SinfulSouthernHero

by S. J. Drum

  Sinful Southern Hero

  S.J. Drum

  Sinful South, book 2.

  Lucy escapes an abusive marriage and moves to Clifton, Tennessee, looking for a fresh start and somewhere safe to rebuild her life. She isn’t prepared for Dalton, a tattooed construction company owner with a penchant for dominating in the bedroom, or the feelings he awakens.

  When Lucy’s ex-husband proves he’s unwilling to allow his reign of terror to end along with the marriage, she must learn to set her fears aside and place her trust—and her body—in Dalton’s hands.

  Inside Scoop: Lucy is a curvy heroine who has never felt beautiful until she finds herself in Dalton’s strong arms. However, her memories of abuse and his protective instincts may be triggers for some readers with the same background.

  A Romantica® contemporary erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave

  Sinful Southern Hero

  S.J. Drum

  Dedication

  Huge thanks go to my husband, who supports my work as an author and watches the kids while I hide in my writing cave.

  To Rikki, who never fails to offer help and encouragement.

  To my parents and in-laws, who always buy my books and support my work, even though it’s incredibly embarrassing for everyone involved when my mother and mother-in-law read sex scenes I’ve written.

  To Savanna, who might be a thousand miles away but remains close to my heart.

  Chapter One

  Lucy stared at the red circle she’d drawn around an ad for office rental space in a small town she’d never heard of before.

  She drummed the fingers of her left hand on her scarred wooden kitchen table and pulled the end of the red pen out from between her teeth with her other hand. A frown tugged at her lips and she narrowed her eyes on the mangled end of her favorite pen as if it was somehow the pen’s fault she couldn’t quit the disgusting habit of chewing on the ends of writing instruments.

  “Just one more thing Ross hated about you,” she murmured.

  Lucy huffed a laugh devoid of humor. Ross had hated so many things about her it was hard to keep count. Of course he’d said she was the one in the relationship who needed to change. And for a while she’d believed him.

  She ran a fingertip over the raised line of a four-inch-long scar behind her left ear and her heart beat faster at the reminder. Maybe if she’d acknowledged the warning signs—like Ross’s constant effort to belittle her and foster complete dependence upon him—she’d have gotten out before there were so many scars to remind her of her mistakes. She shook her head.

  It wasn’t your fault. You aren’t responsible for Ross’ actions. Doesn’t matter when you left, only that you finally did.

  She repeated the words inside her head as she did every time her thoughts started down the dangerous path of “maybe it was your fault”. Even though the words meant to reassure her sometimes rang false, she forced herself to repeat them again and again.

  As a self-employed graphic designer, Lucy was lucky she could do her job anywhere. A small town in the middle of nowhere Tennessee was perfect for her needs. Clifton was far enough away from her old life in the small town outside of Cincinnati that she hoped Ross wouldn’t follow her there.

  Since she’d initiated their divorce six months ago he’d been a constant source of torment and worry, despite the restraining order that’d been placed on him. Now with the divorce finalized and her maiden name reinstated she finally felt free to move on. Or, more aptly, move the hell away from all the bad memories and any chance of running into her abusive jerk of an ex-husband.

  Biting her lip, she tossed the pen aside and pushed open her small netbook. She tapped out an email to the owner of the building where the rental was housed and asked if the space was still available. The website for Hart’s Ink was easy to find, complete with pictures of the building and a few artsy snapshots of Clifton. No pictures of the owner.

  Lucy raised her eyes from the computer screen and took in the mounds of boxes piled around her small apartment. She’d been living out of boxes for the last six months, knowing she didn’t intend to stay in Cincinnati after her divorce was finalized. She’d be leaving behind everything she’d ever known.

  Too bad everything in my life turned out to be a big fucking disappointment.

