TWENTY-THREE - Dane
TWENTY-FOUR - Bellamy
TWENTY-FIVE - Dane
TWENTY-SIX - Bellamy
TWENTY-SEVEN - Dane
TWENTY-EIGHT - Bellamy
TWENTY-NINE - Dane
THIRTY – Bellamy
THIRTY-ONE - Dane
THIRTY-TWO - Bellamy
THIRTY-THREE - Dane
THIRTY-FOUR - Bellamy
THIRTY-FIVE - Dane
THIRTY-SIX - Bellamy
THIRTY-SEVEN - Dane
EPILOGUE - Bellamy
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
DELETED SCENE from ARROGANT MASTER
PREVIEWS – DARK PARADISE + ARROGANT PLAYBOY
PROLOGUE
BELLAMY
“When are you going to take me home to meet your parents?” Cortland’s hand glides into places it doesn’t belong. His hot breath evaporates into fog as he whispers into my ear. I wish we were anywhere else but the backseat of his Kia. “Your father’s going to love me.”
I tug on his arm until his hand is free. I don’t want him talking about my father while he’s about to be knuckle-deep inside me.
“What’d you stop for?” The baffled expression on his chiseled face is a problem for me. “I thought you liked it when I–”
“Not in the mood tonight.” That’s what he gets for bringing up my prudent, strict, devout father who would marry me off in two seconds flat if he knew I were in the backseat of a boy’s car when I’m supposed to be at Bible study.
I stare into his impossibly gorgeous green eyes. Even in the dark they shine like two polished emeralds. His greedy hands lunge for me once more, but I block his move, crossing my forearms like some kind of flesh-toned barricade.
“You should take me back now. It’s getting late.” I inject my tone with a saccharin apology in an attempt to soften any case of blue balls.
Cortland’s shoulders fall. He pushes a steady breath through his nostrils. “Was it something I said?”
Yep.
“I just don’t want to get caught. We shouldn’t do this anymore.” I take the virtuous path, hoping that a faith-based argument will hold some weight with the son of an AUB quorum member. Besides, it’s time I break up with Cortland. Not that he’s my boyfriend, but I’m sort of bored with him and the thrill of sneaking around is now yawn-inducing.
And I think he’s falling for me, which wasn’t supposed to happen.
I don’t do romance and love and boyfriends, and he gave me a Valentine’s Day card last month. This day was going to come sooner or later. Now’s as good a time as any to end it.
I’m going to miss those lips, and the things he does with his tongue and the way his weight and warmth felt against my body in the cool of the night under the shade of dark. Our compatibility starts at physical and stops short beyond that.
It’s been fun, my handsome Cortland.
“You’re right.” He reaches for my hand, sandwiching it between his and holding my gaze as if he’s about to utter some kind of profound truth. “We need to make this right, Bellamy. We need to stop fooling around. It’s been, what, five-and-a-half months now?”
I wasn’t counting but okay.
“I have a confession.” His words stop my heart like the pause of a clock right before a bomb’s detonation. “I’ve already met your father.”
My mouth dries, prohibiting me from uttering a single word for a moment. “Um. What?”
He reaches for my face, cupping my jaw in a moment that might be tender to anyone else but me. “It’s time I make you mine. I want to be sealed to you.”
He has to be joking.
This isn’t the green-eyed, blond-haired guy I’ve been holding make out sessions with every Wednesday for the last five months, the one constantly uniformed in Sperry Topsiders, gingham button downs, and khakis with creases down the legs.
This is an imposter.
“Cortland.” His name comes from the most guttural part of me. “What did you do?”
“Relax.” He laughs. I don’t. “I just told him I was interested in courting you. He has no idea that we’ve been…”
His eyes drift to the hint of skin peeking out from the top of my unbuttoned blouse, and he wears the satisfied, stupid grin of a man replaying his glory days from the highlight reel in his head.
