by Skye Warren
“You’re wrong,” she says, her voice rough.
“I thought that fucker was sent to kill you, but you know what I think now? He was sent to kidnap you. You would be bait to bring me out of hiding.”
Her eyes shine with unshed tears. “I don’t understand.”
Ancient pieces of my heart rattle, where ordinary human emotion would usually go. I want to take away all of her worries. I want to kill her father the way I should have years ago. Until six months ago I believed I had succeeded. I left a young girl alone in the world, and that guilt led me to take custody of her. It was a terrible domino effect—her father’s duplicity, my assassination of him, my guardianship of Samantha.
“Understand this,” I tell her. “Your father is not a good man.”
She shakes her head, which isn’t to disagree. It’s more about being overwhelmed. “You know what? Fine. I believe you wouldn’t have tried to kill him without cause. That still doesn’t explain why you’re here. Isn’t that what they want? Luring you out?”
“I can take care of myself.”
A snort. “Yes, the powerful Liam North doesn’t need anyone.”
“I came to warn you. To make sure you understand the stakes.”
“Oh, I understand them.” She sounds a little sad. Mostly resigned. “I’m starting to think you have a hero complex. You don’t want to be with me? Then don’t worry about my life.”
That’s the last thing she says to me before returning to the restaurant.
A hero complex? That’s ironic, considering I’ve never been anyone’s hero. Definitely not Samantha’s. That’s something she’s going to find out before this is over. Then again, part of her may already know. I think she remembers more than she wants to admit.
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Excerpt from Escort
There are ass men and there are breast men. I can appreciate a beautiful ass or a nice rack. The blood in my veins is red, after all. But what I really am, what drives me absolutely crazy, what seems obscene even though women walk around with them in full view, are freckles. There’s something about them, the way they scatter over skin, the knowledge of the other places they must cover, that makes me hard as a rock. I have this primal instinct to map the constellations on Bea’s body.
Her black dress covers more than it shows. The fabric reveals an hourglass figure that I would love to run my hands along, but we aren’t close to that. And above the high neckline, that’s where the freckles begin. Only a shade darker than her natural skin color, which is pale.
Pale enough to turn a charming pink whenever she’s nervous.
“Thank you for coming,” she says, pink all the way from the point of her nose to her neck. I would bet tonight’s entire fee, which is sizable, that the pink extends across her breasts.
Everything about her is closed, her legs pressed together where she perches on the armchair, her lips clamped shut as if to keep herself from saying more. In contrast I’m a study in openness, my ankle slung over my knee, arm stretched across the top of the sofa.
“It’s my pleasure,” I assure her. “I’m touched that you trust me in your home.”
She glances around, as if considering for the first time that she ought not have invited me inside. “We could get a room downstairs, maybe. Unless they’re sold out.”
“I’d rather be where you’re most comfortable.”
She gives a small laugh of embarrassment. “I’m not sure I’m capable of being comfortable.”
“Shall we call down for dinner?” I offer, mostly because the opportunity to eat and drink and breathe will help soothe her. But also because it will give me more time with her, this woman who may hold the answers to my long-held questions.
“No, thank you.”
“We could go out. I know a lovely bistro not two blocks away.”
She shakes her head, almost stricken. “No.”
Such refusal, this one has. Such determination.
Her eyes are wary, watching as I stroke the brocade fabric of the sofa leisurely. It’s almost like she expects me to lunge at her, to rip her clothes away without any discussion. Of course, I would most enjoy that, if I thought she wanted me to do it.
My curiosity is a living, breathing presence in the room. I want to unravel her secrets. Why does the idea of leaving make her anxiety spike like a tangible blaze in the air?
I decide to go for frankness. “You’re a lovely woman, Bea. It would be an honor to spend the evening with you, but I have to be honest. I don’t usually work for clients as young as you.”
A blink. “You don’t?”
One shoulder lifts. “The CEO of a multinational corporation who realizes she’s spent more time on work than building a social life. A divorcee who wants to experience pleasure without resentment. They are the usual, but I have a feeling those don’t quite apply to you.”
“Not exactly,” she says, cheeks almost cherry pink.
The cat has found a perch on top of an old roll-top desk, her yellow eyes trained on me. I don’t mind one female looking at me. Don’t mind two. To be honest I have a bit of the exhibitionist in me, one of the many reasons I’m in the perfect profession. I know without looking that my shoes are perfectly shined, my bespoke suit conforming effortlessly to my body. Bea’s green gaze, both nervous and curious, is the best foreplay I could want.
“I don’t need to know what led you to call me, certainly not the details of your circumstances, but it would help if I knew what you expect out of our evening.”
“Oh God,” she says on a groan. “I’m screwing this up, aren’t I? There’s probably a secret handshake or something and I don’t know it. You must think I’m insane.”
I shake my head, slow and slight. “No secret handshake, I promise. There’s only you and me, having a conversation about pleasure.”
The word seems to take her aback. “Pleasure?”
“That’s the nature of my business, yes.” My body tightens, because it would be pleasure indeed to touch this woman. To kiss her. To make her moan for me.
Although I might have to rethink that plan, because the word pleasure might as well have been medieval torture based on the way Bea looks at me. “I thought we were going to have sex.”
She sounds so forlorn it could break my heart.
Instead I laugh, a small huff of breath, because I can’t afford to have a heart.
“Sex,” I say, standing to full height, circling the scuffed oriental coffee table, standing behind her chair. “And pleasure. Pleasure and sex. They’re interchangeable.”
I brush my knuckles over the side of her neck, a demonstration. Her wild curls tickle my skin.
It’s provocative, this. If she had agreed to dinner I would have started with small touches, a glance of my palm against the small of her back as I pulled out her chair, holding her hand while we talked over a glass of wine. Perhaps being so bold as to run a finger along the inside of hers, where it’s more sensitive. She would shiver; her gaze would meet mine.
There’s an order to these things. You can move fast or slow, but there’s still an order.
“We can skip the pleasure part,” she says, her voice high, her breathing faster. Her chest rises and falls in the black dress, made all the more alluring by how much it covers. She’s a mystery. The black sky in the city. I have to work to see her secrets.
“No,” I chide gently. “We focus on the pleasure. That’s the point.”
“What if—” Her breath catches as I drop the back of my hand over her collarbone, a reverse caress. That’s what one does for a skittish creature like her. “What if I have a different point?”
“And what point would that be, my sweet Bea?”
“I want to lose my virginity,” she says, so fast it comes out as a single word.
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Books by Skye Warren
Endgame trilogy & more books in Tanglewood
The Pawn
The Knight
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The Castle
The King
The Queen
Escort
Survival of the Richest
The Evolution of Man
A Modern Fairy Tale Duet
Beauty and the Professor
Falling for the Beast
Chicago Underground series
Rough
Hard
Fierce
Wild
Dirty
Secret
Sweet
Deep
Stripped series
Tough Love
Love the Way You Lie
Better When It Hurts
Even Better
Pretty When You Cry
Caught for Christmas
Hold You Against Me
To the Ends of the Earth
For a complete listing of Skye Warren books, visit
www.skyewarren.com/books
About the Author
Skye Warren is the New York Times bestselling author of dangerous romance such as the Endgame trilogy. Her books have been featured in Jezebel, Buzzfeed, USA Today Happily Ever After, Glamour, and Elle Magazine. She makes her home in Texas with her loving family, sweet dogs, and evil cat.
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. Except for use in a review, the reproduction or use of this work in any part is forbidden without the express written permission of the author.
Overture © 2019 by Skye Warren
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