by Robin Lovett
“It’s nothing. It’s—”
I touch his arm. “Truth.”
He glances at me, then outside where my parents are waiting with Logan and Layla. “Penny, can I tell you later? After dinner, maybe?”
She nods. “Promise?”
“Promise.” He tries to walk away.
“And Blake?”
“Yeah?” His face is shadowed, but it’s not guarded. He’s trying not to shut down emotionally.
“Will you tell me about—I mean, I’ve always wanted to ask but it never seemed like—I’ve always been afraid it would hurt you but . . .” She seems so afraid that I think I can guess what she’s asking, and I cover my mouth to keep from gasping.
“About her?” Blake rasps, unable to voice it above a whisper. “I’ve never told you about Mother.”
Her lower lip trembles, and she shakes her head.
“I will.” He hugs her. “I’ll tell you everything I remember.”
* * *
I survive dinner with Daisy’s parents mostly unscathed.
Penny and I decide we’re too tired tonight to talk about the painful things. But tomorrow we have a date with all the old family albums Mrs. Tanner saved. There’ll be lots of tears and it will hurt, but . . . I can’t wait to talk about her, to tell Penny everything she should’ve always known about our mother.
Before Emmett gets in the car with his wife to go home, he asks, “Are you returning to California?”
I glance at Daisy, talking to her mom. “I’m not sure where she wants to live yet.”
“Well, if you decide on staying in Nashville, you’ll come see me at the firm, yes?” His expression remains business stoic, but it’s a great compliment. He would offer me a job.
I shake his hand. “I will do that, sir. You can count on it. Though I suspect my sister’s going to keep us quite busy with this new venture of hers.”
“Let us hope so,” he says.
Before Daisy and I retreat to what’s becoming our happy little home in the guest house, I see Layla coming toward me. I groan. This can’t be good, but I may as well get it over with.
She stops in front of me and crosses her arms. “There’s someone I need to tell you about.”
“Who?”
“I found a man with connections to your father, whose name matches—”
“Blake!” Daisy calls me from across the yard. “Coming?”
I wave to her. “Quick, Layla.”
“I think the man is related to you.”
“Related? You mean like a cousin?”
“No. I mean like a brother.”
I freeze. “Excuse me?”
“As in I found a man who, if my assumptions are right, is a child of your father’s by another woman—a woman who worked for him a number of years ago.”
“Christ.” I rub my face. “There’s always more.”
“It would seem so.” Except she says it with glee, not frustration. “I was thinking I could go visit him. Maybe interview him for the book?”
“The book?”
“The tell-all about your father that Penny wants me to write.”
Daisy calls to me again across the way, so I rush my response. “Yes, fine. Be sure to tell Penny, but yeah, get his story if you can.” A brother . . . that’s someone I’d like to know.
I retreat to my sanctuary with Daisy.
She grasps my hand and nothing ever felt so right as the comfort of her palm against mine. It eases me. Where before my defenses would be up after that conversation, her touch reminds me I don’t need them anymore. What I need is her support.
Before she asks, I tell her what Layla said.
It feels good to tell her. I don’t have to hide my struggles anymore, and I don’t know how I lived with so many secrets for so many years. Or without Daisy.
Keep reading for an excerpt from the next Dark Revenge Romance installment!
* * *
KEEPER
* * *
Coming August 2017
LAYLA
Chase Vandershall’s eyes, as dark as they are, somehow start to glow. It’s terrifying in a shocking sort of way. There’s intention in that look of his, a fierce desire to do something. But it’s of such a carnality, I don’t know if it’s sex or . . . something far more dangerous.
His gaze dips to my neck. “It’s important for you to know. In my house . . .” His fingertips slip over the hollow of my throat. “There is no one you can call for help except me.” The threat drips from his words thick as blood—as though he’s out for some.
His fingers drift up my neck, circling it. He wraps them around my throat and squeezes.
I gasp and my heart roars, panicking. His palm is hot and his grip hard. He’s not cutting off my air. I can still breathe. He’s not threatening to hurt me, but he is making sure I know . . . I am at his mercy.