“Oh, God.” I exhale and then gulp in drink after drink of cool, spring air. “What did he say?”
“We went out to lunch. He wanted to get to know me. I told him we met at Bible study. Told him who my father was.”
My stomach twists hard, a balled knot lodging itself under my ribcage. I know where this is going. My father couldn’t have dreamed up a more perfect suitor for his twenty-two-year-old daughter. My mothers haven’t shut up lately about the fact that I should be married by now, and my father stopped silencing their commentary several months back.
“He asked how I felt about plural marriage, and that’s when I knew you were my destiny.” Cortland’s hand hooks behind my neck, and he pulls me toward him. His lips graze mine, and I feel him smiling. “My family is polygamous, too. Bellamy. You should’ve told me. I believe wholeheartedly in the principle of polygamy. I would be honored to take you as my first wife.”
The car is hot. Suffocating. His cologne makes my stomach churn.
I don’t know if this is a good time to tell him I wholeheartedly do not believe in the principle of polygamy. All I know is I need to get out of here.
Now.
“Take me home.” I move toward the handle of the passenger door, but he grabs my hand, pinning me against the seat.
“Bellamy, stop. You’re being ridiculous. Keep sweet. That’s all you have to do. Keep sweet, and I’ll take care of you. Submit to me. Marry me. Have my babies. We’ll expand our family when the time is right. This is the only path for us.” He produces his argument like he’s speaking undeniable truths. “This is what Heavenly Father wants for us. I feel it in the deepest part of my soul.”
He sounds like my father on his craziest of days, when the ranting and quoting and paraphrasing booms from his mouth to God’s ears.
My heart races until the blood whooshes in my ears, and my head fills full of a thought-drowning thickness.
“You don’t want to marry me, Cortland.” I jerk my wrist, but he’s gripping it hard, unwilling to free me. “I’m all wrong for you. I’m not the submitting type.”
“Sure you are.” He releases my wrist for a second and then squeezes tighter. “Might take some work, but we’ll get there.”
“Maybe I don’t want to submit.”
“Maybe you don’t have a choice.” His eyes flash in a way that chills my soul.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
His answer comes in the form of an egotistical leer, one that implies he’s much craftier than I ever gave him credit for.
“Are you blackmailing me?” I lean away, or at least as much as I can. My back presses against the seat until there’s no more give in the upholstery.
“I want you, Bellamy. I have to have you. I’m the only man who’s ever felt you from the inside.”
Right. With your fingers.
“I’m the only man who’s ever tasted you. I’m the only man who’s ever commanded your body, pleasured you, and that’s why you keep coming back to me.” He leans closer to me, running his mouth across mine before taking a single, biting kiss. “I want the rest of you, which means you have to marry me. And I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure that happens.”
“Take me home, Cortland.” I wriggle out from underneath him, jerking my wrists from his grasp and lunging for the door. The second the fresh air hits me, uncontrollable shivers run the length of my body.
The click of the opposite passenger door fills the empty parking lot. I stand frozen as he climbs into the driver’s seat and then rolls down the window next to me.
“Get in, Bellamy. I’ll take you back.”
I’m powerless in this moment because my car is several miles across town, and I do not own a cell phone. Calling my sister, Waverly, for a ride will just get me into even more trouble at home, and the last thing I need is for my father to be asking why I was on the south side of town, when I was supposed to be at Bible Study.
I climb in, slamming the door hard.
The drive across town is a mixture of muted thoughts and road noise. By the time he pulls into the church parking lot, my car is the only one left. According to the clock on the dash, I’m going to be thirty minutes late going home, which means regardless, I’ll still have my father’s wrath to deal with.
I can’t win.
Cortland pulls up beside my car, reaching over to place his hand atop my knee.
My body responds to his touch with a delayed flinch.
“Tonight, you’ll tell your father that I approached you after our studies, and we lost track of time as we spoke. You’ll arrange a time for me to meet everyone, and then we’ll begin our official courtship.” He speaks as if he’s had this planned for a while.
