by Anne Marsh
The Rebel vs. The Princess
Complete opposites who share the same burning passion!
Jaxon Brady of the Hard Riders MC has sworn to protect Evie Kent from a rival gang. His hard muscles and black leather motorcycle boots are a sharp contrast to the girlie dresses Evie wears for her successful party-planning business. Their instant attraction is magnetic, and their lust keeps them glued to each other’s side...but is it a dangerous distraction?
“Dare is Harlequin’s hottest line yet. Every book should come with a free fan. I dare you to try them!”
—Tiffany Reisz, international bestselling author
Anne Marsh writes sexy contemporary and paranormal romances because the world can always enjoy one more alpha male. She started writing romance after getting laid off from her job as a technical writer—and quickly decided happily-ever-afters trumped software manuals. She lives in Northern California with her family and six cats.
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If you liked Ruled, why not try
A Week to be Wild by JC Harroway
Off Limits by Clare Connelly
Legal Seduction by Lisa Childs
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RULED
Anne Marsh
For Aunt Monica.
For the Monday morning Skype calls, squirrel and slug advice, and the best pictures of a California anemone ever...
Our time together means so much!
Thank you.
Contents
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
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Excerpt from A Week to be Wild by JC Harroway
Chapter One
Eve
YOU SEE THAT big pink RV parked next to Lake Mead? That vehicle screams look at me. I painted sparkly rainbows and unicorns on both sides, along with my business name. Perfectly Princess Parties. The bling is great advertising, like driving a moving billboard around Las Vegas.
I put the princess in party—there isn’t a five-year-old girl (or boy, frankly) in Vegas who doesn’t believe I’m made of awesome. I specialize in birthday parties—we’re the precake entertainment. We’ve got the dresses, the sparkle and the attitude to keep our audience riveted and wanting to be us when they grow up. Eventually, at some point between five and twenty-five, those same girls will realize it takes more than a dress and a crown to rule the universe, but the fantasy’s fun while it lasts. And yes, I’m cynical. You meet more frogs than princes in my business. Ever notice how there’s an overabundance of amphibians in every fairy tale—and a corresponding drought of royal suitors?
It’s a numbers game.
Since it’s about a million degrees in Vegas today, we’re holding our monthly company meeting lakeside. Despite being as manmade as most Vegas attractions, the lake’s gorgeous. After running through our bookings for the next month and brainstorming new party ideas, we’ve vacated our temporary boardroom (the picnic table underneath a particularly gnarly Joshua tree) for a well-earned swim.
I float in the lake, trying to pretend I’m not still thinking about our financial bottom line and how to drum up more business. Income-wise, we haven’t hit survival levels yet. I tilt my head back, and everything’s better in my relaxed, upside-down world. My three part-time princesses may moonlight as showgirls on the Strip, but they’re paying their bills. Our singing dragon doubles as an Elvis impersonator. He’s crooning the King’s finest to my accountant. Everybody’s taking a moment to let loose just a little and enjoy. We’re going to get there eventually—there being financial security, fat 401Ks and permanent employment.
In fact, the only person not here? Rocker. My business partner and baby brother swore he’d meet us here, but he’s once again failed to make an appearance. He’s busy at an auto body shop where he does custom paint jobs. Plus, he rides with the Black Dogs MC. He swears the motorcycle club is completely on the up-and-up. According to him, the stuff you see in the TV shows or read about on the internet is 98 percent crap and untrue.
It’s the other 2 percent that worries me.
My baby brother now stands a whopping six feet two inches tall. I practically raised Rocker after our parents flaked out on us, and I did the best I could. Money and education—those two things keep you safe, get you out of the lousy neighborhood and into the good places. The princess party business is our first-class ticket out of East Las Vegas to somewhere else. Somewhere safe. I may not know much about clubs or colors, but I do know that bikers are the opposite of safe—and Rocker’s been acting secretive.
A splash sounds somewhere south of my feet and someone tugs on my toes. “Cavalry’s here.”
I sit up fast, butt bumping on the bottom of the lake. Carlie laughs, but she’s already staring up the road, longing painted all over her face. My brother turned out to be hot and the bad-boy-biker thing is just the cherry on the sundae as far as some of my employees are concerned. Carlie starts finger-combing her hair and plumping her boobs up in her teeny-tiny bikini top—a definite Rocker alert.
Sure enough, a big, shiny, way-too-loud Harley approaches our temporary campsite at Mach Seven speed. Rocker drives too fast. He also brakes too late and too hard, his tires sending up a cloud of dust as he stops next to the RV. I wade out of the lake, grab my towel and brace myself for the excuses. He’s endlessly creative when it comes to explaining his absences.
“Looks like I’m late to the party.” A charmingly rueful grin curves Rocker’s mouth. Objectively, I see exactly what makes Carlie daydream about my brother. Dark blond scruff shadows killer high cheekbones and his hair falls around his face in wicked disarray. His legs straddle the bike, encased in worn denim and ending in a pair of impressive black motorcycle boots.
