The Virgin's Guide to Misbehaving

by Jessica Clare

  “Well, we ain’t gonna be drinking out of this thing anytime soon,” Pop said, pulling the top of the Keurig off. He snorted. “Sweetened coffee. Damn girl.”

  Grinning, Rome headed out of the kitchen and swung through the main lodge. Brenna was typing—however slowly—into a spreadsheet, and Grant was on the phone. Both Dane and Colt were out for overnight trips. “Making a coffee run. Anyone want anything?”

  “Coffee would be fabulous,” Brenna said with a mischievous look in his direction. “Get one for Grant, too.”

  He nodded, grabbed his keys off of the hook near the door, and headed out into the parking lot.

  It was still early, but the day was misty and gray. Drizzle and fog seemed to be the order for the morning. On days like today, it made for shitty riding, so he kept his bike covered and borrowed Elise’s new sport utility vehicle, which he’d been using to chauffeur her around town.

  He’d driven her out to her studio earlier that morning—along with Beth Ann, since he was heading into town anyhow, and Colt would want his wife taken care of. Rome hopped into the car and texted Elise before he pulled out of the parking lot. Coffee run. Brenna broke the Keurig. You want one?

  Yes, she sent back. Latte, extra shot of espresso! Thx! XOXO

  XO, he sent back, then felt like a bit of a puss for doing so. Then didn’t care.

  Rome mused at how things had changed in the last two weeks. He’d returned to his job easily, and it hadn’t been weird at all. Not even with Grant. Okay, it had been a little strange at first, waking up and crawling out of bed with Elise and then having to look her overprotective brother in the eye, but they were both moving past that. Dane and Colt had both been thrilled that Rome had returned, and Pop had taken him aside and hugged him. Pop, it seemed, had a son in prison and understood what Rome was going through.

  He’d hugged the old man back, and tried not to cry like a fucking sissy.

  Since coming back, life had been pretty much, well, perfect. His days were filled with work—good, honest work on the paintball course and helping Pop with odd jobs. He was more or less in charge of the paintball side of things, which meant making sure that everyone had paid before showing up on the course, checking safety equipment and waivers, fixing jammed guns in the middle of gameplay, refereeing battles when players wanted an arbitrator, and, of course, selling additional ammo on the spot when people ran out.

  His nights were filled with Elise. Gorgeous, giving, smart, funny Elise. How he fucking loved that woman. He couldn’t get enough of her. She was passionate in bed, and growing bolder every day. Out of bed she was just fun to be around, and incredibly thoughtful. There wasn’t a moment when she didn’t make him feel like the world’s luckiest man, and now that they had declared to the world they were a couple, Elise was busy introducing him to everyone as her boyfriend. She’d dragged him over to have dinner with Emily—and Jericho, to his surprise. It seemed that his vagabond brother was also forming roots in Bluebonnet, and had his eye on the cheery divorcée who ran the bed-and-breakfast.

  It was weird to have his brother around, but he was kinda getting used to it. They’d gone out for beers once after that. He’d gone out with Grant and the boys one night, too, and he’d felt like part of the crew.

  He’d even met Elise’s family. To his surprise, both Reggie and Justine Markham had met him with welcoming, open arms, and had doted on both him and Elise. They’d taken him out on the family boat and dragged them out for dinner at a white tablecloth kind of place once, which he’d endured only for Elise. But overall, they were pretty good people, and they hadn’t made him feel like a filthy ex-con for touching their daughter. They seemed genuinely happy that Elise was happy.

  Rome picked up a tray of coffees—and added an extra for Beth Ann, since he’d promised Colt to check up on her while he was out on a three-day survival run. He parked the car in front of the salon, dropped Beth Ann’s coffee off, then headed down the street to bring Elise hers.

  His steps slowed at the sight of two shiny, tricked-out Harleys parked in front of Elise’s new studio. A tight sense of foreboding swept over him. Oh no.

  His goddamn parents.