I should’ve known where this was headed when he signed his Valentine’s Day card with a heart and “Love forever, Cortland.” All along I thought I was dealing with some love-struck puppy dog, not a sadistic maniac.
Guess I thought wrong.
“Submit to me, Bellamy. No one else can love you the way you need to be loved. Only me. The sooner you accept that, the happier you’ll be.”
Marrying Cortland, or anyone else like him, would breathe life into my darkest nightmare.
My body buzzes with paddle-shock intensity. None of my thoughts makes sense, and I’m not certain I could form a complete sentence if forced. In all those months of sneaking around, never once did I consider this to be a possible outcome.
“I’m going to marry you by the end of the year,” he says. He releases his hand from my lap and rubs it across the smooth plastic of his steering wheel. I hate the slick sound it makes against his palm. “And Bellamy?”
I respond with silence.
“I strongly advise meeting me halfway with this. I don’t think your father would appreciate the truth.”
“So you are blackmailing me.”
“I like to think of it as saving your soul.”
I can save my own soul, thank-you-very-much.
“Whatever helps you sleep.” I lurch for the door handle before he has a chance to stop me, and I slam the door the second I’m free. I hear his voice, but I refuse to listen to the endless spewing of venomous threats fused with scripture.
I’ll do what I have to for now because if he’s not bluffing and he does tell my father everything, I’ll be married off in a heartbeat.
And I know that marriage will be with someone ten times worse than the twisted control freak with the talented tongue and deceptively gorgeous green gaze.
I scramble for my car, taking with me a handful of things I know to be true.
I would sooner die than marry Cortland McGregor.
I refuse to submit to him or any other man.
I’m going to get out of here as soon as possible, no matter what it takes.
ONE
BELLAMY
“I’m sorry. Your interview was yesterday.”
“No, no.” I yank my planner from my bag and slap it across the marble reception desk, my cheeks burning behind the blanket of hair that falls into my face. I refuse to believe this is happening. “It’s today. My professor set this up last week. The first Tuesday in April.”
The receptionist’s desk phone rings shrill and intrusive. She points a finger straight up in the air and takes the call. I’m flipping through the pages of my planner like a crazy person, page after page of March dates finally bring me to the current month, and several pages later, I’m staring at today’s date.
The page is blank.
I blink as if my eyes are the ones who have deceived me.
It’s all their fault.
“No.” I run my palm across the smooth, traitorous page, dragging in a haggard breath before I flip backward to Monday.
Monday, April 6th – 10:30 AM, Interview with Randy Mutchler, RJM Corporation
“This has got to be a mistake. This is not like me at all. I’ve never been late for so much as a doctor’s appointment.” I’m rambling, words flowing straight from my frazzled brain to my tingling lips. The stale lobby air nearly suffocates me. “I’m sorry about this. Is there any way at all he could maybe still see me today?”
I flash the kind of benign smile you might see in a stock photo of a business professional lugging a briefcase, hoping to God this receptionist is the merciful type who just might have a soft spot in her heart for interviewees with a nervous streak.
“I’m sure these things happen all the time.” My words are half chuckle and one-hundred percent an attempt not to break down and cry. My master plan is crumbling like ashes to dust. I slide my hand down a shiny tendril of blonde hair that spills over my shoulder. The softness against my skin is comforting.
Distracting really.
It pulls me out of the present moment and gives me something to focus on when the entirety of myself is threatening to unravel.
“I’m so sorry.” The receptionist’s words slam into my attention with brick-wall intensity.
“Professor Stan MacAbee recommended me. They’re friends. Tell him. I’m sure he’ll change his mind. Can you ask him?” I didn’t drive almost an hour from Whispering Hills to Salt Lake City to give up this easily. My gaze falls toward the phone. Her hand isn’t anywhere near it. She’s not going to even attempt to entertain my suggestion. “Just tell him Bellamy Miller is here to see him.”