He hops off the bike and sweeps me into a bear hug, grinning down at me. This is why I can’t stay mad at him—no matter what we’ve done or how infrequently we see each other now, he’s always glad to see me. He loves me, and he’s not afraid to let other people know it. Carlie practically swoons behind me as he plants a gentle kiss on my forehead. A guy who’s not afraid to admit his feelings is a prince and is just as rare.
“Fashionably late, Rocker?”
He flicks my nose lightly. “I got held up. Club business.”
It’s always club business with him. “I needed you here.”
He makes a show of looking around the site. “Looks like you’ve got everything covered.”
Uh-huh. We’ve had this conversation before, and it does not improve with age. “We’re supposed to be partners.”
“I’m the silent partner who provided the start-up cash. You provided the brains.”
He gives me another easy smile, but I can tell he’s done discussing this. He’s got a point, too. I need a squeaky-clean imag
e to appeal to the mom crowd—so by hanging back, he’s actually doing me a favor. Plus, if I push him too hard, he’ll just get back on his bike and leave. So I cave.
“You look tired.” This isn’t a polite lie on my part—there are purple shadows beneath his eyes and his pretty face is slightly worn.
“Club’s keeping me busy.” His tone makes it clear that this is another conversational no-fly zone.
“You know you have a job with me anytime you want it.” We’ve had this conversation only about a million times, but it bears repeating. I will always be here for Rocker.
He tilts his head at the RV. “You really see me driving around in that thing?”
“What’s wrong with the Princess Mobile?” Admittedly, the gas mileage sucks, but she gets us where we need to go, she’s great advertising and she has honest-to-God turrets. Pop that sucker up and I can play Rapunzel on demand. It holds my costumes and props, and it gets my princesses from one party to the next.
Rocker’s just starting to list all the reasons a pink ride isn’t his thing when his phone goes off. He looks down and then disappears briefly to take the call.
“I have to go,” he says, sauntering toward me.
Yeah. Color me shocked.
He pulls me into a one-armed hug. “Be extra careful for me, Evie girl?”
“I’m always careful,” I tell him, and sadly, it’s the truth. I’m a color-between-the-lines girl—he doesn’t need to worry about me.
“Promise me,” he insists and I think he’s actually serious.
“You want to be more specific?”
He curses. “Evie—”
“Does it have anything to do with your club?” I point to the patch on his vest. I’d like to rip the thing off his chest, but it wouldn’t solve the problem.
“Might do. Trouble’s brewing,” he says slowly. “Trust me. You don’t want the details, Evie. I’ve got it handled, though. You don’t need to worry.”
Some things never change—Rocker swears he’s got a situation under control, I worry, and then I conceive a half dozen plans for salvaging said situation. I love my baby brother, but I don’t approve of his lifestyle choices. His biker buddies are bad news. Today, though, he really doesn’t want to talk about whatever’s bothering him, so I nod and promise to be extra careful. He gets back on his bike and tears out of the campsite faster than I’ve ever seen him go. Whatever trouble he’s facing down must be really bad.
It’s one hell of an exit—even more dramatic than the Princess Mobile. It makes it impossible to ignore his departure, which Samantha makes clear when she wanders over, fanning herself.
“God, your brother’s hot.”
I force a smile, although the last thing I want to discuss with my fellow princess is the degree of my brother’s attractiveness. I’ve got bigger things to worry about. “In the category of things I don’t need to know...”
“Who’s hot? And are we sharing secrets?” Carlie wades out of the lake to join us.
“Rocker’s in trouble.”
Samantha wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes gently. “You need to stop worrying about that man. He’s an adult, doing adult things.”
“Funny. That’s exactly what I’m worried about. Life was way easier when he was just afraid of the monsters in the closet.”
“You should be thinking about dating or at least getting laid,” Samantha counters. “Ask Rocker to introduce you to some hot biker.”
“No bikers,” I say firmly.
“Really?” Carlie sounds doubtful.
Bikers are fascinating, but they’re the polar bears of the dating world—a look-don’t-touch breed of man you’re better off spotting in a zoo than in the wild. So freaking touchable on the outside, but completely wild on the inside. I love bad boys, but I prefer to do my loving from a nice, safe distance.
“Biker is a synonym for bad boy. I don’t need that.”
“What if I find you a bad boy with a heart of gold?” Samantha is the eternal optimist.
Reality check. “I’ll be ninety before you find one of those. Give me someone who’s nice.”
“Imagine the sex. Booooring.” Samantha makes a face and wades back into the lake. As she executes a spectacular belly flop into the cool water, I check my phone. We need to be on the road in twenty minutes or we’ll hit traffic. Still, I can afford five more minutes.
I wade back in and rejoin my girls. “It’s been so long since I had sex that I’m not sure I remember how to do it.”