  Rome peered into the storefront window, but he could see no one. God damn it. What were they saying to Elise? Were they trying to poison her mind against him? She wouldn’t believe it, but she’d be distressed that they’d try. How had they found out he was seeing her?

  Or worse, was this a shakedown? Were they demanding money from her? Rome never mentioned her money. He never wanted her to think he was with her because of it. He wouldn’t care if she worked at a hot dog stand, as far as he was concerned. And he wanted to make his own money for a change. With the new wages that Grant was paying him, he had dreams of saving up. Maybe getting his own car in a year or so, and then they could start putting away and planning for the future.

  Their future, together.

  His parents weren’t in his plans. Coffee in one hand, Rome carefully eased the door of Elise’s shop open and stepped inside silently. No one had noticed him come in. He could hear voices talking in the back room that she’d converted to her office, and he edged closer so he could make out what they were saying.

  “You must be doing really well for yourself,” Rome heard his mother say in that disgusting, wheedling tone of hers.

  He heard Elise murmur something polite, and he could picture her shy expression, hanging her head and letting her hair spill in front of her cheek like she did when she was nervous.

  “Like we said,” his father chimed in, “we’re not trying to impose, but, well, times are hard. I’m sure if you talked to Rome, he’d agree to send us a bit of cash just to help out through the dry spell. Just a few thousand would really help get his mother back on her feet with her medical bills.”

  Rome stifled a groan. The “medical bills” excuse was one they’d trotted out to every relative who could be fleeced until they’d wised up to the Lozadas. He was pretty sure that between his parents, they’d “miraculously” recovered from cancer half a dozen times and pocketed every single dollar. He wanted to barge in before Elise could agree to anything. She had a soft heart where he was concerned.

  “Yes,” his mother was saying. “Rome would be terribly upset if anything were to happen to us. Just a few grand would go so far.”

  “I’m afraid I’d have to discuss it with Rome,” Elise said in a kind, sweet voice. “We don’t share finances.”

  “You don’t?” His mother sounded surprised. “I’d have thought he’d want to share bank accounts with a lovely, well-to-do young thing like you.”

  As in, it was clear he was with her because she had money. Rage simmering, Rome nearly crushed the coffee cup in his hand.

  “Actually,” Elise said, and he heard a note of amusement in her voice. “I offered but he’s very independent. He likes having his own money and I don’t blame him.”

  “Perhaps you don’t know about Rome’s terrible, terrible past,” his father said, and there was a hard note in his voice. “Be a shame if it got around in this town that there was an ex-con living here.”

  “It would be a shame,” Elise said, her voice surprisingly emphatic. “You know what else would be a shame?”

  “What’s that, dear?” his mother said in her most saccharine voice.

  “It would be a shame for me to file a restraining order against the two of you,” Elise said. “And I’m sure Rome would file one as well. I’m very familiar with your role in his past, and unless he indicates to me that he wishes otherwise, you’re not going to be in our lives. I’m good friends with the law officers in this town, and I’m sure they’d love to come down and ensure that you stay at least a hundred feet away from Rome at all times.”

  Rome was surprised—and proud—of the steel in Elise’s voice.

  “Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?”

  “Actually, what would be extreme,” Elise continued, ever so boldly, “would be me taking all that money you think I h
ave and hiring the best lawyers I can find. Then, we could reopen Rome’s old case and bring it back to court and have you somehow prove that it wasn’t your drugs that sent your son to prison. That would be extreme. And that is precisely what I will be doing with all my money if you don’t get out of my shop—and out of our lives—in the next two minutes.”

  Goddamn.

  His baby was stone cold.

  That was so fucking sexy.

  Rome couldn’t stop grinning as he heard the scrape of chairs when his parents stood up and rushed out of Elise’s tiny office. A moment later, they were shocked to see him standing in the doorway of her shop, smiling his fool head off and clutching a cup of coffee.

  “Mom, Dad,” he drawled. “You were just leaving?”

