Sinner (Shelter Harbor #1)

by Aubrey Irons

  Silas takes a deep breath, his eyes locked on mine. “I was.” His eyes search my face, though I don’t know what he could possibly be looking for. “Dublin.”

  “For eight fucking years?” My voice is shrill, and I hate that it is.

  “There-” he stops himself and shakes his head. “Yes.”

  I’ve gone over a reunion with Silas Hart in my head nine thousand times in my head over the years. Every conceivable scenario, every variable outcome, every possible conversation. At first, they were silly, stupid fantasies - he’d tell me how he’d been kidnapped, or thrown into a secret jail for years, and how the thought of me alone had kept him alive.

  God I was an idiot back then.

  But they soon turned more real - more grounded in the reality that the man I’d loved and given my heart to had willingly walked away and stolen it with him. And then my dream-conversations changed to me being this confident, self-sustained woman who casually laughs at the silly boy from her past who shows back up looking for forgiveness.

  And yet here I am, letting every insecurity come pouring out like the same silly little princess who married the thief and thought there’d be a happily ever after somehow.

  “Ivy-”

  “Do they have fucking email in Ireland, Silas? Phones?”

  He sighs as he drops his gaze to the boardwalk beneath our feet, the ocean sloshing gently beneath it.

  “Well, this is going well,” he finally says, looking up with that grin on his face and that token glimmer in his eye.

  “Don’t,” I say testily.

  “Don’t what.”

  “Don’t try and be funny, or cute-”

  “Oh?” He grins at me. “So you do at least still think I’m cu-”

  “Silas.” My eyes flash, his name almost choking in my throat. “Stop, please.” I shake my head. “I’m not that girl anymore.”

  The grin drops from his face as his sea-blue eyes narrow in on mine. “And what girl is that, Ivy.”

  “The girl you used to know,” I say, summoning every ounce of firmness from deep inside and keeping my voice even.

  “I’m not anything like that girl anymore.”

  He shakes his head, a pained look creeping into his eyes. “Ivy-”

  “That girl died when you left her.”

  I whirl before he can answer, walking away down the pier as the echoing sound of the wheels of my suitcase follow in my shadow.

  Rivals: An Enemies To Lovers Romance

  There are rules to every game. And I never break mine.

  No relationships. No regrets. No repeats.

  Being a single dad with my job? I’ve got space in my life for one girl and one girl only, and that’s my eight-year-old daughter, Emily.

  Besides, forever-love is a f*cking myth. I’ve learned that the hard way.

  That is, until she walks into my life. Well, back into my life, I should say.

  Serena Roth - the enemy. You might say we’re acquainted - one incredible, mind blowing night, a month ago, when we were rivals working for opposing football teams.

  But my uncle’s mysterious will throws Serena right into the middle of my world. And suddenly, that one-night fling I can’t stop thinking about is living in my city, and working in my office.

  Suddenly, she owns half my damn team.

  She’s the enemy - the enticing, tempting-as-sin, make-me-lose-my-mind enemy. But somehow, we need to work together, or we lose it all. Somehow, we have to be professional.

  Somehow, we have to follow the rules.

  The only problem?

  She makes me want to break every damn one of them.

  Copyright © 2016 Aubrey Irons

  Cover Design: SupahKawaii Covers

  Photographer: James Critchley

  Cover Model: Andrew England

  Editing: Ellie McLove, Love N Books

  Proofreading: Cassie Dean

  Formatting: Vellum

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The sports teams mentioned in this book are works of fiction. The author acknowledges the trademark status of products referred to in this book and acknowledges that trademarks have been used without permission.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review purposes.

  This book is intended for mature, adult audiences only. It contains sexually explicit and graphic scenes and language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please do not continue reading this book of you are under the age of 18 or are offended by content of this nature.

  All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older and are in no way blood relations. All acts of a sexual nature are completely consensual.

  To my daughter - I am so sorry for the day you figure how to open mommy’s laptop and realize how food is put in your mouth.

  Chapter One

  Serena

  “I bet it’s vibrators.”

  I snort, holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder as I lean into the hotel room mirror and gloss a shade of red across my lips.

  “Vibrators?”

  “Totally. They’re being way too mysterious about the whole thing for it to be anything legit. And honestly, better sex toys than like, drug kingpin, or trafficking guns to third world countries or something.”

  “Fair point.”

  I sigh as I step back and give myself a once-over in the mirror. I pull at the pantyhose under my demure skirt, smooth that down, and then reach up to push an errant lock of hair behind my ear.

  “You’re futzing, aren’t you.”

  “No,” I lie.

  My best friend London sighs dramatically on the other end of the phone line.

  “Liar. But it’s fine, I get it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I mean, it’s not everyday you travel halfway across the country to hear about your surprise inheritance from an unnamed, mysterious benefactor.”

  “Mysterious benefactor slash alleged sex toy kingpin?”