“If you want to survive out here in the backcountry, you do as I say.” He whispers it, but it echoes so loud in my ears it may as well be a gong. “Clear?”
I swallow, and it moves down beneath his hand, my pulse leaping so hard against his thumb that he can count my heartbeats.
His face looms closer, his breath brushing over my cheeks. “Answer me. Do you understand?”
My breath moves in and out, and I’m desperate—but not for him to let go, not like I should be. My gaze moves over his eyes, deep and saturated with the need to exert control over me, his mouth, hard and pressed into a line—but with soft lips that make me want to taste them so badly, I provoke him deliberately.
“No.”
“What did you say?” He fits his palm tighter against the skin of my throat. Blissfully. I hate that I like it, but I want more. It’s a possessive grip—but still, he doesn’t own me.
“No,” I breathe. “I don’t understand.”
A growl rumbles through his chest, the kind I’m hoping for. The kind I want more of.
I bite my lip, drawing his eyes to my mouth. “Make me understand.”
He crushes his mouth over mine and I moan with gratitude. Insatiable and needy—that’s what I am, and his mouth and his invading tongue match it.
His hand slips down my throat, but I grasp his arm, keeping it there, begging him not to let go. I love it—his brutal warning. The way his hand there seeks and fails to possess me.
No matter what words he says, no matter what touches he gives, I am me, mine and my own, and will never obey him or anyone else. They can try and fail, just like he will.
Our lips clash and duel, the battle for dominance between us like a war against human nature. He is meant to dominate me, I am meant to be dominated, the kiss tries to tell me. But I will not accept it.
I claw at his shoulders, my fingers scratching over his neck. I’m pressed into the counter, the surface hard at my back. And the conflict inside me is deafening.
I want him to try to take over me. But for him to lose. For him to think he owns me, and then find out he never had me.
But I’m drowning in him. His mouth, his hands, his body, they wrap me and hold me and feed me and starve me. He sucks on me with a desperation that will consume me if I let him.
I can’t. I can let him think he is, but I can’t actually let him.
Except . . . the heat of him, scalding me, the need from him, scorching through me. His hands grab my hips the same way he grabbed my throat—totally possessive. He spreads my legs and presses himself between them.
It sets me on fire—rubbing against him, straining for more of him.
I will lose myself if I keep this up. I will dissolve in a puddle at his mercy—in the exact way he wants—if I don’t stop him.
I don’t want to.
I want to forget and leave it all behind—all the secrets, all the mysteries, all the soul-driving need for answers to questions there are no answers for.
But there are always answers. There is always more information. The truth is always knowable. There are no real secrets in this world.
And
I am not one of them.
I roll out from under him, leaving him. He hangs over the counter, his shoulders heaving, his too well-muscled body strained.
My whole system reverberates with him—him over me, kissing me, trying to own me.
And how much I liked it.
Acknowledgments
To my editor, Alexandra Sehulster, for motivating me to make this one the story it was meant to be from the start. I got it on the second try!
To my agent, Rachel Brooks, for always having my back.
To Bronwen Fleetwood, for the unwavering support and the calming influence I always need!
To Alexis Daria, Kimberly Bell, C. L. Polk, and the wonder that is #RWChat. Romance lovers are the greatest people on earth.
To my mom, for loving my writing no matter what.
To my husband, for reminding me, I need to write for me, whether I sell any books or not.
To you who are reading this . . . Thanks for weathering through the dark stuff to the HEA. I hope it was as thrilling to read as it was for me to write.
Thank you.
About the Author
Author photograph © Alexis Daria
Robin Lovett enjoys writing romance to avoid the more unsavory things in life, like day jobs, housework, and personal demons. To feed her coffee and chocolate addictions, she can frequently be found overdosing on mochas. When not writing with her cat, she’s busy embracing untamable curly hair and adventuring in the outdoors with her husband.
You can find her on Twitter: @LovettRomance
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Also by Robin Lovett
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Epilogue
Excerpt: KEEPER
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Robin Lovett
Copyright Page
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
DECEIVER. Copyright © 2017 by Robin Lovett. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover photograph: man © iStock.com/feedough
ISBN 978-1-250-13352-6 (ebook)
First Edition: July 2017
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