Hard Compromise (Compromise Me)

by Samanthe Beck

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  If you love sexy romance, one-click these steamy Brazen releases… A Fool for You

  His Best Mistake

  Playing it Cool

  Worked Up

  Discover the Compromise Me series… Compromising Her Position

  Private Practice

  Light Her Fire

  Falling for the Enemy

  Lover Undercover

  Falling for the Marine

  Wicked Games

  Best Man with Benefits

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Samanthe Beck. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Brazen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC. For more information on our titles, visit www.brazenbooks.com.

  Edited by Heather Howland

  Cover design by Heather Howland

  Cover photo by Lindee Robinson, featuring Garrett Pentecost and Daria Rottenberk

  ISBN 978-1-63375-665-6

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition November 2016

  To Hud. You’re my Babycakes!

  Prologue

  New Year’s Eve

  Montenido, California

  Ten years ago

  “Slide your sexy self over here, girl. I’ve got something for you.”

  The invitation carried despite the thumping beat blasting from the nearby private cabana. Laurie turned her back on the two guys dancing with her on the low, teak table they’d commandeered from the cabana to find the cute blond she’d talked to earlier in the evening staring up at her from the sand. A fresh bottle of champagne dangled from his hand.

  The cure for virginity, I hope, because I’m not ending this year without getting laid.

  The MBA student from Duke seemed like a qualified candidate for the job. Trent? Brent? One of those. Free-flowing drinks left the details blurry, plus she’d talked to a fraternity’s worth of guys tonight. All she knew for sure was they had adorable Southern accents and this one looked like a compact version of the cutie from The Fast and Furious.

  And he was very smooth. He circulated, turning lots of heads and talking to lots of girls, but every time her glass neared empty, he appeared with a bottle and a charming smile on his face. Flashing her own back at him, she did a little spin and moved closer. The silvery glow of the full moon and illumination from Las Ventanas Resort perched on the bluffs above them cast enough light to let her see his gaze lock on her swaying hips.

  The attention felt as good as the music, and her buzz. Yes, she could turn a head, even at a party full of rich, east-coast sorority girls with Ivy-league pedigrees. Getting noticed was pretty much her mission tonight, and she’d dressed accordingly. Her best friend, Chelsea, had sworn the super-short, strategically frayed cut-offs made her ass look legal. Dropping it low, staying on beat—not easy after God knew how much champagne—she held out her glass for a refill. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, sweetheart.” He stepped closer and did the honors, while his eyes wandered over her tank top. His focus lingered on her cleavage.

  Obviously he was a player, which suited her perfectly because she wanted to play. She was ready to play, dammit, but even so, she suddenly wished Chelsea had come with her tonight. Her best friend’s levelheaded personality balanced out Laurie’s wilder, more restless nature. Chelsea wouldn’t stand by and let her make a big mistake. Unfortunately, Chelsea’s mom didn’t approve of unsupervised beach parties thrown by vacationing frat brothers, and she kept close tabs on her only child. Laurie’s mother? Not so much. Denise was too busy running around, drinking, and partying like a porn star to give a crap what her sixteen-year-old daughter was doing. And tonight, her daughter planned to do…everything.

  “Are you from around here?” Duke asked.

  “Sort of. I’m in my final year at Montenido University.” She pointed to the pink university logo stretched across the front of the gray tank top calculated to show off the attention-grabbing curves nature had bestowed last summer. Practically overnight she’d evolved from a girl to a woman. The change sometimes left her feeling like an imposter in her own body.

  Tonight she really was an imposter.

  Duke’s gaze shifted to her face. His brows drew together a little, and a cloud of anxiety formed on the horizon of her mind. “You don’t say?”

  Her heart sank. Did something about her looks or actions tip him off she didn’t belong at this party? Was he going to send her home before the clock struck midnight, like an underaged Cinderella?

  “Want to see my student ID? My friend has my wallet, but I’m sure I could find her…” Heat flared in her cheeks at the thought of him calling her bluff. God, she hoped he didn’t. She smoothed a hand over her tank top. Tonight’s wardrobe played a key role in helping her project a cool, casual twenty-one—or really any age more legit than boring, pointless sixteen. But she’d relied on Chelsea’s advice and her own instincts. What if she looked more like a big slutty dork than a college student?

  Duke shook his head. “No way, sweetheart. I don’t want you going anywhere.”

  Her pulse settled a bit. “Then I guess I’ll stick around.”

  “Awesome.” His smile widened. “So…what’s your major?”

  Okay, points to Chelsea for suggesting the tank top. She took a gulp of champagne to hide her relief, and a wave of triumph rushed through her, even more dizzying than alcohol. She could answer any way she chose, be anyone she chose. Rebellious Laurie Peterson with her fucked-up mother and penchant for trouble didn’t exist here. “I’m a dance major.” To sell the fib, she treated him to some of her better Pussycat Doll moves.

  “Damn, girl. I bet you’re at the top of your class. I could watch you work that body all night.”