  London laughs. “Exactly.”

  We’re making light of this because, well, what else do you do in this situation? She’s joking around, but she’s also right. It isn’t everyday you get a call out of the blue from the law offices of Standish, Lehman, and Harris out of Denver, Colorado to inform you of an impending transfer of “estate assets” from an “unnamed party” to your name.

  “It could still be a Nigerian prince,” London teases over the phone. I make one more pass-over in the mirror before grabbing my bag and the hotel keycard, and slipping out the door.

  “Totally. Or a bank manager from a country no one’s ever heard of who desperately needs my help in transferring millions out of a corrupt bank before the government seizes it,” I quip back, riffing on the same famous email scam London’s joking about.

  “It’s all very mysterious.”

  She’s right. The whole thing, from the first phone call, to the second one immediately following, promising they were completely serious after I’d hung up on the first. The first class plane ticket to Denver, the booked presidential suite at the nicest hotel in town, and the chauffeured town car waiting outside to take me to the law offices.

  It is all very mysterious, and there is nothing mysterious about me.

  I’m a Houston girl through and through, raised on football by my defensive coach of a dad. I live alone, I work for the Houston Bulls as the internal head of marketing - a football team owned by my friend London and her father, I drive a crappy ten-year-old Honda, and I have a laughable amount of student loans about to go to collections.

  I do yoga, I watch Game of Thrones, I try to remember to water the three plants sitting in the kitchen window of my ap
artment.

  That’s it, that’s me; nothing mysterious about it.

  And yet here I am in a city I’ve never been to, getting into a chauffeured town car owned by lawyers I’ve never met, and on my way to an estate will reading from someone I don’t know.

  “Okay, if it is sex toys though-”

  I roll my eyes as the town car glides through the city.

  “Oh my God, it’s not going to be vibrators. Weirdo.”

  The driver’s eyes dart into the rearview mirror, and I cringe a little as my face turns red.

  “I’m hanging up now. You’re going to get me in trouble before I even get there.”

  My friend laughs. “Fine, call me after though.”

  “Obviously.”

  The car suddenly comes to a stop.

  “Miss? We’re here,” the driver says as he steps out of the car.

  Shit, that was fast.

  Too fast.

  “London, I gotta go.”

  “Oh, hey, Serena?”

  I take a deep, calming breath. “Yeah?”

  “Pade orire.”

  “Huh?”

  “Google says that’s Nigerian for ‘good luck’. Oh, and if they ask for your social security and bank routing numbers, it’s totally a scam.”

  “I’m hanging up now.”

  She snorts out a laugh. “Okay, bye.”

  The conference room at Standish, Lehman, and Harris is sparsely and yet elegantly decorated – a mix of sleek modernity and mid-century wood finish. An espresso machine sits next to a wet bar on the far wall, a large leafy plant in the corner, and large windows overlooking downtown Denver across one wall.

  I’m nervously tapping one foot on the hardwood floor, when the door to the room opens and a silver-haired man with wire-rim glasses steps in.

  “Ms. Roth?”

  I quickly stand. “Yes?”

  He smiles as he strides over with an outstretched hand.

  “Robert Lehman, we spoke on the phone.”

  “Hi, yes, of course.” I smile, shaking his hand.

  “Look, I’m sorry for all the cloak and dagger here,” he shrugs. “The requests within the will are very specific.” His brow furrows slightly, his eyes taking me in as he nods almost to himself. “You probably have questions.”

  I laugh nervously. “Uh, some, yeah.”

  He smiles, gesturing for me to take a seat before he takes his own across the conference table from me.

  “Does the name Samuel Horn mean anything to you?”

  I raise a brow. “The Samuel Horn who owns the Denver Rattlesnakes?”

  He gives me one of those “impressed” looks men give women like me when we show a modicum of knowledge concerning the game of football.

  I give him a thin smile. “I do work for a professional football team, Mr. Lehman.”

  To say nothing of the fact that my dad was a Hall of Fame defensive coach.

  He smiles. “Of course, of course. And if I may ask, do you know Mr. Horn personally?”

  My brow furrows as I shake my head. “No?”

  Robert Lehman only nods again, still looking at me curiously.

  “Look,” I say flatly, placing my hands on the table. “I can deal with the mysterious phone calls, and the lack of information, and the request that I take off work and fly to Denver. But…”

  I arch a brow at the tight-lipped lawyer sitting across from me.

  “But I’m here, and now I kinda need answers.”

  Robert smiles, momentarily looking past me and beckoning at someone through the glass in the waiting room behind me. I start to turn when he raps his knuckles on the table and chuckles.

  “I’m beginning to see why he likes you so much.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Horn.”

  The door to the conference room behind me suddenly opens, and a voice I never in a hundred years thought I’d hear again sends a shiver through my whole body.

