“You’ve ruined me for other men?” I convulse into a belly laugh. Can’t help it. “When did you develop a sense of humor, Jake Cooper?”
One corner of his mouth quirks up. “I’ve always had it. Just don’t flaunt it about.”
I brush my hand across his five o’clock shadow, curl my fingers through his hair. “What other hidden depths are there about you I don’t know.”
He grabs my hand and drops a kiss on the knuckles. “Tons.”
“I want to know them all.”
“Well, it will take a lifetime for you to find out, bright eyes. A lifetime of close and intimate contact. Are you game?”
“A lifetime, huh? You’re certain about this marriage thing?”
“Yes. I am.” His eyes are dead serious.
“Very well.” I fix him with a steady stare. “Ask me properly and don’t muck it up.”
Holding up a finger, he stands. “Be right back. Don’t move.” He runs to the bedroom. A drawer opens and closes. Ten seconds later he’s back. Dropping to one knee, he retrieves a box from his cargo shorts, pops it open. A gorgeous square cut diamond solitaire surrounded by a constellation of sapphires, my birthstone, lies in its nest. “Brianna Storm, since the moment I met you, I haven’t stopped thinking about you. You’ve led me on merry chases and wild goose chases through several continents. But I never once stopped loving you. You are the love of my life and I can’t think of a sweeter torture than to be shackled to you for all eternity. My darling, beautiful girl, will you do me the honor of marrying me?”
By the time he ends, tears are streaming down my face. I cup his face in my hands and kiss him. “Yes. Yes, I will. My darling, beautiful man.” The ring fits perfectly and sparkles with blue and white fire. I whisper, “I love you.”
He whoops and, in one smooth movement, sweeps me out of my seat and swings me around and around and ...
My stomach lurches. “Jake, put me down unless you want me to hurl all over you.”
“Sorry.” He drops me back on the seat. “For a second there, I forgot.”
“You forgot I was pregnant?”
“For a moment. Yes.”
“So you’re not marrying me for the baby?”
“I’m marrying you because I can’t live without you. The baby’s a bonus.”
“A bonus who’ll be a pooping, screaming mess in about five months.”
“Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it.”
“Will you change nappies?”
“Dealt with worse things than dirty diapers in my life, so yes.”
“Good. Then we won’t need a nanny,” I say, just to test him.
He reels back, seemingly affronted. “I can afford a nanny. Brianna.”
“Oh, no. The nanny’s coming out of my money.”
“Let’s get one thing straight. We’re living off my money, not yours.”
Stubborn, male pride. “Excuse me. I haven’t been busting my arse, living in primitive conditions for the last four years, to see our money not be put to good use because you’re too stubborn to deal with your wife’s wealth. What does it matter whose money it is as long as we’re together?”
He glares at me as he struggles to accept this state of things. And then something shifts, and the tension eases from him. “You’re right. I’ll have you and our child. Everything else is noise.”
“Good. Our child will have the best life has to offer.”
“Yes. He will.”
“He? It might be a she.”
“A girl?” His brow wrinkles as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him.
I tilt back my head and laugh. “Yes. And chances are she’ll be just like me.”
His eyes crinkle and he drops a tender kiss on my lips. “I should be so lucky, bright eyes.”
I thank the lucky stars who brought this man into my life and kiss him back with all the love in my heart.
A Note from the Author
To the Reader,
Thank you so much for reading STORM CONQUERED. I hope you liked it. Having readers eager for the next installment of a series is the best motivation for a writer to create new stories. If you enjoy reading my work as much as I enjoy writing my stories, you might want to:
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Excerpt from
UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL
Passionate Kisses Boxed Set 2
Coming February 2015
Chapter 1
______________
McLean, Virginia
January
Caitlyn
“MS. BENNETT.” Tall and rail thin, the stuffed shirt checks off my name from his clipboard. There’s a dismissive curl to his lip when he says my name.
I’ve waited three hours to be interviewed by Sterling MacKay, the billionaire magnate looking for a personal assistant. Ten candidates showed up. Nine preceded me, every last one of them wearing a designer business suit, expensive shoes, carrying bags with golden initials. My purse came from Goodwill, my shoes from a bargain store, and my suit? A hand-me down from a friend. I shortened the hem, took in the waist, but it still does not lay right across my frame. But beggars can’t be choosers, right?
Squaring my shoulders, I come to my feet and walk into the lion’s den.
The room is impressive as hell. Huge, shiny. A humongous glass desk with chrome legs presides over the space. Except for a laptop, a phone, and a projector of some kind, the desk lies empty.
The prig points to a chair in front of the desk and orders me to “sit” in a voice I wouldn’t use on a dog. But I can’t protest. Too much depends on my getting this job. Not that I have a chance in hell of getting it.
The phone rings, once, twice. It will go to voice mail, right? Except it doesn’t. The prig disappeared, and I’m not going on a wild goose search for him. What the hell?
After the eighth ring, I reach across the desk and answer the phone, “Mr. MacKay’s office.”
A gruff, male voice asks. “Where is he?”
“He stepped out for a minute. May I take a message?”
“Yes, tell the son of a bitch, I’m going to make him pay.”
Without missing a beat, I ask, “I’ll pass the message along. May I have your name?”
“He’ll know who it is.” Click.
