by Marie Astor
This Tangled Thing
Called Love
By
Marie Astor
This Tangled Thing Called Love
Copyright 2012 by Marie Astor
Excerpt from To Catch a Bad Guy copyright 2012 by Marie Astor
Published at Amazon for Kindle
All rights reserved. Without Limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Excerpt from To Catch a Bad Guy
Chapter 1
It was barely eight a.m. when Claire heard the sound of music emanating from the ceiling. For a moment, she had a scary thought that she was late for work, but then she remembered that it was Saturday. She curled her legs and pulled the comforter up to her chin; she was dreaming, and the sensual music had to be a part of the dream. She snuggled against the pillow in anticipation of what the dream would bring next, but as she attempted to drift back to sleep, the music kept growing louder. After tossing and turning, Claire finally awakened, aware that the persistent sounds were very real.
Claire lay back on her pillow, staring into the ceiling in bewilderment as the sultry sounds of Argentine tango filled her bedroom. Who in their right mind would blast tango music at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning? Obviously, the new tenant of the upstairs apartment, Claire answered her own question. She was wide-awake now. Building rules explicitly stated that there was to be no noise until 10 a.m. on weekends, and she would make it her business to educate the new resident.
Claire kicked off the comforter and slid her feet into her slippers. Then she pulled on her bathrobe and headed out the door.
She pressed the elevator button, but saw that the elevator was out of order. Had she been in a calmer state, this might have been enough of an obstacle to postpone her mission, but at present this circumstance only added oil to the fire.
As she walked up the stairs to the top floor apartment, Claire felt the onset of a hangover. She had been out late with the girls last night, and she was bound to pay for it now. If only she had been able to sleep it off. Claire frowned as she stoically climbed the rest of the stairs. Saturdays were supposed to be relaxing, but this Saturday promised to be anything but.
The music grew even louder once Claire had reached the next floor. Now it was a milonga waltz: a slow, sensual melody that made her shiver right down to her slippers. This music lover must be quite a connoisseur of tangos, Claire thought, about to ring the doorbell. She stopped halfway, remembering that in her fury she had forgotten to brush her teeth and comb her hair. Her hesitation was brief, as she decided that this grooming lapse was irrelevant at the moment. In fact, she thought that it might serve the purpose of her visit – her disheveled state should be enough of a deterrent to stop the culprit from further misconduct. She pressed the bell and waited.
Several minutes passed. The music continued, but nothing else happened. Frowning, Claire rang the doorbell again. Her lips drawn and her hands crisscrossed on her chest, she geared herself up for the speech she planned to deliver to the offender, but she was disappointed yet again as the door remained closed.
This time her finger nearly sank into the rickety doorbell as she kept the button pressed for almost a minute. Whoever was inside had to hear that, but apparently, she was mistaken again. Exasperated, Claire clenched her fingers into a fist and pounded on the door, but to her surprise the door creaked open under the impact. The blasting music seeping through the opening enveloped her, and under its spell, Claire made her way inside the apartment.
What she saw next defeated all of her expectations as she froze in place, mouth agape. The apartment consisted of one giant room. It must have been a one-bedroom at some point, but the dividing wall had been knocked down, leaving a vast loft. The room was empty save for a frumpy couch in the corner, a scant table and two chairs. Several large bags, presumably with clothes and other possessions, were planted on the floor sporadically.
But this disarray had nothing to do with Claire’s paralyzed state as she stared at the back of the man who was too absorbed by his task to notice her presence. He was shirtless, and his muscles rippled as he moved with feline grace to the sound of the mesmerizing melody. His feet were engaged in complicated dance moves, but his hands were busy with a paint roller as he coated the wall in front of him in red paint. His longish hair touched the nape of his neck, and Claire found herself swallowing uneasily as she stared on, hypnotized.
The music lover – that was how she mentally called him – lowered his paint roller into the paint bin, and Claire caught his striking Roman profile. He was about to go on with his task, but he must have spotted her from the corner of his eye, because he abruptly turned around and stared right at her. Claire blinked and began rattling off the cause of her visit, at which the music lover signaled for her to stop and glided over to the iPod speakers on the table, which were the source of Claire’s initial indignation. Gliding was the only word Claire could think to describe his graceful way of moving.
The music stopped, and Claire shivered uncomfortably, terrified by her current predicament. What had she been thinking, wandering into some stranger’s apartment? He could have her arrested for trespassing, and that was the least alarming of the possibilities. Handsome or not, he could be a serial killer for all she knew, and now she was stuck there at his mercy.
“I’m Alec, Alec Brunell.” The music lover smiled at her as he held her gaze with his dark brown eyes.