Obviously, that’s an exaggeration, but both Carlie and Samantha look like I’ve just announced that there will never, ever be another episode of Game of Thrones. Possibly combined with a nationwide shortage of chocolate. And wine. Maybe I could kick a puppy and complete my elevation to total loserdom.
“Who doesn’t get laid?” Carlie floats over to me. It feels like high school, except the margaritas are no longer illegal. “Do you have a disease? Or did you take a religious vow when I wasn’t around to stop you?”
“Not everyone has to have sex. Not everyone wants to.” Most days I’m too tired to even think about taking my clothes off, let alone doing so in a sexy fashion and then making sure my man comes. I’ve been working twelve-hour days for the last eighteen months to get my princess party business off the ground, and my efforts are finally paying off.
“Intervention?” Carlie gives Samantha a look I have no problem interpreting. Neither one of them has a filter and they both have frequent, fantastic sex (at least to hear them tell it—and believe me, they certain don’t hesitate to tell).
Samantha nods and heads for her purse. She trots back into the water a few seconds later, phone in her hand, and thumbs like a mad woman. Water-based internet surfing seems like an obvious recipe for disaster—while I wish the good folks at Apple would come up with a waterproof number, so far they’ve dropped the ball on that particular winner.
“We’re finding you a booty call,” Samantha announces.
“How about this one?” Carlie taps a picture on the phone, but Samantha’s already shaking her head vigorously enough to spray me (and the phone—she really is living dangerously) with water.
“He’s a taxi and not a long-haul trucker, if you take my meaning. Eve needs someone with stamina. She has a drought to work off.”
I mentally run time trials on my previous two boyfriends for the next few minutes (they’d both qualify for gold in any track-and-field sprinting contest) while Carlie and Samantha review and reject various single men. Eventually they linger on a dark-haired hottie with a nice face and a strong jaw. He’s wearing a suit and a tie, although there’s always the possibility that’s an aberration. Maybe Samantha snapped him at a funeral or a wedding.
“Jack Turner.” Samantha taps the screen and Jack zooms into focus. “He runs numbers for a casino. He’s twenty-eight, currently single, never married and he has his own place. Rumor has it that he’s really, really good at putting his partner first. I like a man with manners.”
Nice to know the man has been sexually preapproved. I examine his face. He looks normal. Of course, Samantha and I have also been up since six, preparing for and then throwing a purple-themed princess celebration for the four-year-old daughter of a blackjack dealer who’d received the tip of a lifetime two weeks ago and decided to invest part of it in his daughter’s dream party. It’s possible I’m not thinking straight.
“Is he nice?”
Carlie pokes me in the stomach. “Trust me. You want fun, not nice.”
Says she. “Why can’t he be both? You guys said you could find me a bad boy with a heart of gold.”
“We lied for a good cause. It would be like winning the lottery. Don’t raise the bar impossibly high for Jack.”
“I know nice guys,” Samantha announces. Since she’s been married and divorced twice and she’s not even thirty, I’m skep
tical. Her first impressions don’t seem to be borne out in the long run.
Carlie reaches for the phone. “Name one who can still make your panties wet just by walking into the room. Evie needs chemistry. Not a nap.”
See? She agrees with me. Nice guys are more endangered than the rhino these days.
Samantha looks blank. The way she stares down into the water, you’d think she’s expecting a name to float to the top.
Shit. Surely one of us knows a guy who’s both dating material and nice. Or...maybe not. Maybe finding Mr. Nice is like going to the zoo and hoping to spot a unicorn. Fuck the polar bears—we want mythical creatures.
Samantha waves her phone at me. “I’m texting Jack right now. We can go out next weekend.”
If today is Saturday, that gives me at least six nights to find my libido. It has to be here somewhere.
Samantha doesn’t look up from her phone. “And don’t tell me that you’re not free. Our clientele are three to eight years of age. They do not host birthday parties after 10:00 p.m. Ergo, you’re free and clear for drinks. There’s no excuse to not go out and have fun. Let loose and forget about your responsibilities for a few hours.”
Fun.
A simple, three-letter word.
I’d like to pretend I can’t remember the last time I had fun because I work so hard and am such an astute businesswoman.
It wouldn’t be true. I know exactly when I last cut loose, went out and had a few, did some dancing and kissed a boy. I was seventeen and in high school.
Unfortunately, I was also supposed to be at home, watching Rocker while our dad was out taking care of some “business” for his MC. Sucks to be a teenager stuck with babysitting duty when everyone else is out partying. My sneak exit through the window had been awesome up until the moment I returned and discovered our house surrounded by the blue-and-whites. Dear old dad got busted running arms, and I got busted as a deadbeat who’d put having a good time ahead of looking out for her little brother.
That was on me.
And yeah, I know that the ten years that have passed since that night should count for something. That Rocker doesn’t blame me for the six months of foster homes he’d survived before I’d turned eighteen and convinced the judge to let him live with me. Six months in which I’d turned my life around, found a job and done everything right.