  Even her parents had sided with Ross. They loved the man, couldn’t imagine a police officer ever doing the things to his wife Lucy “alleged” he’d done to her. After the final incident which landed her in the hospital with a concussion and sixteen stitches behind her ear, she’d decided to give them one last chance to be the supportive parents they pretended to be. Lucy had disclosed every sordid, disturbing, violent detail of her five-year marriage to Ross. She explained how she hadn’t, in fact, fallen down the fucking stairs again, but that Ross had started an argument and ended it by slamming her head against the sharp corner of a kitchen cabinet.

  They’d looked at her with tears in their eyes, her mother’s hands patting Lucy’s knee and her father’s hand on her shoulder—and told her how hard it was to hear those things and how it was even harder to say what needed to be said. Then, her mother had sobbed and explained they were going to get Lucy the help she needed.

  Too bad they hadn’t meant they were going to help her get the hell away from Ross. No, they wanted to have Lucy examined by a psychiatrist—one of Ross’ friends—to help her with her “delusions”.

  A ping sounded from her netbook, alerting her to a new email and bringing her back to the present. She scanned the email and dug her cell phone from her back pocket before punching in the number at the bottom of the message from Abigail Hart, the owner of the rental space Lucy hoped to rent.

  Lucy had no friends thanks to Ross’ seclusion tactics early in their relationship. She’d finally written off her family and was now completely on her own. With a deep breath she pushed Send on her phone and forced back the nervous knot taking up room in her throat. Lucy Ellingsworth…was moving to Tennessee.

  * * * * *

  Dalton straightened from where he knelt next to a battered red metal toolbox. “When did you say your new tenant was gettin’ into town?” he asked the man leaning against the entryway.

  While Dalton and Jed Weston, the co-owner of Hart’s Ink, weren’t best buds, they’d been friendly enough over the years and Jed always called on Dalton when he needed a decent, trustworthy contractor.

  Jed squinted at the display on his thin black cell phone. “She’s supposed to be here in about two hours.”

  Dalton eyed the wall he’d just torn apart and the large water stain on the carpet under his steel-toed work boots. He whistled, using the back of one leather-gloved hand to wipe sweat and dust from his forehead. “Hate to break it to ya, but this ain’t gonna be anywhere near done before she gets here.”

  “At least the damn pipe burst before she moved her computer and whatever else in here.”

  “What’d you say she does? Graphic something or other?”

  Dalton shined a flashlight inside the hole he’d had to make in the wall and watched for any signs of a leak around the small section of pipe he’d just finished replacing.

  “Graphic design. Guess she makes business logos, brochures, ads, that type of thing. Abbey and I saw some of her work online, she’s pretty good.”

  “Well, I hope she ain’t one of those prissy, artsy fartsy types. She might be less than pleased with her working conditions for the next few days.” Dalton grinned as Jed shook his head.

  “Artsy fartsy? Jesus, Dalton.”

  “What’re you boys talking about in here?”

  Both men straightened at the sound of Abigail’s voice. The curvy, dark-haired tattoo artist stepped up beside Jed, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Damn, thi
s place is a mess.”

  “Even if I brought a crew in, it wouldn’t go much faster. Plus, it’s Sunday and help don’t come cheap on Sundays.” Dalton winked at Abigail. “Except for me, Sugar. I’m as cheap as they come.”

  Her melodic laugh filled the small space and Jed gazed at her with such love, Dalton had to look away. A pinch of jealousy twisted his gut as he turned and drew his focus back to the work needing finishing.

  An hour later, Dalton was covered in drywall dust and sweat, he’d shucked his shirt and wished like hell they could turn on the air conditioner. Too bad the central air had taken a dump right after the pipe burst. The windows were open and he’d hooked up a few fans facing the outside to suck out some of the hot air and dust but it still felt stifling. He scrubbed a hand over his shaved head, having no idea how Abigail and Jed could remain so calm when their building was falling apart at the seams and a new tenant was on the way.

  “Hey, Dalton. You at a point when you can take a break?”

  Without turning to face Jed, Dalton tugged off the leather work gloves that’d molded to his hands. “Not if you want me to make some visible progress before Artsy Miss Big City gets here.”

