British Bad Boys: A Bad Boy Romance Boxed Set

by Marissa Farrar

  BRITISH BAD BOYS

  A Bad Boy Romance Boxed Set

  Indulge yourself with this boxed set of stories written by bestselling and award-winning British romance authors. No one knows British bad boys better than they do!

  Come and spend time with a dirty-talking London tattoo artist, a Scottish bad boy, a British gangster who won't take no for an answer, and MORE! These men are all hotter than hell and have accents to die for. Whatever your desire, you'll find it within these pages.

  Packed full of brand new standalone, steamy stories with no cliff-hangers. With happily-ever-afters guaranteed, you won't want to miss out on this limited collection, available for a short time only!

  Table of Contents

  Carved in Ink by Marissa Farrar

  Fast Lust by Lucy Felthouse

  In Training by KD Grace

  The Gamesman by Tabitha Rayne

  Heavy Metal Lust by Victoria Blisse

  Innocent Lies by Lexie Bay

  Rough ‘n’ Tough by Lily Harlem

  Copyright

  Carved in Ink

  Marissa Farrar

  Chapter One

  “You have got to be fucking kidding me!”

  Art Fletcher threw the letter onto the counter of his tattoo shop and scowled at it as though the piece of paper could absorb his fury and make the person behind the words feel his rage.

  “What’s going on, boss?”

  Art turned his attention to his two employees, who had both stopped their work at his outburst. Kane was the one who had spoken, and now frowned at him, his green eyes narrowing, his long blond hair falling into his face. His other employee, Rocco, sported a similar expression. Rocco lifted his hand to smooth his fingers down his goatee, as he tended to do when he was distracted.

  Art struggled to school his features into a civilised expression. “The shop’s changed hands. Seems the old lady who owned the premises has kicked the bucket, and this place has been left to her niece. She’s not only thinking about putting the rent up on us, we’re also getting tenants.”

  Like everyone who worked at his tattoo studio, Carved in Ink, Art was covered in tattoos. Complex sleeves ran down both of his arms, ink traversed up his neck, and across his knuckles. He was an artist at heart, and loved to work in black and white. Though happy sketching portraits using pencil, it was when he worked in ink that his passion truly came to life.

  “Tenants?” asked Rocco. “What kind of tenants?”

  Art shrugged. “Some stuck up American who’s inherited the shop. She’s the one who’s jacking the rent up on us, as well.” He’d only met the original owner of the shop a handful of times. She’d been in her seventies and hadn’t had much to do with the place. As long as Art paid the rent on time—which he always did—they were left to get on with things. Admittedly, the rent he’d been paying had stayed the same for the past eight years, and in this part of London was a ridiculously low price, but that didn’t mean he was able to pay a huge amount more.

  In truth, it was the thought of having tenants that bothered him more than the hike in rent. He liked to work late into the night, with heavy metal music blaring. Sometimes, the crew would just hang out, drinking beer and messing around until the early hours. Having someone above them was bound to cause trouble. There would be complaints, he had no doubt.

  Art glowered at the thought. Fuck it. Served them right if they were kept awake until the early hours. What else did they expect if they moved in above a tattoo shop?

  Boards with artwork covered the walls, allowing prospective customers to browse. There were also folders containing even more pictures of tattoos—dragons, roses, skulls—anything a person could ever wish for. Art, however, preferred it when people came in with their own original ideas. Black and white portraits were his speciality, but anything where someone came in with a concept and allowed him to use his creativity and talent to produce something that would be a one-of-a-kind piece was his favourite. It was an honour to be asked to not only draw something personal to an individual, but to then ink it on their skin, so it would be with them for the rest of their life.

  “Your first client will be here in ten,” called out Rocco. “I’ve got your ink ready for you.”

  “Cheers. It’s the cover-up for that guy with the crappy British Bulldog.”

  Rocco groaned. “You mean the one he got when he was pissed in Magaluf?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. What are you up to today?”

  “I’m working on the girl who’s having the black wings on both shoulders. I’ve completed the outline already, so now I’m filling in.”

  “That’s a big piece. How’s she taking it?”

  He shrugged. “Like a pro. I swear women have higher pain thresholds then us guys. I’ve had men cry like little babies over the smallest of tats, while the women just clench their teeth and bear it.”

  Art chuckled. “I hope you’re not implying we’re the weaker species.”

  “Ha!” He snorted. “Only when it comes to pain. We’ve got the balls for the rest of it.” He grabbed his crotch to make his point, and Art shook his head in amusement. He wasn’t so sure about that, but he knew he was going to need some over the next few months. It said in the letter his new tenant would also be his new landlady and he could see some heads were going to be butted. But he had a big set of balls and he intended on using them. He’d been here for eight years now, and he didn’t plan on being dictated to by some jumped up foreigner who just happened to be lucky enough to have this property land in her lap.

