by Anthology
A Note from JK
I hope you enjoyed this peek into the lives of Nikki and Damien Stark, the hero and heroine of the New York Times and #1 Internationally bestselling Stark series!
If you haven't yet read their story, be sure to read the trilogy that started it all, Release Me, Claim Me, and Complete Me.
Their story continues in the "Stark Ever After" novellas, of which Seduce Me is the fourth. The first three are Take Me, Have Me, and Play My Game. (And don't miss Jamie and Ryan's story in Tame Me.)
You can see more of Nikki and Damien as secondary characters in the new Stark International trilogy that begins with Say My Name. This trilogy features Jackson Steele, a brilliant architect who is holding his secrets close, and Sylvia Brooks, Damien's executive assistant, who walked away from Jackson five years ago, and is forced to bring him back into her life to save an ailing project.
All the links are included below, as well as links to my Most Wanted series of erotic romances, Wanted, Heated, and Ignited. Each book stands alone and centers around a dark and sexy hero with a dangerous past.
You can learn more at my website, http://www.jkenner.com, or visit me on Twitter (@JulieKenner), Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/jkennerbooks) or Instagram (username: JulieKenner)!
And be sure to sign up for my newsletter! http://bit.ly/JK_newsletter
Happy reading!
Other Books by J. Kenner
STARK SERIES
Stark Trilogy
(Nikki & Damien)
Release Me
Claim Me
Complete Me
Stark Ever After
(Nikki & Damien)
Take Me
Have Me
Play My Game
Stark International
Tame Me (Jamie & Ryan)
Say My Name (Jackson & Sylvia)
On My Knees (Jackson & Sylvia)
Under My Skin (Jackson & Sylvia)
MOST WANTED
(Three stand-alone erotic romances)
Wanted
Heated
Ignited
About J. Kenner
J. Kenner (aka Julie Kenner) is the New York Times, USA Today, Publishers Weekly, Wall Street Journal, and #1 International bestselling author of over seventy novels, novellas and short stories in a variety of genres.
Though known primarily for her award-winning and international bestselling erotic romances (including the Stark and Most Wanted series) that have reached as high as #2 on the New York Times bestseller list, JK has been writing full time for over a decade in a variety of genres including paranormal and contemporary romance, "chicklit" suspense, urban fantasy, and paranormal mommy lit.
JK has been praised by Publishers Weekly as an author with a "flair for dialogue and eccentric characterizations" and by RT Bookclub for having "cornered the market on sinfully attractive, dominant antiheroes and the women who swopn for him." A four time finalist for Romance Writers of America's prestigious RITA award, JK took home the first RITA trophy awarded in the category of erotic romance in 2014 for her novel, Claim Me (book 2 of her Stark Trilogy).
Her books have sold well over a million copies and are published in over twenty countries. Visit her online at http://www.jkenner.com
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Please enjoy this excerpt from SAY MY NAME, book one in the Stark International trilogy featuring Jackson Steele and Damien Stark's assistant, Sylvia Brooks:
The thwump-thwump of the helicopter's rotors fills my head like a whisper, a secret message that I cannot escape. Not him, not now. Not him, not now.
But I know damn well that my plea is futile, my words flat. I can't run. I can't hide. I can only continue as I am--hurtling at over a hundred miles per hour on a collision course with a destiny I thought I had escaped five years ago. And with the man I'd left behind.
A man I tell myself I no longer want--but can't deny that I desperately need.
I clutch my fingers tighter around the copy of Architectural Digest in my lap. I do not need to look down to see the man on the cover. He is as vivid in my mind today as he was back then. His hair a glossy black, with just the slightest hint of copper when the sun hits it just so. His eyes so blue and deep you could drown in them.
On the magazine, he sits casually on the corner of a desk, his dark grey trousers perfectly creased. His white shirt pressed. His cufflinks gleaming. Behind him, the Los Angeles skyline rises, framed in a wall of glass. He exudes determination and confidence, but in my mind's eye, I see even more.
I see sensuality and sin. Power and seduction. I see a man with his shirt collar open, his tie hanging loose. A man completely at home in his own skin, who commands a room simply by entering it.
I see the man who wanted me.
I see the man who terrified me.
Jackson Steele.
I remember the way his skin felt as it brushed mine. I even remember his scent, wood and musk and a hint of something smokey.
Most of all, I remember the way his words seduced me. The way he made me feel. And now, here above the Pacific, I can't deny the current of excitement that runs through me, simply from the prospect of seeing him again.
And that, of course, is what scares me.
As if to emphasize that thought, the helicopter banks sharply, sending my stomach lurching. I reach out to steady myself, pressing my hand against the window as I look out at the deep indigo of the Pacific below me and the jagged Los Angeles coastline receding in the distance.
"We're on our approach, Ms. Brooks," the pilot says a short while later, his voice crystal clear through my headphones. "Just a few more minutes."
"Thanks, Clark."