  His parents looked like they always did: a little rough around the edges, dressed in leather, and as if they’d spent the last twenty years partying hard. Which, they had. His mother scowled at him and his father looked as if he would spit nails.

  “Hi, baby,” Elise said. “Your parents are here. Did you want them to stay?”

  “Nope,” he told her. “The restraining order sounds pretty good to me.”

  “You piece of shit,” his mother began.

  Elise put her phone to her ear. “I’m calling the cops,” she told them in a polite voice. “I suggest you leave.”

  They practically shoved him aside in their haste to leave. As soon as the two motorcycles roared away, Elise put her phone down and bit her lip. “How much of that did you hear?”

  “Enough to make my dick hard with how ferocious you were,” Rome said, grinning. He moved to her, handed her the coffee cup, and then gave her the longest, most possessive kiss he could. She was panting with need by the time his mouth lifted from hers. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that,” he murmured to her, brushing his fingers over her beautiful face tenderly. God, he loved her.

  “It was handled,” she said breathlessly.

  “I’ll say. That was magnificent. I’m glad you weren’t going to give them money.”

  She grinned. “Please. I recognize a shakedown when I see one. It was clear they weren’t here to see you. They came in and started exclaiming over how nice everything was, and how expensive it must be to start my own business, and how well we must be doing.” She rolled her eyes. “It wasn’t hard to put two and two together.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  “I’m sorry, too,” she told him. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel if I ran them off. I know they’re your family.”

  He shook his head. “They stopped being my family the day I went to prison. I realized that they’d known exactly what was going to happen and hadn’t cared.” Rome wrapped his arms around Elise’s waist. “All the family I need is right here in my arms.”

  “Well, eventually we might want to expand things,” Elise said with a smile. “Eventually. I’m pretty happy with how things are right now, though. Just you and me.”

  “You and me,” he agreed, kissing her again.

  Yep. Things were pretty damn perfect, the way Rome saw things. Decent job, decent house, incredible, impressive woman who amazed him at every turn and loved him for all his flaws.

  Things were pretty damn good, indeed.

  Turn the page for a sneak peek at Jessica Clare’s next Billionaire Boys Club novel

  ROMANCING THE BILLIONAIRE

  Coming November 2014 from Berkley Books!

  Violet DeWitt held the envelope marked ‘To Be Opened By My Daughter Upon My Death’ and carefully ran her fingers along the edges.

  “Well?” The solicitor asked, clearly curious. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

  But Violet only eyed the calligraphic writing in her father’s hand, reminiscent of medieval illuminations. She studied the ornate wax seal. Such an unnecessary thing on a modern envelope. So very much something her father would do.

  She carefully placed the envelope in her lap and gave the man across the desk from her a polite smile. “No, I’m not.”

  The man’s broad forehead wrinkled, and he looked disappointed. “But it’s your father’s last wishes, Ms. DeWitt. Don’t you want to honor it?”

  “I’m fairly certain I know what it says already, Mr. Penning,” Violet said, keeping her voice brisk and cheerful as she tucked the envelope under her hands. “Now, is there anything else involved with my father’s estate that you need me for?”

  He cast her another puzzled look before turning to the stack of papers on his desk and flipping through them. She understood the look he was giving her. Most people that the solicitor saw were probably grieving or concerned about money they would inherit; Violet was not concerned with any of that.

  “Your father was a great man,” Mr. Penning commented as he pulled out another piece of paper and peered at it through his bifocals.

  “Yes.”

  “His work was so very respected. I’ve read three of his books and even though I’m not much of an armchair enthusiast, I couldn’t help but be fascinated. What an exciting life the man led. Really, just a great man.”

  “So I am told.”

