to the cold ground. Some people standing outside the kebab shop in the distance turned at the sight of his drunken howl.
It was not the end of the matter though. That ridiculous cognac had put fire into his veins.
"I'm going to kill you,” he screamed and once again came for me. I waited and at the right moment swung my frame around just in time to land a swift kick across the unprotected side of his face.
He flew backwards, and collapsed on the ground, a battered, pathetic mess. I glanced at the square heel of my boots and wondered just how much damage it had done to him. I felt a bit guilty: I did take all the hundreds of dollars he pushed across the bar to me. The money would go towards the orders for fashion samples that Britney and I would need in the next few days. Anyway, someone had to teach him some manners. He would think twice about using this technique to approach another woman.
"Sorry Monsieur,” I said.
I was just about to walk away when I felt a commanding presence behind me. All the hairs on my body instantly stood and I swiveled around in response to the danger I could sense. There was indeed danger. A man detached himself from the shadows. It was the last man I wanted to see. The owner of the pair of icy blue eyes that had disrupted me in the bar and put me in my bitter mood.
Maxim Ivankov.
So he really had been present at the bar. I couldn't wait to find out why. He walked up to me and stood with the streetlight directly overhead. It made him appear even more forbidding and brutal. I could feel my heart start to thump.
"Why the fuck are you on my tail?" I snarled.
He smiled darkly, and it startled me, just like it always had.
"It's nice to see you too,” he drawled. His voice was like waves crashing upon rocks. It could take centuries but in the end it would pulverize the rocks into sand. "What's it been, seven years?"
“Well, thanks for helping.”
He gazed down at Antoine,
and shook his head. "You didn’t need the help. The idiot didn't know what he had coming.”
"Neither do you apparently," I said and instantly felt a frisson of fear strike me at the threat I had just issued to the one man I knew could hurt me with just his gaze.
"What did you say?" he asked, his voice sending chills down my body and I knew I had overstepped my boundaries. We were mortal enemies and the less involvement I had with him the better for me.
"Fuck off," I muttered under my breath, and began to walk away.
At first there was nothing but the sound of my footsteps. I prayed he wouldn’t come after me. He didn’t.
“Call your father,” his voice rang after me.
My heart slammed into my chest. For a second I couldn’t move. What did that imply? Was my dad alright?
His father and mine had been bloody rivals for as long as anyone could remember. Between them, death was usually almost always on the table.
With This ring Page 1
