Captivated by You
Page 1
Table of Contents
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DISCLAIMER
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
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
OTHER BOOKS BY STACEY LYNN
CAPTIVATED
BY
YOU
STACEY LYNN
Captivated by You
Copyright © 2018 Stacey Lynn
Content Editing by
Gray Ink Author Services
Proofreading by
Virginia Tesi Carey
Cover Design and Formatting by
Shanoff Designs
Captivated by You is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously or are a product of the author’s imagination.
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reprinted, reproduced, or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review passages only.
Disclaimer:
Captivated by You was previously published as Captivate and was published in Amazon’s Kindle Worlds as an addition to Aleatha Romig’s Fidelity World in 2017.
This story contains elements of Aleatha Romig’s Infidelity Series, and it is published with the permission of Aleatha Romig, information about those books can be found at: www.aleatharomig.com/infidelity-world.
Captivated by You can be read as a complete standalone and reading the Infidelity Series is not required.
CHAPTER
ONE
CLAUDIA
The fall from grace wasn’t as swift and gentle as it sounded. It was plummeting through a dark tunnel, being slammed against the sides until you were spit out, splattered on the pavement, and left picking pebbles and dirt out of scraped open knees and scratched up palms.
And once you landed, two choices were available: Lie down, give up, and wait until something else comes along to finish you off.
Or two, the decision I made: Pick yourself up, bandage up the scars and scrapes and wait for the bruises to heal, and move on.
Overdramatic?
No way in hell.
In my case, I chose to run instead of casually move on.
I was the daughter of the infamous Judge Keith Townsend. Born and raised in designer shoes, private boarding schools, and bottomless bank accounts, I was set for life. I wanted for nothing and had everything handed to me.
That all changed when it was revealed my father was involved with, as the least of his crimes, illegally backdating a marriage certificate on behalf of Alton Fitzgerald, a man whose empire crumbled before his eyes. My life of privilege came to an abrupt halt.
If I listened hard enough, I could still hear the screeching tires of my life colliding into a cement wall.
Or perhaps it was the echo of the bullets that rang out when my father couldn’t live after the scorn and he not only took his own life, but my mother’s first.
Two months after their funeral, I dug the last remaining pebble out of my now forever bruised and damaged palms and headed for New York, leaving Savannah in my rearview mirror.
What I hadn’t expected was that my Aunt Karen would have an apartment and a job lined up for me before I stepped foot off the train at Grand Central Station.
Instead of taking me to her own apartment on the Upper East Side, she had her driver take us to the Upper West Side, handed me a set of keys outside Apartment 1212, a beautiful, old building with ornate architecture and slightly crumbling brick, but included a doorman, and said, “Welcome to your new home. Information on your new job is on your kitchen table. I’ll let you rest and we’ll get together tomorrow for dinner.”
After brushing both my cheeks with air kisses, she waltzed away, leaving me staring after her.
I wasn’t offended. Karen was my mom’s sister and I hadn’t seen Karen since I was five. She and my mom never really got along and certainly weren’t close.
In the last month since I’d been working for her, I also learned she wasn’t trying to be rude. She’s just really, really busy with her career. I didn’t think I’d seen the woman smile yet. Nothing but a mere tip of her lips to show her pleasure.
Which explained why she was close to fifty years old and didn’t have a single wrinkle.
She was beautiful and blunt, always dressed in a tailored suit and skirt combination. She was more than intimidating.
She was actually slightly terrifying and I rued the day I made a mistake at my job as her temporary assistant while her other one was out on maternity leave.
She’d needed someone for three months, and I needed a job before I could find something permanent.
It was the perfect solution and I was grateful. Until I realized how much the employees who were paired with Infidelity’s exclusive clients made, how much their lives changed, and then I started wondering, “Could I do it, too?”
Which was what brought me to Karen’s office, sitting in front of her.
“This wasn’t why I hired you,” Karen said. She peered at me with a neutral expression.
“I know that. But I’m interested, and I want to know if it’s a possibility.”
Her head tipped to the side minutely. “Why?”
Why? It was the thousand-dollar question. Or the two-hundred-and-forty thousand dollar question. Every employee made twenty grand a month, plus living expenses and incidentals. Essentially, I was asking my Aunt Karen to turn me into a paid whore, despite her insistence over the last month that Infidelity didn’t sell sex, they sold companionship. But since my trust fund was currently tied up in a fiasco I didn’t care to try to unravel, this was my best option for long-term stability.
In a rare moment of emotional vulnerability, I blinked away tears already forming in my eyes. “Because I have nothing else to offer, Karen. I have a worthless degree and only a temporary job. I need to do something, and we both know I’m not qualified for much.”