Somewhere a door opens and closes. Sure steps approach me. Sterling MacKay. I recognize him from magazine covers and newspaper photos. Tall, dark-haired, face lined with pain. An accident stole most of his vision. The onyx, gold-tipped cane he carries looks more like a fashion statement than the crutch it’s meant to be. “Did someone call?”
“Yes. The phone kept ringing. I answered it. Hope you don’t mind.”
Without fumbling, his hand makes contact with the mammoth chair behind the desk. He knows its exact location.
“Who was it?”
“A man. He wouldn’t give his name.”
“That he’d make you pay. He sounded rather upset.”
His gaze narrows. “Robert Salvio. I took something from him. Something he wanted very badly.”
“What was it?” Curiosity is one of my worst sins.
“That.” He points toward one of the walls where a painting hangs. It’s not big. Maybe two by three feet. “A Georgia O’Keeffe. Quite magnificent, don’t you think?”
A gigantic orchid fills the canvas. Decadent in its coloring and composition, it rather resembles a woman’s vulva. Heat rises in my cheeks. “Quite.” I choke out.
His lips quirk. “It embarrasses you.” How can he sense my unease through hearing alone? Or maybe he can see more than I think.
“How do you know?”
“Your voice. My vision might be deficient, but my other senses are quite acute, especially my hearing, and my sense of smell.”
So he has the ears of a hound and its ability to scent as well. Wonder what other special talents he uses to compensate for his lack of sight? I gaze out the big window behind him. Big, fat snowflakes drift to the ground. “Darn.”
His brow wrinkles. “Does the painting offend you?”
“No. I’m sorry. It’s just . . .” He scheduled the interviews at his home in McLean, Virginia, and I live in Maryland, half an hour away on a dry, sunny day. But it’s dark now and rush hour to boot. The trip home will be a bear. Hope my junker holds up. The darn thing grinds when I shift gears. But broke as I am, I can’t afford to have it fixed. I fold trembling hands on my lap and return my gaze to him. “No. It’s quite beautiful.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Nothing.”
He tosses his head. “Don’t lie. I can hear it in your voice. You’re worried about something.”
I take a breath, let it out. “It’s snowing, and it’s growing dark.”
His mouth slashes into a tight, white line. “And you must get home. I suppose we better get on with the interview then.” He brushes a hand across his brow.
“Does it hurt much?” It’s a wonder he survived the horrible crash. Images of his mangled car played over and over in the media for weeks.
No response. Not even a nod. “Should have known better than to schedule so many candidates at one time.”
“I’m the last, if that’s any consolation.” I want to get on the road before it’s packed with snow. But I need this job. I gaze hopefully at him, even though he can’t see me, even though I don’t stand a chance.
He turns on the contraption on his desk and pulls it closer to him. A lone piece of paper lies on top of it. “Name?”
“Caitlyn Bennett.”
The machine’s mechanical voice rifles through a list of names. Ten of them. Mine’s not among them.
“You don’t seem to be here.”
“I was a last minute addition. My employment agency substituted me when its candidate came down with the flu.”
“That explains it.”
“I brought my resume.” I dig in my purse for the document, unfold it. I stand to give it to him, but his desk is so wide I can’t broach the distance. He doesn’t reach for it. Why would he? He can’t see. Flustered, I rush around the desk to hand it to him. In my hurry, I trip over his cane, and the darn resume sails to the other side of him. “Oh.”
My only thought is to grab my job history. Instead of doing the sensible thing and going around, I bend over him. But the chair is so wide I lose my balance and land on his lap. To compound the disaster, my too-short skirt rides up on me.
“Be careful.” His large hand grasps my leg; his thumb flutters against my bare thigh. Oh, God. With my rear end up in the air, I reach over and grab my blasted resume. I come upright, hand it to him and scurry back to my seat—embarrassed, humiliated, and probably red as a beet. Thank God he can’t notice. As soon as the thought pops into my head, I chastise myself. I shouldn’t be happy the man can’t see, for heaven’s sake.
“Are you always this eager to please?” His lips split in amusement.
Pathetically so. But I’m not about to admit it. “I usually have a great deal of common sense, Mr. MacKay. Don’t know what got into me.” I won’t put myself through more humiliation. Goodness knows he won’t hire me now. I rise. “Thank you for your time. I’ll be going then.”
He laughs, and the emotion steals a decade from him. “Why?”
“You’re not going to hire me. So what’s the use?”
A lazy grin spreads over his face. “On the contrary, Ms. Bennett. You’re exactly what I need. You’re hired.”
Acknowledgments
I’ve been singularly blessed by, first and foremost, my critique group, the Crit Divas, Lula Diamond, Teresa Hearl, Loni Lynne, and Andy Palmer. Without them, this book would not exist. Second, I’m grateful for my family, including my in laws. After the publication of STORM DAMAGES, they’ve been a constant source of support, even if half of them are shocked by the “sexy stuff.” Last, but certainly not least, to the many readers who fell in love with the STORM DAMAGES series. You not only wrote great reviews, but were a constant source of joy and motivation while I wrote STORM CONQUERED. I offer my gratitude to each and every one of you.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Magda Alexander.
Cover Design: Magda Alexander
Cover Photograph: Konrad Bak and curaphotography/
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Hearts Afire Publishing
First Edition: November 2014
Storm Conquered Page 17