  Art liked this being a guy’s place. The other men who worked here were all of a similar personality type to him—tough, say-it-like-it-is, men’s-men. They got on well, for the most part. Sure, they had their arguments, but it wasn’t anything a fight, followed by a few beers, couldn’t solve. Even the women who came here to be tattooed seemed to like the all male atmosphere. They were able to joke and flirt with the men while they were being given their body art, and left feeling upbeat and sexy. It wasn’t unheard of for one of the guys to hook up with a client from time to time either. Art had had his fair share of one time hook ups, but that was all they’d ever be. He had two rules when it came to women —no relationships with clients, as relationships always ended up messy. Plus, he always made sure the woman knew exactly how things worked. It was nothing more than a hook-up, a one time thing. It was always made clear from the start, and that way he didn’t need to worry about rule number one not being followed.

  The idea of having some chick living upstairs depressed him. It would be some uptight middle aged woman who would think she ruled the roost. All the guys who worked here were all in their twenties, and, being older, she’d probably try to mother them. If that didn’t work, she’d lay down the law, knowing she owned the place and at the end of the day she could end the lease if she wanted to. It would be a struggle to find the extra cash for the rent, but it was the loss of the flat above the shop that was causing Art the real headache, for more reasons than one.

  Still, he’d have to figure things out. He’d worked his whole adult life to build this place, and he wasn’t about to have some bird walk in and ruin it all.

  Chapter Two

  Theresa paid the driver and climbed out of the cab. She stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the building she now owned. A suitcase with all of her worldly belongings sat at her feet.

  She swallowed, pushing down her nerves. What the hell had she been thinking? When she’d se
en the value of the property she’d inherited, she’d assumed the place would be located in some posh, expensive part of London. How was it possible for a building to be worth so much when it looked like this? She wasn’t a snob, but both sides of the tattoo shop were covered in graffiti. She couldn’t believe her aunt had allowed it to stay this way without getting someone to come and paint over it. She hoped the apartment upstairs wasn’t going to be in such bad condition.

  Nerves roiled in her stomach as she tried to get up the courage to walk inside. Maybe this was all a bad idea and she shouldn’t have come. Her father, who’d been British, had always encouraged her to use her British passport and visit the country he’d come from, but, other than a brief visit when she’d been about ten, which she could barely remember, she’d dug her heels in. She’d always claimed she had no need to see any other part of the world, that America had everything she could ever need and she’d been at home there, but she no longer had that excuse. She didn’t feel at home anywhere anymore. Not even in her own skin.

  She pulled her sleeves down over her hands in a nervous gesture.

  Theresa—or Tess, as everyone called her—took a deep breath. She couldn’t stand out here all day. She was already getting strange looks from people, and she was scared someone was about to grab her bag and run off with it. She had everything she owned in that suitcase. The idea of someone running off with it was a little laughable, however. It weighed a ton. She’d even ended up paying extra for the added weight, which had cost her a fortune, but she figured, considering she was moving countries with only a bag, and that she was now the not-so-proud owner of a crazily expensive piece of London real estate, she could afford it.

  She appraised the building again. How the hell did a place like this go for so much money? She could buy a mansion and a whole heap of land for that sort of money back in the States. Her friends had told her she should sell the property and keep the cash for herself. Perhaps they were right. She’d have been sitting pretty for a long time, but something had prevented her from doing so. Maybe it had been her father’s words, telling her how important it was for her to experience other cultures, or maybe it had been the timing after everything that had happened, or just a perfect storm of all three. She’d needed to get away for her own sanity and then this place had landed in her lap.

  Tess was still trying to get up the courage to walk inside when the glass door of the tattoo shop swung open. A man stood in the entrance in a casual stance, his forearm resting up against the doorframe. He eyed her curiously, his gaze flicking down to the suitcase at her feet.

  The man’s dark hair was spiked up and messy. A silver circle, which she could see straight through, stretched his earlobe. Tattoos ran up his throat and down both arms. A tight grey t-shirt with the name of a band she’d never heard of stretched across his broad chest, and she was able to make out the shape of his pectoral muscles underneath. The sleeves of the t-shirt were also stretched, but she couldn’t see the skin of his biceps which protruded from the cotton. Every inch of him was covered in ink. Her gaze flicked across the images, distinguishing one from the other. These weren’t cheap homemade tattoos—they were detailed and every bit as beautifully drawn as a picture on a piece of paper. It didn’t matter how intricate the artwork was, this guy looked scary, and, by the way he was just standing there, staring at her, was intimidating as hell. Obviously, she’d already known the apartment, or flat as they called it here, was above the tattoo shop, but for some reason she hadn’t expected to be quite so taken back when she’d come face to face with one of the men who worked there. He looked like he could have done a stint in jail.

  No, she shouldn’t be so judgmental. Just because he was covered in tattoos and had a weird piercing didn’t mean he was a bad guy. He was probably a total pussy-cat underneath all the muscles and ink. He might even be considered good-looking, if someone were into that kind of thing, which she certainly wasn’t. Though by the look he was currently giving her, she wasn’t sure he was going to turn out to be a good person at all. He looked like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to slam the door in her face, or wrap his arm around her waist and yank her against him.