I don't like air travel, and I especially don't like helicopters. Perhaps I have an over-active imagination, but I can't seem to shake the mental image of dozens of absolutely essential screws and wires getting wiggled loose by the persistent motion of these constantly vibrating machines.
I've come to accept that I can't avoid the occasional trip by plane or helicopter. When you work as the executive assistant to one of the world's wealthiest and most powerful men, air travel is just part of the package. But while I've resigned myself to that reality--and even managed to become somewhat Zen about the whole thing--I still get all twisted up during take-off and landing. There's something horribly unnatural about the way the earth rises up to meet you, even while you are simultaneously careening toward the ground.
Not that I can actually see any ground. As far as I can tell, we're still entirely over water, and I am just about to point out that little fact when a slice of the island appears in my window. My island. Just seeing it makes me smile, and I draw in one breath and then another until I actually feel reasonably calm and somewhat put together.
Of course, the island isn't really mine. It belongs to my boss, Damien Stark. Or, more specifically, it belongs to Stark Vacation Properties, which is a d/b/a of Stark Real Estate Development, which is an arm of Stark Holdings, which is a wholly-owned subsidiary of Stark International, which is one of the most profitable companies in the world, which is owned by one of the most powerful men in the world.
In my mind, though, Santa Cortez island is mine. The island, the project, and all the potential that goes with it.
Santa Cortez is one of the smaller Channel Islands that run up the coast of California. Located a little behind Catalina, it was used for many years as a Naval facility, along with San Clemente Island, which is still operated by the military, and sports an army base, barracks, and various other signs of civilization. Unlike San Clemente, Santa Cortez was used for hand-to-hand combat and weapons training. At least, that's what I was told. The Navy is not known for being forthright about its activities.
Several months ago, I'd noticed a small article in the Los Angeles Times discussing the military's presence in California. The article mentioned both islands, but noted that the military was ceasing operations on Santa Cortez. There wasn't any other information, but I'd taken the article to Stark.
&
nbsp; "It might be up for sale, and if so, I figured we should act fast," I'd said, handing him the article. I'd just finished briefing him on his schedule for the day, and we were moving briskly down the corridor toward a conference room where no less than twelve banking executives from three different countries waited with Charles Maynard, Stark's attorney, for the commencement of a long-planned tax and investment strategy meeting.
"I know you've been looking for potential sites for a couples' resort in the Bahamas," I continued, "but I was thinking that a high-end getaway location for families with easier access to the States might have real potential as a business model."
He'd taken the paper, reading as he walked, and then stopped outside the conference room's glass doors. I'd come to know his face during the five years I'd worked for him, but right then I hadn't even an inkling what he was thinking.
He handed the article back to me, held up one finger in a silent demand for me to wait, and then stepped inside the room, addressing the men as he entered. "Gentlemen, I apologize, but something has come up. Charles, if you could take over the meeting?"
And then he was back in the corridor with me, not bothering to wait for Maynard's reply or the executives' acquiescence, but absolutely confident that things would go smoothly, and just the way he wanted them to.
"Call Trevor Galway at the Pentagon," he'd said as we moved down the hall back toward his office. "He's in my personal contacts. Tell him I'm looking to acquire the island. Then get in touch with Nigel. He's gone to the Century City site to help Trent with some problem that's come up during construction. Ask if he can get away long enough to meet us for lunch at the Ivy."
"Oh," I said, trying to find my balance. "Us?"
Nigel made sense. Nigel Ward was the vice-president of Stark Real Estate Development, and was currently overseeing the construction of Stark Plaza, a trio of office buildings off of Santa Monica Boulevard in Century City. What I didn't understand was why Mr. Stark would want me at the lunch, when his usual practice was to simply fill me in after the fact on any post-meeting details that I needed to track or follow-up.
"If you're spearheading this project, it makes sense for you to be at the initial meeting."
"Spearheading?" Honestly, my head was spinning.
"If you're interested in real estate development, especially for commercial projects, you couldn't ask for a better mentor than Nigel," he said. "Of course, you'll be pulling longer hours. I'll still need you on my desk, but you can delegate as much as makes sense. I think Rachel would like to pick up some more hours, anyway," he added, referring to his weekend assistant Rachel Peters.
"Use the business plan that Trent put together for the Bahamas resort as a model, and work up your own draft and timeline." He glanced at his watch. "You won't be able to finish before lunch, but you can take us through some talking points." He met my eyes, and I saw the humor in his. "Or am I assuming too much? I thought that real estate was one of your particular interests, but if you're not looking to shift into a managerial role--"
"No!" I practically blurted the word, my shoulders squared and my back straight. "No. I mean yes. I mean, yes, Mr. Stark, I want to work on this project." What I really wanted was to not hyperventilate, but I wasn't entirely sure that was going to be possible.
"Good," he'd said. We'd reached my desk in the reception area outside his office. "Call Trevor. Make the lunch arrangements. And we'll go from there."
Go from there had led in a more or less straight line directly to this moment. I'm officially the Project Manager for The Resort at Cortez, a Stark Vacation Property. At least I am now.