  “Don’t worry, he’s all bark and no bite.”

  “What are you—” Dalton spun around at Jed’s strange words to find him standing just inside the destroyed office space with a petite redhead at his side. The first thing Dalton noticed was her hair. It was hard not to notice something like that. The little fox had a head full of curls in a striking shade of strawberry blonde that couldn’t have come from a bottle. He had an obscene urge to stride over and spear his fingers through that soft, curly mane.

  “Dalton Loretto, Lucy Ellingsworth. She’s our new tenant.”

  Lucy’s eyes were wide and owlish as her gaze traveled over the ruined carpet, destroyed wall and dust coating every surface of the room. Then her gaze zeroed in on Dalton and he watched her blink once, twice. She inhaled, her chest expanding to push small, pert breasts against her pale-blue tank top. It was so hot inside the room she’d already started to sweat, making the thin material of her top cling to her like a second skin.

  Not the time for a boner, Dalton.

  He cleared his throat and strode forward, wiping a hand on his jeans before extending it toward the woman. She stared at his outstretched hand before seeming to decide something and reaching forward to clasp it in a surprisingly strong grip.

  “Nice to meet you, Dalton. Artsy Miss Big City seems too formal, you can just call me Lucy.”

  For the first time since Dalton was an untried teenager, he felt himself blush. He’d been hoping she hadn’t heard that little remark. “Sorry, sugar.” One finely shaped red brow arched at his comment and he amended, “Sorry, Lucy. Just jokin’ around. Won’t happen again.” He placed his hand over his heart and gave her an exaggerated, pleading look. “Forgive me?”

  “Forgiven.” Her gaze swept the room once more and she blew out an audible breath through pursed peach-tinted lips.

  I bet they taste like peaches, too.

  Jed started in on the details of the pipe bursting and the air conditioner quitting and how soon everything would be fixed but Dalton wasn’t listening. He couldn’t stop staring at the woman’s eyes. There wasn’t a name for their color. Tan in the middle, bleeding into the blue of late summer skies. Not hazel. Nothing so mundane. He’d never seen anything like it.

  A husky laugh brought his attention back to the present.

  “Really, it’s okay. I need to get settled into my apartment anyway. I can wait a day or so to move my stuff in here.”

  “Where’s your new place?” Dalton was startled when the words escaped his mouth. He hadn’t meant to ask something so personal but Lucy didn’t seem to mind.

  She hitched her purse up further on her shoulder. “It’s a house on Folton Street. Big Victorian that’s been split up into four apartments.”

  * * * * *

  Lucy didn’t know what had gotten into her or why she couldn’t stop the words from escaping her mouth. Flirting? Really? She had not moved to this tiny little town in the middle of bumfuck to flirt with dangerously tall, handsome construction workers.

  Another string of words left her mouth before she could clamp her lips shut. Shit! Did I just tell him where I live? Stupid! Way to keep to yourself. Been here five minutes and already handing out your home address. That’s sure to keep Ross off your trail.

  She narrowed her eyes, certain the man standing before her, Dalton, had cast some kind of hillbilly enchantment on her. It was the only explanation for her lack of brain power since walking into this wreck.

  He wasn’t even that cute. Nothing about Dalton turned Lucy on. How could it? She’d sworn off men and because of her ex-husband she tended to jump like a frightened rabbit if one got too close to her in line at Starbucks. Now, standing between two tall, tattooed, muscled hicks, she wondered where that sense of self-preservation had gone. Probably out the window with the last of the cool air.

  The man beside her, Jed, was speaking about repairs and pipes bursting but Lucy couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying. It all sounded like background static as she watched a bead of sweat trail down the white, dusty coating on Dalton’s face, over his chiseled jaw, down his lean, tanned neck. She swallowed hard, trying to convince her eyes to look away.

  Nope, nothing about this man turned her on. Certainly not his muscled shoulders or the swirl of the black tattoo dancing along his left arm, licking up barely an inch onto his neck. Not his tight abs—seriously, who has a stomach like that in real life—or that taut bellybutton or the faded jeans sitting low on lean hips…

  Realizing she’d been staring, she jerked her gaze up to find a smug, all-male grin stretching the contractor’s lips.