  All night? Was that some kind of suggestion, or…invitation? Uncertainty anchored her for a moment, but another swallow of champagne sent a fizz of bubbles to her brain and evaporated the caution trying to drag her down. “You could”—she broke off and sipped again—“come up here and dance with me.”

  He licked his lips. “What’ll you give me if I do?”

  “What do you want?” She added a slow smile to the end of the question, and even as her palms went sweaty, she prayed she came off grown-up, self-assured—everything she aspired to be.

  He handed the bottle of champagne to one of his friends and hopped onto the table. The two guys at the other end of the table jumped down. “How about a kiss?”

  “A kiss?” Her heart tripped in her chest, and her attention aut
omatically zoomed in on his mouth. The corners curved upward.

  Shit, Laurie, stop staring at his lips like a complete rookie. Act like you’ve done this millions of times.

  The thing was, she hadn’t. She’d kissed a few guys, but just high school boys—nobody who actually knew what he was doing. Now was her chance to change that, assuming she didn’t screw it up. She downed the last of her drink, tossed the cup to the sand, and turned so she faced him. Finally, she lifted one eyebrow and shot him the cocky look she’d perfected for exactly such an occasion. “Just a kiss?”

  “For starters.” He stepped closer. “A kiss to kick off the New Year.”

  Anticipation prickled beneath her skin, but no overwhelming urges of the sort her older, more experienced friends had described. Maybe because, physically at least, he didn’t overwhelm her. Despite her bare feet, she and Duke stood almost eye to eye. Then his arms wound around her waist, his hands slipped into the back pockets of her cut-offs, and her cocky faltered. Was it her move now? Should she do the same to him?

  His lips found the curve of her neck and his mouth went to work there. Okay, time to do something. Only a freaking amateur would just stand there like a statue. She dipped her fingers into the back pockets of his shorts, but…shoot…they were buttoned. Without stopping to think, she yanked the flaps to tug them open. His startled grunt stilled her hands. Crap. She’d accidentally given him a wedgie. Talk about a freaking amateur.

  “Sorry!” She jerked her hands away and left them hovering awkwardly at his waist.

  “No worries, sweet thing.” He pulled her in closer. His chuckle tickled across her collarbone. “I like a woman who’s not afraid to go after what she wants.”

  The teasing words bolstered her confidence. They described exactly the person she longed to be. Not just a woman, a fearless woman. She wanted to hold onto this feeling. The crowd around them erupted into a countdown. Heart pounding, she settled her hands on his shoulders and tipped her face up. His features swam into focus and she lowered her eyelids. Seduction 101. “I like a man who does the same,” she managed, and parted her lips in silent invitation.

  Music swelled. People whooped. Corks popped like a fireworks finale, and champagne rained down on them in sparkling droplets. Duke slowly lowered his head. She inhaled, and waited with baited breath. The moment felt magical. She felt magical. Beautiful. Ready for anything. Definitely the best New Year’s Eve ev—

  “Party’s over, people. Somebody turn off that music.”

  The booming voice cut through the noisy celebration. A millisecond later, the music stopped, and a closer voice, equally authoritative, said, “You.” A flashlight beam landed on Duke. “Get your hands out of her pants and step down from the table. You”—the beam swung to her—“stay put.”

  Duke froze. “What the…?”

  Big fists came out of nowhere and half-assisted, half-dragged him off the table, leaving her standing, alone, on her pedestal of shame. She rubbed her shoulders to combat a chill, and blinked at the laser show of flashlight beams crisscrossing the night, wielded by a small team of uniformed officers. A short distance away old Sheriff Halloran stood overseeing the activity.

  Happy New Year, you’re busted.

  “Back off, asshole,” Duke said, and tried to throw an elbow into the imposing figure still holding his arm.

  “Deputy Asshole,” the voice corrected, not releasing him. “And I want to see some ID.”

  “Jesus. All right. Sorry.” He dug for his wallet, one-handed, and produced what looked like a driver’s license. “But seriously, let go, man. I haven’t done anything.”

  The deputy examined the ID under the flashlight. He was bigger than Duke—taller, broader—with a cool assurance Laurie couldn’t help but envy. “Are you aware your dance partner’s barely old enough to drive?”

  “Fuck me.” Duke’s head swung her way as her shame ripened into mortification.

  Sheriff Halloran approached, calm if not a little weary. “Hello, Lauralie. Out past curfew, aren’t you?”

  Duke turned his attention to Halloran, and started talking fast. “She told me she was in college. How would I know different? Come on, look at her! Shit.” His voice took on a desperate edge. “Nothing happened. We danced. That’s all.” He flung an arm in her direction. “Tell him!”

  “Just a dance.” She wasn’t about to bring up the champagne, or anything else that might lead to Halloran or his cohort placing a call to her mother. Then she’d really be screwed.

  “I don’t suppose he gave you anything to drink?” Halloran asked.