  “Robert, if I’m interrupting, I can wait until-”

  I turn in almost slow motion, and the blonde-haired man stops abruptly. His deep green eyes go wide, and those perfect, sculpted lips fall open in shock.

  I know that look because it’s the exact same one currently on my own face.

  He shakes his head incredulously, his eyes blazing green fire. Robert clears his throat as he stands. “Landon, this is Serena R-”

  “Roth, I’m aware,” he says in that velvety, deep voice, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “Ah, wonderful! I wasn’t aware the two of you knew each other!”

  “We’ve met.”

  We’ve met.

  That’s certainly one way of putting it.

  “What are you doing here?” The words tumble out before I can stop them, but I don’t care.

  This is all wrong. I wasn’t ever supposed to see this man again. That was the whole point of it. That was the whole reason behind letting go that one night back in Houston.

  Landon Reece, chairman of the board of the Denver Rattlesnakes - direct rivals to the Houston Bulls, who I work for.

  The enemy.

  He clears his throat, his arms crossing over his chest and those deep green eyes never once leaving mine.

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “I-” I frown, and I somehow manage to yank my eyes away from his as I whirl on Robert Lehman.

  “What am I doing here, exactly?”

  What am I doing in the same room as this man again?

  Robert smiles. “As I was saying, do you know Mr. Horn personally?”

  “No, she doesn’t,” Landon growls from behind me. I whirl back to him and his brow wrinkles as those emerald eyes pierce into me again.

  “You don’t, do you?”

  “No!”

  We glare at each other for a minute, eyes searching the other’s face as if we’ll find an explanation there.

  “Well, he knows you.”

  We both manage to tear our eyes away from the other’s again as we turn to Robert in unison.

  “What?”

  It comes out at the same time, in a way that would be funny if this weren’t surreal and utterly mortifying.

  He was supposed to be a one-time thing.

  Robert clears his throat. “This won’t be on the news, and I’ll be having you sign a non-disclosure before you leave here today-”

  “Damn straight,” Landon mutters.

  Robert gives him a look but continues.

  “Five days ago, Sam Horn had a stroke. He’s currently in a medically induced coma, and per the terms of his estate, we have some things to go over with you concerning his will.”

  “I already told you, I don’t know Sam H-”

  “I’m afraid that’s irrelevant, Ms. Roth.” Robert shrugs, his eyebrows rising. “As I mentioned, he apparently knows you.”

  “Robert, what the hell does this have to do with her?”

  “Landon, this has to do with both of you, actually.”

  “How-”

  “Because as of five days ago when Sam was declared in a state of non-responsiveness, control of his full estate landed in the hands of the two individuals listed in his will.”

  The room starts to feel smaller, and the walls start to close in as I watch Robert Lehman sit at the table and open the file folder in front of him.

  “That would be you, Landon, as well as Ms. Roth here.”

  I blink, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “What?” Landon repeats, striding forward and placing his knuckles on the table.

  Robert nods.

  “Until such a time when he can be brought to responsive consciousness, full control of Samuel Horn’s wealth and assets lies with the two of you.”

  This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. This is a dream.

  “And that does include his ownership and majority stakeholder share in the Rattlesnakes, of course.”

  The dots are right in front of me, but I’m struggling to connect them as
I shake my head.

  “I’m sorry, what exactly does that mea-”

  “It means you own half my fucking team,” Landon says icily. I turn, and immediately shiver as those eyes of his lance right into mine, holding my gaze.

  His lips go thin, the hollows of his cheeks growing darker as that green fire flashes in his eyes.

  “It means we’re fucking teammates now.”

  Oh fuck.

  I slept with the enemy.

  And now we’re teammates.

  Chapter Two

  Landon

  The first thing I notice is the girl.

  I mean that quite literally. When I step off of the elevator and into the waiting room of Standish, Lehman, and Harris, she’s the first thing I see.

  It’s sort of unavoidable.

  I mean the wall to the conference room is glass, and there’s all of two people sitting at the table in there. One of them is Sam Horn’s fifty-five-year-old, grey haired, pot-bellied attorney, and the other one is her.

  Her - the girl with her back to me, with the long dark hair and the movie-star sunglasses perched on her head. One leg crossed over the other showing just a glimpse of toned, defined leg and classy heels under her skirt.

  The first thing I look for is a ring.

  Always look for a ring. That’s gotten me in hot water before, and besides, that is nothing I need to screw around with. She’s at a bit of an angle, her face turned away from me, but she’s got her left hand up and propped against her cheek.

  No ring.

  That’s good.

  Actually, there’s a lot good about her. Rich, golden tanned skin, legs for days, that long, silken dark brown hair cascading down one shoulder, and just the hint of full red lips when she turns her head for half a second. To the untrained eye, there are a hundred different reasons she could be sitting here, and she could be anybody. But I’ve made my career off of training my eye, and knowing how to read people. And I know exactly why she’s here.