  Lucy cleared her throat and turned her attention solely on Jed. “So, I’ll just go get settled into the new apartment and see you back here in two days.”

  She hoped that was the correct thing to say, she thought he’d said something about the space being ready in two days but the other man and his damned shirtless chest and dimpled cheeks had distracted her. Well, it won’t happen again, she assured herself.

  Before either of the men could crack a joke about her blatant ogling, she backed through the doorway, banging her elbow on the door jamb before escaping the destroyed room and then the building.

  * * * * *

  Her one-bedroom apartment inside the Folton Street Victorian house turned out to be just what she’d wanted. Small enough to make her feel safe but with lots of windows and an open floor plan that didn’t make her feel trapped. The place was well kept and held an air of history about it which reminded Lucy of the feeling she got when holding a well-loved, old book.

  The next two days were spent settling into her new space and unpacking the meager amount of boxes she’d brought with her. Mostly clothes, mismatched kitchen supplies and a few mementos from her childhood. She’d kept nothing to remind her of Ross or the tragedy that’d become her life inside their marriage.

  Chapter Two

  Lucy slammed her cell down on the worn coffee table in her living room and ran a shaking hand through her hair. Calm down. Just because you get a hang-up doesn’t mean Ross has found your number and it’s him calling.

  “Wrong number,” she whispered. “That’s all, Lucy. Just a wrong number.”

  She closed her eyes and took a cleansing breath, let it out in a slow exhalation then pushed to her feet. Abigail Hart had called the evening before to tell Lucy the repairs were close to being finished and she could start setting up her office space today.

  As she gathered her purse and keys in preparation for the walk to her new office she was grateful to have something to focus on other than the sick knot of worry twisting her stomach.

  The conversation she’d had with Abigail the night before ran through her mind. It caught on Abigail’s statement that Dalton had been putting in extra hours and working his ass off to get the space ready. A
n unwanted image of deep-blue eyes under thick, dark lashes popped into her mind. Following closely was a picture of a sinfully muscled chest covered in drywall dust and dappled with droplets of sweat.

  She paused after stepping through her front door and squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would destroy the plague of arousing imagery. Of course, it didn’t help. Nothing was going to erase the memory of her brief encounter with the hot contractor with his damn tattoos and work-toughened body.

  The soft sound of her tennis shoes on the sidewalk rapped a staccato rhythm as she moved down the sidewalk toward Hart’s Ink a few blocks over. She’d decided to go see the state of the room for herself before taking her supplies over. A summer breeze swept over her heated skin and loosened an unruly curl from her sloppy ponytail.

  Lucy tucked the escaped curl behind her ear and stumbled a step as her finger grazed the raised the scar there. The most recent of many scars and a great reminder she had no business fantasizing about or flirting with a man. Any man. Besides the fact she wasn’t sure she could even stand being touched after what Ross had put her through, she needed to keep a low profile so her ex would be less likely to track her down.

  Dating a dangerous-looking contractor did not equal low profile.

  Lucy had no intention of being seen anywhere but her apartment and her office with the occasional mandatory grocery shopping expedition thrown in. Making friends would be a mistake she couldn’t afford, no matter how lonely she became. The more people who knew her, knew her name and where she lived, the easier it would be for Ross to find her.

  Though the temperature was nearing ninety, a shudder stole through her, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake. Screw air conditioning, all Lucy had to do was think of being in the same room with her ex-husband and her core temperature dropped to freezing.

  As she entered the building she’d be sharing with Hart’s Ink, the first thing she noticed was the quiet. No banging of hammers or other sounds of construction. Cautious, she stopped, cocking her head to the side to listen for voices. The only indication she wasn’t alone was the low hum of what she assumed to be a tattoo machine and a faint murmur of voices coming from behind the closed door to Abigail’s studio.