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Copyright © 2014 Camelia Miron Skiba
All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
Cover Design by:
Regina Wamba of MaeIDesign.com
ISBN-13: 978-1502526618
ISBN-10: 1502526611
Other books by Camelia Miron Skiba
HIDDEN HEART
A multicultural contemporary romance waiting for you to discover its hidden heart. Can love conquer fear after all?
A WORLD APART
In a war that’s not hers she loses everything. Everything she loses is because of him. Forgiveness is not an option. Or maybe …
BORN IN VENGEANCE
Dacian Legends, book 1
Legend has it … centuries after Spartacus another hero is born—Ilias, the bastard son of King Decebalus. Thirsty for revenge and eager to unshackle the Roman oppression, Ilias' obsession to fulfill his oath has no bounds, even if that means kidnapping Nerva, the beloved daughter of Emperor Traianus. What he doesn't know is his own heart threatens to betray his conscience. What will prevail: his mind or his heart?
BORN IN SIN
Dacian Legends, book 2
Loathing the thought of his beloved Oriana in the arms of another man, fearless Zyraxes delivers death upon the Roman enemy. Summoned to aid Oriana’s father in the war against two powerful enemies—one of them Oriana's savage husband—Zyraxes proves himself worthy of more than just noble titles and coin. But he wants none of it. What he wants is her.
When Zyraxes discovers a broken and nearly dead Oriana, though forbidden, he disregards her father's orders, and instead chooses to protect and conceal her. Will saving her be enough to win her heart? Will his part royal lineage make him worthy of her love?
Chapter 1
Adonis. He stands before me. Well, maybe not the actual Adonis, but definitely a descendant. No one but a Greek God could be as handsome. This particular Adonis winks and flirts with any woman in his vicinity.
“Are you a writer?” I tear my gaze from Adonis to see a pair of big blue eyes, with heavy, mascara-filled lashes. “I’m Caylee. I’m here with my mom. She published a book and we came here from New Mexico. It’s my first writers’ conference. Did you see Lucas? He’s so hot. My mom wants him on her next cover, but we’ll see cuz it might be too expensive.”
Before I can ask who Lucas is—a question that’s been burning in my mind since I showed up for the wine reception and began hearing the name pouring from every set of female lips—Caylee speaks again. In the middle of her quick speech, uninterrupted even by breath it seems, Beth, her mother, joins us. The resemblance between mother and daughter is obvious, and I can’t help but project myself fifteen years from now when my four-year-old daughter Ella will be as grown up as Caylee.
For a while I listen to them sharing memories from Beth’s writing journey. Soon more people join us. One of the authors tells us Lucas agreed to a photo session for her upcoming novel and once again everyone raves over the same mysterious man I’ve heard about all night long. I become bored with the subject. I mean, for crying out loud, there are many other handsome men around us, all of them models like the Adonis I spied. Why is everyone so infatuated with this Lucas?
I excuse myself from my newfound friends. Making my way back to the improvised bar, Adonis greets me with a wink as he opens a bottle of Merlot. “Would you like some?”
“I thought underage drinking is forbidden.”
The cork pops but I still hear the pearly sound of his laugh. “Don’t you worry about me, ma’am. Gramps ensured I had my first drink when I turned twenty-one, not a day before. That was six years ago. I’m Aaron by the way.” He cleans his right palm on the front of his green shirt, smiles, and reaches out with another wink. Women would kill for his lashes, thick and curved, shadowing eyes the color of ground pepper.
“Jane.” I shake Aaron’s hand. “Ma’am, huh? Do I look that old?”
He offers me a red plastic cup half full of Merlot, his smile not wavering one bit. I refuse it, pointing at the bottle of Chardonnay. He pours some into another cup, adding a few ice cubes. “No, ma’am.” Aaron chuckles, handing me the cup. “But Gramps would put me over his knees if he heard I addressed you otherwise.”