“When I agreed to let you move here, and help you get on your feet, this isn’t what I expected, or planned.”
“I know.” Rolling back my shoulders, I straightened my spine and clasped my hands in my lap. “But I also have the background and lifestyle to make you, and Infidelity proud.”
God. Was I selling my selling myself for this? Everything I said was true, yet it still tasted like sludge in my stomach.
Sure, I had the upbringing to be a pretty piece of arm candy and the intellect to handle any appropriate conversations with some of the richest men in the country, but I wasn’t naive. I was also offering to sell my body.
A body that’d been essentially untouched.
Now, what did it matter? What did any of it matter? I needed money, and no one was going to take care of myself except for me.
Karen picked up a pen and tapped it on her desktop. “Take your lunch break. Give me time to consider this.”
“That’s all I ask.”
I gave her a brief nod and stopped at my desk to grab my purse before heading to the elevator. The entire time, I tried to push down the butt
erflies raging war in my stomach. I offered to sell myself, knowing it could potentially mean my body as well, and I never passed second base in high school or college. But what else was I supposed to do? My degree in British Literature wasn’t worth much. I wasn’t expected to get a B.S. or a Ph.D., I was expected to get an MRS., produce heirs, the same as any other respected, wealthy woman in Savannah’s elite society was supposed to do.
I wasn’t a virgin for lack of desire or high morals, mostly it was because I grew up always too worried about disappointing my parents. There were a lot of expectations, but there was also love.
At least, I’d always thought so.
That all blew apart the day my father blew his brains out.
I’d grown up thinking I had everything, more than what money could buy. I’d had a mom and dad who gave a shit about me. Parents who spent time with me, which was much more than I could say for several of the friends I grew up with. Their parents were too concerned about who was traveling where and working where and who they were wearing to care about helping kids with their homework, watching their dance recitals, or going on family vacations where families actually spent time together.
Mine were different. At least, I’d thought they were. Now, except for Karen, who I barely knew, I had no one.
What else was I supposed to do?
The familiar, and hated, rush of emotions hit me as I descended in the elevator, only to jolt me out of the memories slashing against my brain as the doors opened in the lobby.
The doors dinged and I stepped off them as soon as they opened, staring at my phone when suddenly, I walked right into a large mountain of muscle.
“Oh!” My phone went flying and I bounced back, and fell flat on my backside.
“Oh, shit.” I heard and looked up.
And found myself staring directly at Liam Allistor. His handsome face, his sexy as sin smile, his heart-stopping black eyes and panty-melting muscled body on display, even if it was hidden underneath his skintight Johnny Cash T-shirt.
Hot damn. He was a thousand times sexier in person than he was on stage, and I’d seen him perform there plenty.
CHAPTER
TWO
LIAM
Staring at my reflection in the mirrored door of the elevator, I cringed. In the time span of six months, my life had gone from rock bottom to hellfire. I didn’t even know someone could sink as far as I’d been buried.
And the woman who currently held my balls in a grip so tight it was just this side of too painful to be pleasurable, was standing next to me, scowling at her cell phone.
Figuratively. Not literally. Anne Marker wouldn’t get anywhere near my nuts. Not only was she married to Don Marker, owner and CEO of Marker Entertainment, she was also old enough to be my mother.
She was also the best music agent in the business. She took scrubs like me, found in dirt hole bars plugging away at their dreams and sleeping in our rusted-out Buicks all over Los Angeles, and shot us to the top before the ink was dry on our first contracts.
“I still can't believe you’re forcing me to do this.” In the mirror, my lips curved into a sneer. Where was the damn elevator? The sooner I got this shit over with, the sooner I could get drunk.
Anne didn’t spare me a glance as her fingers violently flew across her cell phone’s keyboard. “Suck it up, buttercup.”
At six-foot-two and a solid muscle mass of two hundred and twenty pounds, no one would dare to call me a buttercup.
I would let Anne get away with murdering my childhood dog if she thought it'd help me out of this mess. At least, I would if Sparky was still alive.
Also, Anne didn’t give a shit. I was the top musician in the country, topping charts and carrying off more awards and trophies from awards shows than I had room for. Anne's only job was to save my ass and bring me out of the seventh layer of hell.
You'd think after some woman accused me of rape, and then withdrew her allegation once there was absolutely no evidence found to support her claim, would have been enough to save me. But apparently, people who didn’t know me from Jesus and who only read what they saw in grocery store checkout aisles didn’t fully believe rock stars like me didn’t go around sticking their dicks in unwilling women.
Please. I got enough pussy offered I didn’t have to take what wasn't mine to have. I wouldn’t even consider it without millions in my bank account.
“This still sounds ridiculous. A woman for a year? The thought makes my balls want to shrivel and die.”