  “No.” The denial came fast, and firm, but a loud hiccup followed like an embarrassing parent. A drunk one.

  Somebody sighed.

  Duke muttered, “Aw, hell,” and then took up the cause of rescuing his own ass. “This isn’t even my party. I’m just a guest. My room is right up there.” He nodded toward the resort. “I didn’t rent the cabana, or order the alcohol. None of it. If you want to double check with the resort, they can verify—”

  “Tell you what,” Halloran interrupted. “You and I are going to take a walk up to the resort and discuss the situation. Deputy, will you deal with Miss Peterson?”

  “No problem, assuming she can obey my instructions better than she can obey a curfew.”

  Cop humor. LOL.

  Halloran took her dance partner by the arm and steered him toward the path leading up to the resort. Staring after them made her dizzy, so she lowered her chin to her chest and focused on her bare feet. How embarrassing for Duke, getting perp-walked through a ritzy hotel lobby on New Year’s Eve.

  But his embarrassment paled compared to the world of hurt she’d be in if Deputy Do-Right decided to Breathalyze her. Her stomach took a sickening spin as she thought about the consequences. Minor in possession of alcohol. Public intoxication. She didn’t come from a rich Montenido family who would hire a high-powered attorney to get their teenager out of trouble. Uh-uh. The juvie judge would make an example of her. Definitely yank her driver’s permit. She could probably kiss good-bye any chance of getting her actual driver’s license until she was at least twenty-one. Oh, God…

  Don’t panic. Hold your shit together, and act sober.

  “Where are your shoes?”

  The deputy’s question cut short her self-coaching session. She looked up too fast and lost her balance. Gravity dumped her on her ass in the sand, and the impact jostled another incriminating hiccup out of her.

  Black shoes appeared in her line of vision a second before she heard the soft pop of a knee joint. He crouched, balanced his weight on his heels, and reached for her arm. “Are you all right, Lauralie?”

  She scooted away, which only succeeded in shoveling a load of Nido Beach into her shorts. “Don’t call me that.” An obscenely loud hiccup tagged along with the retort. So much for holding her shit together. She should have kept her mouth shut, but she couldn’t help herself. Only her mother called her Lauralie, and only when she wanted something. And basically, if Denise’s mouth was moving, she wanted something.

  The flashlight beam landed on her. She flinched under the glare. “Can you get that out of my face?”

  He didn’t immediately respond, just continued assessing her. A not-particularly-clever wisecrack leaped to her lips, about how a picture would last longer, but the smart-mouthed comment died away as an uncomfortable awareness settled over her. He was looking past the blond hair she’d tamed into smooth waves and her intentionally sophisticated makeup. Past her cocked chin and folded arms. He was looking at her. And if he kept looking, he’d see all the things she worked really hard to make sure nobody saw. Insecurities. Fears. Just when she couldn’t stand the spotlight of his attention a second longer, he moved the beam off her.

  “Those yours, Jailbait?”

  More cop humor. Her pink Uggs sat in the small pool of light. “Yes.”

  He stood, and helped her to her feet before she could scramble up under her own power. Sand showered from her sh
orts, subsiding to a drizzle as he marched her over to her shoes. The last thing she needed was more in there, so rather than sit, she bent forward and reached for her boot. Bad choice, because tonight’s festivities left her less than steady. She started to topple.

  A strong hand closed on her arm, just above her elbow, and righted her as if she weighed nothing. “Get them on. I’ve got you.”

  The heat from his palm made her realize how cold she was. Numb and clumsy and freezing cold. She tugged her boots on, moving as fast as she could because shivers threatened.

  “Anything else you need to collect before we go, Lauralie?”

  “No, and I told you not to call me that.” Even in her current state, she winced at the bitchy tone in her voice.

  “It’s your name, right?” he responded, seemingly unperturbed. He kept his hold on her as they walked down the beach to the parking lot.

  “You sure know a lot about me. My name. My age.”

  “Halloran tipped me off before he sent me over to reel you in.”

  “And you are?”

  “Ethan Booker.”

  “Ethan Booker of the Montenido Bookers?” But she didn’t need him to confirm her guess. Now that she had the frame of reference it wasn’t hard to superimpose this badge-wearing badass over her pre-teen memory of an athletic high-school hottie striding out of the surf with a board under his arm and a bunch of girls waiting by his towel. Golden-boy came from a wealthy, high-profile family. And wealthy by Montenido standards meant mega-fucking-rich.

  “Ethan Booker of the Montenido Sheriff’s Department,” he shot back. There was just enough sharpness in the reply to tell her she might have struck a nerve—like maybe he didn’t like money and privilege being the first thing people associated with him.

  Defensive instincts had her pressing on the point, to see just how sore it was. “Please. Your family’s loaded. Why slum it in the sheriff’s department?”

  “How else would I get to meet underaged girls who are about to be grounded until they’re thirty?”

  Grounded? What kind of Gilmore Girls world did he think she lived in? She cleared her tight throat. “Are you going to a-arrest me?”