A few women stop by for refills and their attempts to get Aaron’s attention amuse me. He’s polite but flirty, though not obnoxiously so, his relaxed tone and generous smile never leaving his face. I wonder how he looks when he’s dead serious. Finally the women leave us alone. Aaron’s made me curious enough to stick around a tad longer.
“So, Aaron. How did you end up here?” I circle the air with my free hand while the other enjoys the coldness of my sweaty cup. “Are you a writer?”
“No, ma’am, not a writer. I’m a model here for the contest.” He lifts his cup to no direction in particular and continues, “My buddies here are models as well. Some of them have already been on many covers. Others, like Michael over there, are just now starting.”
I look in Michael’s direction as Aaron points him out—dark eyes, dark hair, tan skin. A Latino Adonis.
“That’s Tatum over there.” Aaron tips his head to the right, toward a shorter guy so buff I’m afraid his arms might explode when flexing. “He’s a personal trainer for a few celebrities, although he won’t say who they are. But,” Aaron lifts a finger in the air then drops it, leaning closer and trickling his voice a few decibels, “if you’re curious to find out who they are, just look at his tattoos. He has matching ones for each VIP client he’s ever trained.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” My jaw drops open. “He copies his clients’ tattoos for no reason other than he trains them? That’s plain stupid!”
My hand makes a smacking sound when I cover my mouth with it in an attempt to stop my outburst. As a makeup artist I work on a regular basis with stars and have seen it all—the tattoos, the drinking, the diva, the perfectionist, the addict—and nothing really surprises me anymore. I’ve barely known this guy for five minutes, and yet my tongue is loose.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t say that. I mean, Tatum is your friend and he can do whatever he wants. I mean, we all have quirks and do things others find crazy, don’t we?”
“Agreed.”
Unperturbed by my judgmental comments—or at least that’s how it appears—Aaron comes around the bar, standing so close the hair on his arm tickles me. He taps my shoulder and when I look at him, he points to our left, toward the last Adonis. He’s tall, slender, and young, maybe the youngest of all guys in the room, with a midnight black goatee framing full, red lips. I can make out the sound of his voice, deep and rich as amaretto chocolate, but the waves of laughter coming from his groupies swallow his words like the ocean does a surfer.
“That over there is Cameron. He’s Lucas’s younger brother. He spent a few years on European runways, but now he’s back in the States to branch out with Lucas’s company.”
I roll my eyes, somewhat exasperated. “Who is this Lucas everyone talks about? All I’ve heard all night long is Lucas this, Lucas that.”
“Oh yeah? What do they say?”
I point to a group of women I met earlier. “See those Barbies over there?”
Aaron chokes on laughter, but no
ds, waving a hand to encourage me to continue.
“The first one,” I point to a bleach-blond and give my impression of her, high-pitching my voice as if I inhaled helium. “‘Oh my god, when Lucas looked at me I almost dropped my fork. He looks as hot in real life as he is on the covers. I can hardly wait to take pictures with him.’”
Aaron laughs.
Encouraged by his laughter I continue, “And that one with fake boobs said her blog will be on fire once she posts photos with him. And the last said, ‘I’ve heard he is the most sought-after model. A romance novel with Lucas Oliver on the cover is a guaranteed bestseller. He’s better looking than Fabio, if you ask me.’”
I glance up into Aaron’s amused face. “So if he’s so famous, why haven’t I heard of him? Just who is this famous, gorgeous beyond belief, sends-every-female-into-a-faint Lucas Oliver?”
Before Aaron answers there’s a unanimous gasp, and the room moves as if an earthquake divided it in two pieces. A tall man stops a few feet away from the door before wandering to the center of the suite. He moves with incredible grace and ease, muscles in all the right places filling both a white V-neck t-shirt and dark designer jeans. His body should be used for anatomy classes around the world—bet all students would pass the class magna cum laude.
“Your curiosity just walked in,” Aaron chuckles.