Hopefully, I'll still be tomorrow. Because that's the question, isn't it? Whether the news that I received two hours ago is going to shatter the Santa Cortez project, or whether I can salvage the project along with my nascent career in real estate.
Too bad I need Jackson Steele if I'm going to pull that off.
My stomach twists unpleasantly and I tell myself not to worry. Jackson will help me. He has to, because right now everything I want is riding on him.
<<<<>>>>
Random on Tour: Los Angeles
Julia Kent
Random on Tour: Los Angeles
Julia Kent
Copyright © 2015 by Julia Kent
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
***
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This book deals with the very difficult topic of sexual assault and rape, and I’ve taken great care to address this with the sensitivity and respect it deserves.
None of the scenes in the book contain sexual violence, though the characters do tell their stories of past sexual violence. None of those descriptions is graphic or gratuitous. This book is about hope and healing, but the characters do have past trauma that they discuss.
For those readers who may be triggered, please be aware, and if you need assistance, contact RAINN, an anti sexual violence organization with resources for survivors: https://www.rainn.org/get-help
Prologue
Maggie
Liam began banging a plastic fork against a plastic Champagne flute. “Again! Again!” he cried out as we imitated him, the dull sound of plastic on plastic making me laugh. I was with the band, Random Acts of Crazy, on the rooftop of the building that housed the concert hall where they’d just played, and the band’s drummer, Sam, had just proposed to his girlfriend, Amy.
She’d said yes. We greeted their resulting kiss with cheers and catcalls, more alcohol and lots of cake. So much cake.
Liam’s girlfriend and my best friend, Charlotte, had invited me to the concert and I’d come up for this after-party, reluctant to be around human beings this day of all days. It was an anniversary of sorts for me.
One I’d like to never celebrate.
But it celebrated me, like it or not.
Seven years ago, to the day, I was gang-raped by three men on my college campus.
Seven years ago I was torn into tiny little pieces of Maggie. It has taken a lot of glue over the last seven years to make those pieces fit together again and make up something resembling a whole.
Watching Sam kiss Amy so tenderly, her engagement ring sparkling in the glow of lights on the rooftop, I smiled. It was a real smile, one filled with mirth and appreciation and a little too much Champagne, perhaps. Getting drunk might not be the most responsible thing to do right now, but I didn’t much care.
“Someday, you,” Charlotte said to me, her own voice a little loose.
“You first,” I said, my eyes flitting over to her boyfriend, Liam. They’d reunited after years apart, a simple misunderstanding finally cleared up after fate stepped in and made them see each other again. We were outside on this fine, clear evening, a few stars shining through the obscured city sky, the bright lights and teeming activity on the roads below us a reminder that we were in a tiny little cocoon. Just a bubble.
The world outside us went on, oblivious to the massive shift that had just taken place for Sam and Amy. When the world is so big, what feels like a tectonic plate shift on a personal level is nothing more than the movement of a hair in the larger sense.
I guzzled another flute of Champagne and froze, the liquid in my throat, waiting to be swallowed.
Tyler was here.
We’d met a few times before, in passing. He was the substitute bass player for the band; I was the lead guitar player’s girlfriend’s best friend. In that weird sort of social circle thing where Venn diagrams get laid over different groups, Tyler and I were bound to be in the crossover once in a while.
He looked so hot. Short brown hair. A few days of beard. Bright green eyes that were more g
uarded than a Russian mobster’s. He was sleeved, the colorful tattoos a tapestry, but every time I met him I couldn’t quite see them. We only saw each other in dark concert halls, or tonight, under the stars.
He gave Sam a rare smile and a hearty handshake, forearm muscles bulging. I wondered what it would be like to have those hands on me. My fingers tracing those tats. Listening to him tell me the story of his naked body while he forgave mine.
Forgave it for failing me.
I shook my head fast to banish the thoughts that drew me into places so dark they became black holes of the soul. The gravity of trauma had a way of sucking all the good into it, and tonight I wasn’t going to let that happen. The opposite, in fact.
Tonight I was going to fuck Tyler.
He didn’t know it yet, but that was okay. He would. Soon.
“Maggie?” Charlotte handed me another drink and gave me a half-smile. “You look like you’re a million miles away.”
I ran one hand through my orange hair and drank some more courage. Not too much, but not too little. The only action I’d seen in five years involved my own hands and devices with batteries, and that had been torture. I didn’t quite count a few kisses with guys in bars on dance floors that smelled like sour alcohol and bleach. Those furtive attempts to prove I could let someone touch me sexually had been more like mini therapy sessions than anything arousing.
Tyler was definitely arousing.
“I’m ready,” I whispered, willing the shake to leave my voice.
Her already-big eyes widened, like white globes with brown pools in the middle. Charlotte’s dark, straight hair was cut with bangs that were so straignt they were like a blade.
“Tyler? You’re picking a guy whose nickname is Frown for your first...oh, Maggie, are you sure?”