Claire made a mental effort to stop calling the man before her the music lover. His name was Alec, and she knew absolutely nothing about him except the fact that he was inconsiderate enough to blast tango music at eight in the morning on a Saturday, which was why she found herself in his apartment in the first place. That’s right, her visit had a purpose, and now she would make it known.
“I’m Claire Chatfield. I live in the apartment below yours…”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Claire. Thank you for coming over to welcome me to the building.” Alec reached for her hand, and Claire felt his warm fingers encircle her palm. “Would you like some coffee, Claire? I was about to have mine…” He half-turne
d to the tiny kitchen.
“No!” Claire heard herself shouting.
“Well, if you don’t like coffee, I have some orange juice…” Alec went on, clearly taken aback by her reaction.
Get yourself together, Claire thought as she folded her arms on her chest, pinching her forearm. “Actually, the reason I stopped by is the music.”
“You love tango, huh?” Alec’s gaze travelled along her bathrobe. “It is beautiful…”
“No, I don’t love tango,” Claire snapped. This Alec character sure had his act down pat. Granted, he was a looker, but in Claire’s book that did not give him the right to be so blatant about it. Sure, there must be plenty of women hungering for his mouthwatering flesh, but she sure as hell was not one of them. She had a boyfriend, and she had come there for a reason.
“You don’t like tango?” Alec stared at her in frank bewilderment.
“I don’t like any music blasting through my ceiling at eight a.m. on a Saturday. The building rules say no noise until ten a.m.” Claire glared at him. She was in control now.
“Oh, I’m so very sorry.” To her surprise, Alec blushed. “I used to rent a loft in a warehouse, and I forgot how thin building walls can be.” He grinned apologetically. “I promise you that it will not happen again. Now, may I offer you a cup of coffee as a peace offering?” He winked at her, catching her irate gaze.
“No, thank you. I think I’ll head back to bed and try to catch up on some sleep.” Claire turned to leave. “And by the way, you need to have a building permit to do any kind of handiwork,” she blurted over her shoulder as she shut the door behind her.
Back in the safety of her apartment, Claire locked the door behind her. Her face was burning crimson red; she had never lost control like this before.
She stumbled into the kitchen and put on the coffee pot. She was too rattled to go back to bed now. Mechanically, she poured cereal into a bowl and splashed some milk over it. Taking a bite of her cereal, she cringed as she replayed the encounter in her mind. She could not remember the last time she had been this flustered. She liked to think of herself as a fairly rational person, and yet, just now she had behaved like a complete maniac. First, she had burst into a total stranger’s apartment, and then she had ogled his naked, incredibly muscular torso – at this thought Claire cringed again, hoping that her new neighbor had not noticed this lapse – and then, after he had tried to make small talk despite her unexpected appearance in his apartment, she had nearly screamed at him for playing his music too loud. And to top it all off, after he had sincerely apologized, she had snubbed his perfectly good-natured offer of a cup of coffee.
Reliving the memory of her embarrassing behavior was enough to make Claire burrow her face in her hands and pull on her hair. She was a grown woman, and she knew how to handle tough situations. What on earth made her act like this? Sure, Alec’s devastatingly handsome looks could have been an explanation, but Claire knew full well that it was not the answer. A part of her wished it had been the answer. That would have made things so much simpler. Claire was in love with David Lawson, and she was not the kind of woman who got smitten by a six-pack, no matter how hard, or dark eyes, no matter how piercing. No, the true reason was in the music - the sultry, maddening tango music.
You love tango, huh? She remembered Alec’s question, which was more of a statement really, as though it were a given that everyone on earth adored the heart-wrenching melody. Well, in his defense, Alec could not have known how loaded the question was for Claire. His innocent remark took her back to a time she did not care to revisit, so the only natural response was to snub him and run for cover. Well, she was all grown up now, and she knew how to deal with unwelcome recollections of the past: lock them up in a “do not open” memories compartment, where they belonged.
Alec put down the paint roller and wiped his forehead on the back of his arm. Man, he was beat. He had forgotten how grueling physical labor could be. Sure, he worked out six days a week, not to mention daily dance practice, but painting walls made him discover muscles he did not know he had. Every bit of his body throbbed, but at least he had gotten the job done. The south wall was painted red, and the other three were white. Now, all he needed was to wait for the paint to dry so that he could add a silhouette of a tango couple against the red background. That ought to complete the ambiance.
He opened the small fridge and reached for a bottle of orange juice. The cool liquid soothed his parched throat. Holding the now half-empty bottle, Alec walked over to the window to check out his new view. All in all, he was happy with his new digs. The rent was reasonable, and the view was not bad either. From the top floor he had an unobstructed view of Second Avenue. Not exactly the poshest of locations, but it would do. In a couple of days, once the paint smell aired out, he could move in.