Chapter 2
Suddenly there’s a void around us. So much so I can dance if I want. Every single woman hurries to get as close to Lucas as possible. He’s hugged, kissed, photographed and pulled in every direction, and he seems to enjoy every bit of attention.
Player.
I can’t help but roll my eyes at the display of childish behavior from all these women. No doubt some are married, mothers, or even grandmothers. I turn my back to the room while Aaron leans against the bar. I drink half a bottle of cold, refreshing water then add more ice to my Chardonnay. When I return to my previous position, the men—Aaron, Michael, Tatum, and Cameron —surround me.
My heart matches a mouse’s caught in a trap or worse, a chicken about to be decapitated. I’m tempted to run away, as I wanted to during the first year of college when Evan introduced me to his football team, then left me with them while he went for an interview. Luckily it didn’t last too long, and ten minutes later Evan returned, saving me from combusting under their scrutiny.
Tonight, here and now, there’s no Evan to save me. Nor are my girlfriends to divert the guys’ attention. I’m on my own and I’d better find my voice—and courage—to stand my ground and act relaxed, like I’ve got everything under control.
Aaron introduces them one by one: first Michael, who kisses my extended hand, then Tatum who sandwiches mine between his, and at last Cameron who takes my hand but also pulls me into a hug. He inhales my perfume, then releases me saying, “Don’t tell me. I know this fragrance.” He takes short breaths, sniffling the air around me, keeping his eyes closed. He then opens them, a smile spreading on his face. “Coco Mademoiselle. I bet my next paycheck I got it right.” Cameron points a finger at me.
“Dinner at Focaccia he’s wrong.” Tatum lifts his cup.
“Add a bottle of tequila,” Aaron replies.
“Y’all tell ’im it’s something else, ah’ll split the money with ya’ll,” Michael says in a heavy southern accent.
“Don’t trust him. He’ll take the money and disappear.” Aaron, who stands to my right, but close enough to hear Michael’s offer, shakes a warning finger toward his friend.
“I’ll follow you to your room and you’ll show me the perfume, so no point in lying.” Cameron’s black eyebrows shoot high on his forehead, their bushy, nicely drawn shape able to cause any woman an attack of envy.
“Don’t let ’im intimidate you, darlin’. Count on us to back ya’ll up. ’Sides, it sounds like an auto-invite into a lady’s room, partner. Not cool.” Michael pushes his cowboy hat back on his head, then brings it back, leaning against the bar.
“Yeah, don’t mind him. He left his manners on the runway in Paris,” Tatum adds, to which Aaron laughs out loud and fist-bumps with him.
“Not on the runaway, guys. In Francesca’s bed.”
“Naw, it was Heidi’s car. Or was it fixin’ to be Claudia’s pool table?” Michael rubs a thumb over his chin, pretending to be engulfed in deep thoughts.
“Guys, guys, listen. I’d recognize this scent blindfolded. I shot a commercial for it in Monte Carlo, with this incredible model,” Cameron says, his large hands sculpting an invisible woman’s body. “One of those women who doesn’t understand what you’re saying one iota, but it’s enough to look at her and you’re lost. We filmed for hours, and let me tell you, by the time we wrapped up, that scent was tattooed on my lungs. There’s no way I’ll ever forget it or the girl.”
Cameron is really animated. His arms haven’t rested one second, as if he suffers from restless feet—pardon, restless fingers syndrome. I can see why he’s a successful model. As much as he tries to look and sound serious, there’s a sparkle in his eyes and a slight pout on his lips that gives him an air of boyish innocence, a sure key to women’s hearts—and beds. For a moment I thought him gay, with his interest in perfume and ability to recognize one among thousands, but I seem to be wrong.
“And when y’all woke up, the bed was wet.” Michael’s words give the guys a green light for a burst of laugher as they slap each another’s shoulders. Only Cameron stands with his shoulders slumped, lips turned into a frown, looking at me like a puppy given up for adoption.
“Tell them, Jane. Tell them it’s Coco Mademoiselle, please?”