  Now, Mr. Penning looked surprised. “Did you not know your father, Ms. DeWitt? I was under the impression—”

  “I knew him,” she corrected, wishing the conversation wasn’t heading in this direction. Her father’s estate solicitor probably didn’t want to hear about her workaholic father’s long absences, his abandonment of her mother, and his own callous treatment of Violet. Everyone just assumed that the legendary archaeologist Dr. Phineas DeWitt was as lovable and endearing to his family as he was to the documentary cameras. Not the case, Violet thought to herself. Not the case at all. But she put a patient smile on her face and leaned forward, as if interested in what the paper Mr. Penning was clutching read. “His estate?”

  “Oh.” He adjusted his glasses, refocusing back on the paperwork in front of him. “Yes, actually, I believe that is the last item outstanding. Your father, I’m sorry to say, racked up quite a bit of debt prior to his death. It seemed he was privately funding a few personal projects and ran up several mortgages on his house, which was taken by the bank three weeks prior to his death.”

  Violet made a sympathetic murmur in her throat. She didn’t care about the money and she hadn’t expected any. She just wanted to leave.

  “Luckily, there was an anonymous third party donor who has paid off all of your father’s outstanding debts.”

  “Very lucky,” Violet agreed, her fist clenching. She had an idea who that donor was, curse the man. Now he’d expect her to be grateful and throw herself at him with gratitude. Not in this lifetime.

  “I think that’s everything, then.” The solicitor gave her one last expectant look, his gaze sliding to the envelope in her lap. When she made no move to open it, he sighed and handed her a paper to sign. When she did, he stood and extended his hand.

  “Thank you, Mr. Penning. Call me if I can be of any further assistance,” she told him, shook his hand, and left the law office, unopened envelope clutched in hand.

  When she got out to her car, Violet started the engine, tossed the envelope into the passenger seat, and then paused. She rubbed her forehead, willing the headache behind her eyes to go away. Envelopes were an old favorite of the late Phineas DeWitt. When she was eight, her father had given her an envelope for her birthday. Inside was a clue that, if followed, would lead her to a trail of additional clues. She’d been so excited at the time, and after a series of envelope clues, each one more complex than the last, she arrived at her present.

  It was a copy of The Encyclopedia on the Study of Ancient Hieroglyphics. Used. The inscription inside said “To Phineas, thanks for being a great teacher.”

  Granted, it was an interesting book, but her eight-year-old self had wanted a Barbie.

  Phineas paid no attention to Violet’s other birthdays until she turned sixteen. She’d received another envelope in the mail and had been excited despite initial trepidation. At the end of t
he chase, however, her present had been a copy of one of her father’s student’s doctoral thesis on Minoan frescoes. He’d tacked a note onto it that read: Pay attention, Violet. This is the sort of thing you’ll need to write if you want to work for your father!

  Again, not something she’d particularly wanted. But Phineas DeWitt believed in two things—knowledge and adventure. All else was foolishness.

  She’d tossed the photocopied thesis into the garbage and tried to forget about her father’s terrible ideas of birthday gifts. When she was eighteen, she fell for it one more time, and was just as disappointed. The end of this envelope chase led to an ugly copper ring that turned her finger green and looked like something out of a tourist shop. That was after a week of frantic searching to find what her father had left her, hoping against hope that he’d remembered what she liked, her fears and hopes and dreams, and that he’d give her a present that showed he really, truly did understand his daughter.

  Not so much. Phineas DeWitt gave presents, but in the end, it was still all about him. Just like everything else with her father’s games, she knew that her initial excitement would lead to inevitable disappointment. The envelopes and the challenge were to mask the fact that Phineas put no thought or effort into her presents . . . just like he’d put no thought or effort into being her father.

  And she knew what—and who—this last envelope game would lead to without even having to look.

  Oh, Father. I know what you’re up to. This is just one more little game, and I’ve no intention of playing this time. Nothing you say or do can make me want to talk to Jonathan Lyons ever again.

  Violet didn’t think she was a hard, unforgiving type. She was nice, darn it, and understanding. But when a guy gave you pretty words, got you pregnant, and abandoned you? That wasn’t so easy to forgive, or forget, no matter what her father wanted.

  Some things you just couldn’t let go.