One for the Rogue
Page 31
But she didn’t do bucket lists. They were created for people who scurried through life afraid to take chances, regretting their caution when faced with their mortality. Indi’s life was a bucket list. Hence, her current predicament.
“Where’s Ryan?”
The brusque voice wrapped itself around her heart and squeezed. She stilled and her breath went on strike.
Those words. That tone. This situation. It wasn’t how she’d pictured their reunion.
Though their best friends were married to one another, careful planning on her part would’ve given her several years to let time and distance erode the memories and allow them to communicate without her recalling the way he’d made her body quake with ecstasy. She’d be cool, look polished, and possess the proper grace to put them both at ease.
That had been the fantasy BN—Before Nugget. Now she’d settle for an encounter where she didn’t look and smell like a cat lady’s ashtray, and she possessed something other than an unplanned pregnancy and a felony charge.
Despite his harsh tone, the man leaning against the metallic silver Porsche Panamera—new; the last time she’d seen him, he’d been driving a Jaguar—was as gorgeous, as powerful, and as autocratic as the luxury sedan he drove. He’d tamed his blond curls—what a shame—into a sleek mass that shone beneath the street lamps and his body looked trim and powerful in a dark tailored suit and crisp white collared shirt without a tie. He could’ve been waiting for his date to a society gala and not standing in the street in front of the sheriff’s office after midnight, waiting for the state judicial system’s newest enrollee.
Indi hefted her backpack onto her shoulder, ignored the dips, swerves, and inversions occurring in her belly, and slowly descended the concrete steps. “He’s finishing up the paperwork.”
She’d forgotten how big he was. She was a tad taller than average and she knew from experience her eyes would be level with his chin, a chin now covered in downy blond fuzz. Experience also taught her the stubble would be a delicious abrasion against her skin.
“Do you have anything to say to me?”
She blinked. She had much to say to him. But here? Now?
She’d hated calling him. Truthfully, she would’ve hated calling anyone in this situation. Would rather have stayed behind bars and figured a way out of this mess. But this wasn’t about her personal preferences. She needed to make decisions in Nugget’s best interests. And that meant doing what was necessary to ensure she spent as little time in jail as possible.
She hadn’t seen Mike in three months, since she’d awakened to see his face softened in sleep. Terrified of the feelings budding to life within her, she’d stealthily gathered up her belongings and left without looking back. And despite her behavior, when she’d called, he’d shown up. He deserved many things from her, starting with gratitude.
But did he have to be an arrogant ass about it?
She balled a fist in the folds of her skirt. “What else would you like me to say?”
He pushed away from the sex-mobile. “How about ‘Thank you for canceling your plans and coming to get me’?”
Crap. She’d pulled him away from something. Or someone.
It was none of her business. She’d given up any say in who he spent time with the night she’d walked away.
“How in the hell did you get arrested for burglary?”
She swiped at the allegation. “Those are trumped up charges.”
“So you didn’t do it?”
“Of course not. I mean, breaking and entering makes you think of a cat burglar or someone in a ski mask robbing the place. That’s not how it happened.”
Mike narrowed his eyes and subjected her to his self-righteous stare. “Then why don’t you tell me what happened.”
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An Excerpt from
WHEN A MARQUESS LOVES A WOMAN
The Season’s Original Series
By Vivienne Lorret
Five years have passed since the Max Harwick shared a scandalous kiss with Lady Juliet, only to have her marry someone else. He’s never forgiven her . . . but he’s never stopped loving her either.
Some days Lady Juliet Granworth wanted to fling open the nearest window sash and scream.
And it was all the Marquess of Thayne’s fault.
“Good evening, Saunders.” A familiar baritone called from the foyer and drifted in through the open parlor door. Max.
Drat it all! He was a veritable devil. Only she didn’t have to speak his name but simply think it for him to appear. She should have known better than to allow her thoughts to roam without a leash to tug them back to heel.
“I did not realize Lord Thayne would be attending dinner this evening,” Zinnia said, her spine rigid as she perched on the edge of her cushion and darted a quick, concerned glance toward Juliet.
Marjorie looked to the open door, her brows knitted. “I did not realize it either. He said that he was attending—”
“Lord Fernwold’s,” Max supplied as he strode into the room, his dark blue coat parting to reveal a gray waistcoat and fitted blue trousers. He paused long enough to bow his dark head in greeting—at least to his mother and Zinnia. To Juliet, he offered no more than perfunctory scrutiny before heading to the sideboard, where a collection of crystal decanters waited. “The guests were turned away at the door. His lordship’s mother is suffering a fever.”
Juliet felt the flesh of her eyelids pucker slightly, her lashes drawing together. It was as close as she could come to glaring at him while still leaving her countenance unmoved. The last thing she wanted was for him, or anyone, to know how much his slight bothered her.
Marjorie tutted. “Again? Agnes seemed quite hale this afternoon in the park. Suspiciously, this has happened thrice before on the evenings of her daughter-in-law’s parties. I tell you, Max, I would never do such a thing to your bride.”
Max turned and ambled toward them, the stems of three sherry glasses in one large hand and a whiskey in the other. He stopped at the settee first, offering one to his mother and another to Zinnia. “Nor would you need to, for I would never marry a woman who would tolerate the manipulation.” Then he moved around the table and extended a glass to Juliet, lowering his voice as he made one final comment. “Nor one whose slippers trod only the easiest path.”
She scoffed. If marriage to Lord Granworth had been easy, then she would hate to know the alternative.
“I should not care for sherry this evening,” Juliet said. And in retaliation against Max’s rudeness, she reached out and curled her fingers around his whiskey.
Their fingers collided before she slipped the glass free. If she hadn’t taken him off guard, he might have held fast. As it was, he opened his hand instantly as if scalded by her touch. But she knew that wasn’t true because the heat of his skin nearly blistered her. The shock of it left the underside of her fingers prickly and somewhat raw.
To soothe it, she swirled the cool, golden liquor in the glass. Then, before lifting it to her lips, she met his gaze. His irises were a mixture of earthy brown and cloud gray. Years ago, those eyes were friendly and welcoming but now had turned cold, like puddles reflecting a winter sky. And because it pleased her to think of his eyes as mud puddles, that was what she thought of when she took a sip. Unfortunately, she didn’t particularly care for whiskey and fought to hide a shudder as the sour liquid coated her tongue.
Max mocked her with a salute of his dainty goblet and tossed back the sherry in one swallow. Then the corner of his mouth flicked up in a smirk.
She knew that mouth intimately—the firm warm pressure of those lips, the exciting scrape of his teeth, the mesmeric skill of his tongue . . .
Unbidden warmth simmered beneath her skin as she recalled the kiss that had ruined her life. And for five years, she’d paid a dire price for one single transgression—a regretful and demeaning marriage, the sudden deaths of her parents, and the loss of everyone she held dear.
By comparison
, returning to London to reclaim her life as a respected widow should have been simple. And it would have been if Max hadn’t interfered.
Why did he have to hinder her fresh start?
Of course, she knew the answer. She’d wounded his ego years ago, and her return only served as a reminder. He didn’t want her living four doors down from his mother—or likely within forty miles of him.
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COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from Along Came Love copyright © 2016 by Tracey Livesay.
Excerpt from When a Marquess Loves a Woman copyright © 2016 by Vivienne Lorret.
ONE FOR THE ROGUE. Copyright © 2016 by Charis Michaels. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
EPub Edition DECEMBER 2016 ISBN: 9780062412966
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062412973
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