I’m amused by the interest my perfume creates and the attention they surround me with. The guys’ banter eases my nervousness and I find myself liking their camaraderie. It’s like the male version of my girlfriends.
“Okay, guys,” I laugh, “moment of truth. Cameron, you’re right, that’s my perfume.”
“Yes!” Cameron’s fist kicks the air in a short and quick move. He pulls me into a hug, the second of the night, then releases me. “I knew it!” He laughs and flips his friends off then turns his eyes back on me as he squeezes my upper arms. “Guess what, Jane, you and I will go to Focaccia and get drunk while these losers here pay for it.”
One might think Cameron won the lottery, he’s so happy. Since I don’t know the guys at all, I assume this kind of wager goes on a lot and Cameron doesn’t win very often. I also assume, as the youngest of the group, he’s picked on more than the others, and my instinct is to side with him, although there’s a tad of dorkiness to his body language—the frown, the slumped shoulders, the bottom lip imitating a bulldog’s.
I’m so caught up in their teasing that I forget where I am or why I’m here. Then I glance over at the group of women still welded together around Lucas. I can’t help but see the fraternal resemblance. The older brother is masculinity embodied, whereas the younger is still a lamb, a man in becoming.
“So, Jane,” Tatum says, holding a bowl of pretzels and one of M&Ms and serving me, “how come you’re not with the other groupies?”
“Yeah. I meant to ask ya’ll the same, darlin’,” Michael pitches in, “but then perfume connoisseur here stole the stage and sucked all the fun out of it.”
“In three years of working with Lucas, you’re the first woman not to throw yourself at him the minute he shows up. Why is that?” Aaron adds, and the guys all stare at me.
I look at Lucas. A woman stands next to him, a red ginormous bib around her neck with the words, “Lucas Oliver—Drooling Rag,” while a few others take pictures. I can’t help but roll my eyes and shudder.
“Bah. A woman not liking my brother? That’s impossible,” Cameron says. “Right, Jane?”
I have to be careful how I formulate my answer, so as not to hurt their feelings since the guys chose to entertain me rather than stick together and ignore me while everyone else deserted them for the star of the night.
I’m not naïve enough to believe they are all int
erested in me. Of medium height, athletic, brown eyes and brown hair, I don’t consider myself a beauty—for sure not a drop-dead one like these guys are used to. Although Evan would often tell me I’m the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, I used to laugh at him. Of course he saw me as beautiful; I was his girl from ninth grade until the day he died.
And yet here I am, monopolized by not one, not two, but four Chippendales. Every single woman in this room would kill to spend a few minutes in Lucas Oliver’s company, but not me. I prefer these guys, who’ve helped me relax without trying. I prefer the backstage rather than the spotlight. It’s more comfortable, and allows me to be who I am without pretending to be something I never was or will be—the center of attention.
I still mull over my reply when Susan, the chair of the committee organizing the conference, makes a loud announcement, “The reception’s over, people.” She’s a middle-aged woman with short blond hair and several earrings up her left lobe, the longest a purple feather touching her chest. “Breakfast is served between seven and eight thirty, with registration opening at nine. Good night, everyone!”
Several women follow Susan’s instructions. Some, closer to Lucas, linger, but as he makes his way toward the door, they follow suit. I’m stuck with the guys by the bar and wait until more people leave so I can walk without rubbing shoulders with others. Lucas mouths something over everyone’s heads to Cameron, who seems to communicate the same way with his brother. Cameron tells something to the other men. Soon they all make a wall separating me from the rest of the crowd. I’m not sure what’s going on, but Aaron and Cameron, who stand right in front of me, take a step aside for Lucas, then block everyone else from coming near us.
While the guys entertain the last ladies in the room, I’m face-to-face with the one and only Lucas Oliver. I fight a claustrophobic moment when I can’t see anything that’s happening in the room because of his chest and shoulders.
Me Tarzan, You Jane Page 1