For the past two years, he had been shacking up in an old warehouse in the meatpacking district. Jason, his school buddy had let him stay there rent free. The place was perfect: plenty of space for dance practice and no neighbors to complain about Alec blasting his music too loud. But now that Jason was “retiring” from his investment banking job and reinventing himself as a bartender, he needed the space back in order to start construction for his bar. Alec was not picky when it came to living quarters, as long as he had plenty of open space, which was why when the real estate agent had shown him the top floor, converted loft on Second Avenue and Eightieth Street, he had signed the lease immediately.
One thing he had not counted on was fussy neighbors. Alec smiled, thinking of the unexpected morning visitor. “Claire,” he mouthed her name, remembering her tousled chestnut hair and hazel eyes. Even that bulky bathrobe she had been wearing could not conceal the shapely outlines of her body.
Of course, a girl like that was bound to be a challenge. But he had always liked challenges, and the fact that he was a professional tango dancer usually played in his favor. Usually, but it might not be so this time. Alec winced, remembering Claire’s reaction to his innocent question about her music taste. What was all that about? he wondered. As far as he was concerned, no one could resist tango. Well, he would get to the bottom of Claire’s music idiosyncrasies in due time, but in the meantime, he needed to think of a way to become more neighborly.
“Think of the devil,” Alec murmured, taking another gulp of orange juice as he spotted the subject of his thoughts exiting the lobby. Someone must have a hot night planned, he thought, his eyes examining every detail of Claire’s outfit, which was far more flattering than the bathrobe he remembered from this morning. Now, she was dressed in a little black number that fitted her body to a T. His instincts had been right; from long, shapely legs to a firm, flat stomach to wonderfully full breasts, her body was downright perfect, and the way her chestnut mane bounced down her back made Alec want to get to know his neighbor better. Heading out for a night on the town, Alec mused. It was Saturday night after all, and he was glad to remark the absence of a male companion by Claire’s side. Suddenly, his new building looked even more appealing.
Chapter 2
As she exited the lobby of her building, Claire had a funny feeling that she was being watched: the eerie, nagging sensation one gets when being stared at. She looked around, but seeing that the street was empty, she attributed her discomfort to the dress she was wearing. It was new, and to her mind, way too revealing. She had bought it at her friend’s, Amber’s, suggestion, and now she wished she had opted for a different outfit. Claire pulled on the hem of her dress that barely covered her mid-thigh. Usually, she never wore skirts above the knee, but Amber had insisted that she look super-hot for the party. There would be fashion models and movie starlets, and if Claire were not careful, David’s eyes just might wander, Amber had cautioned her. Claire had laughed Amber off. It took more than flashy looks to impress David, but she had bought the dress nonetheless, along with a set of Spanx, which was now pinching her behind mercilessly.
Claire could hardly believe her eyes when she spotted an empty cab
heading her way. She waved her hand, instantly checking for possible competition. The simple act of hailing a cab could easily turn into a battle on the Upper East Side.
“Mercer and Houston,” Claire gave the cab driver the directions and leaned back against the car seat. She opened her purse and checked her reflection in the mirror for the umpteenth time. Normally, she was not one to fuss about her looks, but when it came to David, she wanted to look perfect.
She had been dating David Lawson for almost a year. Eleven glorious months to be precise, and at times, Claire still could not believe that of all women David had chosen her. After all, David Lawson had not been hailed New York’s most eligible bachelor by the tabloids for no reason. At thirty-three, David had the world in the palm of his hand: blond, six three, with rock hard abs and a smile that could melt the snows of Antarctica, he was the sole heir to the Lawson real estate empire. His father, Allan Lawson, owned half of Manhattan, and David was to follow in his father’s footsteps. He had just recently been promoted to vice president of Lawson Enterprises, and everyone knew that one day, sooner rather than later, David would run the company. Sure, the fact that he was the owner’s son contributed to his advancement in the firm, but David had proven himself fair and square by learning the business from the bottom up, putting in long hours, and most importantly, coming up with groundbreaking ideas. But all of these impressive attributes were not the reason why Claire Chatfield was swept off her feet by David Lawson. She was not impervious to good looks and money, but she looked for much more in a man, and she had found it in David: he was kind, reliable, and he took great pride in his profession.
But eleven months ago, all Claire knew about David Lawson was that David was a handsome heir who charmed his way through life. His womanizing reputation preceded him, so when David approached her at one of Amber’s mixers, Claire had pretty much blown him off. She had been polite, but that was where it ended, and when David tried to get her number, she feigned an excuse and left the party.