A line of people waits behind me. I’m not sure how long they’ve been standing there, but now I’m all too aware of the fact that I’m causing a scene. The collective weight of their stares is like a silent push, urging me to walk out of this building and pretend like none of this happened.
This job was supposed to be a sure thing. RJM Corporation is hiring a whole slew of entry-level college grads. No experience necessary. It’s grunt work, but it beats flipping burgers and it pays better too.
Besides, it’s almost impossible to find a job when your resume consists of nothing but a community college education. I’ve never held a job before. I have no references. All I have is my 4.0 GPA and a called-in favor from my marketing instructor.
I lean in, closing the gap between myself and a receptionist who doesn’t appear to be much older than me. She seems nice enough, and I know she’s only doing her job, but I’m not ready to walk away yet.
“Look, I came all the way here.” There’s a quiver in my words that I make no point in trying to hide. “I need this interview.”
“I understand that, Miss…”
“Miller. Bellamy Miller.”
“Yes, I understand that, Miss Miller.” Her lips widen into a pained wince while her eyes attempt to hold sympathy and fail miserably. “I’m terribly sorry. There’s nothing I can do. Anyway, Mr. Mutchler is out on business today. I can ask him when he returns tomorrow, and if he agrees, our H.R. department can get in touch with you.”
“Is there someone else who might be available for an interview?”
Her eyes glide over my shoulder and land on the gentleman behind me. She’s offering him a silent apology. Her winced face screams, “This girl is crazy. I’m sorry. Be patient. She’ll be out of here soon enough.”
I collect the shattered remnants of my dignity off the floor and sling my bag over my shoulder.
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
My head hangs as I avoid the intrusive stares of the people lined up behind me. I don’t know what they look like. I don’t know if their gapes are laced with pity or packed full of amusement.
I don’t want to know.
I want to get out of here, regroup, and come up with a plan B.
My watch reads ten ‘til eleven, and the sign on a local bar and lounge claims it’ll be
opening soon for the lunch crowd. I’ve never been a drinker, but today feels like a pretty good day to start.
People drown their problems with alcohol for a reason. It must work.
My mothers aren’t expecting me until this afternoon. They think I’ll be in the city all day, filling out hiring paperwork and getting a tour of my new office. I told them I was all but hired when they wished me luck that morning after breakfast.
As far as I’m concerned, I have a hall-pass today.
Never mind the fact that I’m twenty-two.
A grown woman.
A full-blown adult, even if I’m still living under my parents’ roof like a baby bird who never learned how to fly away from the nest. It was never that I couldn’t fly, just that I was never allowed.
Until now.
I spend the better part of ten minutes convincing myself it’s perfectly okay to enjoy an adult beverage at eleven on a Tuesday all by myself, and the second the proprietor flips the window sign to “open,” I show myself in and take the first bar stool on the left.
The inside of the place is dark, and it almost feels like night. I suspect there’s a glaze on the windows, tinting them to give off just enough of a dusky ambiance to make people want to stay a while. I’m beginning to forget what all transpired just a little while ago, but I’m quite certain I’ll forget even more once I’m face to face with a stiff drink.
Rows upon rows of glass liquor bottles in every shade from clear to brown to cobalt are backlit on shelves that span from the ceiling to the back of the bar. I glance around for a drink menu and find none. Maybe they’re not out yet?
I suppose most drinkers don’t need menus. They know what they like. They know what’s good.
“What can I get you, ma’am?” A gray-bearded bartender tucks a white rag into the back of his apron and rests his hands on his hips, studying me. “Are we having a drink today? Lunch? Both?”
“I’d like a drink.” My words are slow and unnatural. I cringe on the inside. Hard. I sound like a foreigner in a strange new land, uttering an unfamiliar phrase, trying to blend in, yet making herself stand out even more. “What would you recommend?”
ARROGANT PLAYBOY Page 40