Anne tucked her phone into her purse. “Grow up. You know the game.”
Media. PR. Social media. Public image. I only wanted to make good music and blast it through a microphone into a screaming stadium of thousands.
Anne was right, though. I was sounding like a spoiled, rich prick and I was neither of those things. My mama taught me better. And besides, I’d been successful enough without having to play the media game. After five years of being constantly in the public eye, I was due for a scandal.
“You sure this is the right thing, though?” When Anne first mentioned Infidelity to me, I balked. The whole concept was crazy shady. What would the press do if they found out I hired an exclusive, highly paid escort to pretend to be my girlfriend just to wipe away the rumors of me being a rapist?
Fuck. I pulled my hands down my face. How in the hell did my life turn into this?
The bell dinged right as Anne's foreboding words echoed the ring in my ears.
“Buttercup, this is the only thing that can save you now.”
The bitch of it is, she was right.
“Let’s just get this over with.” As soon as the doors slid open, I stepped into the doorway and was immediately met with a tiny, lithe brunette rushing right into my chest before I could bring my hands up to stop her.
“Oh, shit,” I grunted from the impact and reached for her, but her phone went flying and she was on her ass, sprawled out in front of me before I could grab her.
Damn. A glance at the lobby told me no one noticed. I quickly squatted to help her up. If anyone saw me, a woman at my feet, knees spread wide from her fall, it’d be on tabloid covers in hours.
“Are you okay?” I asked, holding out my hand.
She glanced up, eyes on my hands and as if she recognized me from my knuckle tattoos alone. Her eyes widened, skin paled, and mouth opened.
She dragged her gaze up my arm until our gazes met. Holy fuck she was beautiful.
I almost fell to my own ass from the impact of her beauty. Rich, chocolate eyes, framed by long, brushed to the side bangs and held back with a clip. Hair almost as dark as her eyes. I had a full view of her alabaster skin as if it’d been untouched from the sun for her entire lifetime.
I could never resist a pretty face staring at me in awe. It was part of the thrill of being famous, part of the ego from being a man. We liked being appreciated and didn’t care if it was about our looks.
“Can I help you up?” I asked, unable to stop a smirk stretching my lips.
God, she was fucking hot. My dick took notice. She placed her hand in mine and I pulled her to her feet, my jeans growing uncomfortably tight.
Damn it.
“Thank you, Mr. Allistor,” she said.
Something about her tone made my smile fall. “And you are?”
Like I’d asked her to divulge state secrets, her awed expression went blank. She bent down, grabbed her phone, and tossed it into her purse without looking at me. “None of your business.”
She brushed her hair off the shoulder of her deep gray, short-sleeved dress, and straightened.
A chase. I liked it more than I should.
Next to me, Anne cleared her throat revealing her impatience. But fuck her. Fuck Infidelity and all it implied. I wanted this one.
“I’d like it to be.”
She looked at me then, eyes narrowed and shook her head. In the most beautiful, soft and silky Southern drawl, she said, “I apologize for bumping into you Mr. Allistor—”
&
nbsp; “Liam,” I all but snapped. I hated being called Mr. Anything. Fucking hell, I was twenty-eight, not fifty. Society demanded it but I didn’t care for societal expectations any more than I cared for being wrongly accused of rape.
Based on the expression this girl was now shooting me, she’d obviously heard.
“Liam, then.” She nodded once. God, she was completely unruffled by me, and I still felt knocked on my ass. “I apologize for running into you, I should have been paying attention.”
“It was my fault,” I said, stepping closer. “And you deserve an apology from me. Let me take you to lunch.”
“We have a meeting, Liam.” Anne clipped her words with a vicious hint to them. I knew better than to ignore it, but fuck. This woman.
“I’m sorry,” I said to the woman. She was still standing there, not looking at me, but over my shoulder. But I was the asshole standing in her way, essentially blocking her from going anywhere. “Tell me your name. I’ll call you when I’m done with my meeting. I’ll buy you a drink as an apology.”
“No, thank you.” She stepped to the side and stared straight ahead.
Irritation spiked in my veins. I’d bet my millions that a year ago, she’d react differently to me. Goddamn I was screwed.
“Have a good meeting, and my apologies, again.” She scurried away, not looking at me, and my eyes stayed glued to the sway of her small but rounded ass until she turned the corner.
Anne’s fingers wrapped around my wrist and she yanked me into the elevator.
“Focus, Liam.”
“Oh, I’m focused,” I grumbled, adjusting myself and earning a roll of the eye from Anne.
“You’re an idiot,” Anne said.
I felt like one so I didn’t argue. As the doors closed and the elevator lifted, I tried to put that woman out of my mind.