  She had to say something. Her tongue was tied, and they were just standing there, staring at each other. This was weird, and awkward.

  So she opened her mouth and said, “Umm. Hi.” Her voice came out too high pitched and immediately she cringed inwardly. She hoped this apartment had its own entrance. She didn’t like thinking she might have to walk by this guy every time she needed to leave. She’d end up hiding away for the rest of her life.

  Chapter Three

  Art stared down at the young woman standing outside the front of his shop. She was a slip of a thing, barely over five feet, and waifish, with big, dark, doe-eyes and silky brown hair. She made all six feet of him feel huge, and the suitcase at her feet dwarfed her.

  The funny little squeak of a hello she gave only made his frown deepen. For some reason, she seemed to think he’d know who she was.

  Was she lost?

  “Can I help you?” he replied.

  She seemed to have to force her words out. “Yes, my name’s Theresa Dawson.”

  The woman spoke with an accent.

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Have you got some ink booked?”

  She didn’t look like the type of woman who had many tattoos. More conservative, in her white shirt and dark blue, boot-cut jeans and brown boots. He skimmed his gaze down her body and back up again. She might be small, but she was perfectly built, beautifully proportioned. She had a generous set of hips and tits on her small frame. He found his lips curving in a smile.

  She frowned at his expression. “Um, no. I believe you’re expecting me.”

  He was starting to get annoyed. “Clearly, I’m not. If you’re not getting tats, you’re in the wrong place, lady.”

  “I don’t think so. This is 58 Wilson Street, right?”

  He glanced at the door, as though he’d suddenly forgotten the address. “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “My lawyer should have sent a letter. I inherited the shop recently.”

  Art’s stomach sank as he stared at her in disbelief. Where was the middle-aged killjoy he’d assumed had inherited the place? “You?”

  “Yes, me. I’m moving in upstairs.”

  The accent suddenly sank in. American. Just like the new owner of the place.

  “I thought you weren’t coming for another month yet,” he snapped.

  “Yeah, I know. But things changed. That’s okay, isn’t it? I was led to believe the place has been unoccupied for some time now.”

  “No one lives there, but it’s full of stuff. We’ve been using it for storage for the shop.” It was a little lie, but she’d never need to know any differently.

  She gave a shrug. “That’s okay. I don’t take up much space. I’m sure we can work around it.”

  Anger roiled in his stomach. Damned landlady. He didn’t want a woman living upstairs, and this particular one looked like she could blow away in a high wind. She certainly didn’t appear to be the type who’d be impressed with three guys hanging out in the shop, drinking and swearing, and listening to loud music. She’d want to get her beauty sleep, and would whine and moan, and generally make their lives a misery.

  Trouble was, she had his balls in a vice. He didn’t want to have to move and he’d struggle to rent somewhere else. Landlords wanted nice, safe businesses to take over their properties. They didn’t want a bunch of tattoo artists who looked like they’d fuck and brand their favourite daughter, and then never speak to her again.

  The woman, Theresa, glanced down at her suitcase and her lips twisted. He found himself staring at her mouth. They really were pretty lips—no lipstick, but a sheen of a balm of some kind, well proportioned, and with a perfect cupid’s bow. He wondered what that lip balm would taste like if he was to crush his mouth to hers.

  He realised she’d said something, and blinked. “Sorry, what?”

>   Her head tilted to one side, another cute gesture. Damn it. He couldn’t let himself think of her as cute. She was about to royally fuck up his life.

  “I asked if you’d mind carrying up my bag. It’s stupidly heavy. I literally have my life packed in this case.”

  Art bit down on telling her to pick it up and piss off back to America. He had to be nice. He couldn’t allow his usual impulsive and hot-headed behaviour to screw this up.

  “Err, yeah, I guess so,” he said instead, stepping forward and lifting the case. It was heavier than he’d expected, even for him, and he wondered how she’d managed to get it all the way from the States. She must be stronger than she looked.

  “You haven’t told me your name,” she said.

  “I’m Art. Art Fletcher.”

  “The guy I’m leasing this place to?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  He backed up, pushing the door of the shop open with his elbows. He held the door for her as she stepped past him and into the shop. A waft of her perfume floated over him as she passed by—something sweet and fruity, but with a citrus tang. He stepped away from the door, allowing it to swing shut behind him. The other guys lifted their heads from their work and clients, curious to see who the new arrival was and even more curious when they spotted the woman, and Art hauling the huge suitcase along behind her.

  “Gonna be a bellboy now, Art?” Kane called out to him.

  Rocco laughed. “Did you get into the wrong business?”

  They were breaking his balls, and he shot them a scowl, which only made them laugh harder.

  “This is Theresa Dawson,” he said, his voice containing a warning tone to the guys he employed. “She’s the new owner of the building.”