Breathe You In

by Joya Ryan

  Also by Joya Ryan

  Break Me Slowly

  Possess Me Slowly

  Capture Me Slowly

  Sweet Hill Temptation (Novella)

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2014 Joya Ryan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  ISBN-13: 9781477818008

  ISBN-10: 1477818006

  Cover design by Georgia Morrissey

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013916746

  To Jill.

  Thank you for your support over the past couple years. Your belief in me is the reason this book got written. You always go above and beyond. Thank you for everything. You are a wonderful friend.

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Sneak Peek: Only You

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  So you see, sir, the new rehabilitation facility would really benefit the citizens of New York,” I said, trying to tamp down my growing anxiety, and mentally chanting that I would not vomit from panic.

  House Representative Walter Miller was short, bald, and wore a permanent scowl, which only heightened my already-skyrocketing blood pressure. But he also had influence over this year’s proposed state budget.

  I shifted my weight. Between the nearby clinking of champagne flutes and the low conversations being held by some of New York’s elite, I felt like a sore thumb in the middle of the high-class gala I was attending.

  “What was your name again?” he asked, shuffling in his tuxedo and draining his brandy.

  “Amy Underwood. I work with New Beginnings, a nonprofit addiction counseling, prevention, and rehabilitation—”

  “Yes, I’m aware of your organization. And, young lady, while it’s admirable that you’re trying to get funding for that little facility, Arbor Hill is not an effective use of state dollars.”

  “But that’s where people need help the most, sir. The substance abuse rate is higher there than in the whole of Albany put together.”

  His beady eyes looked over the top of his glasses and very much down at me. Suddenly, the cream couture sheath dress I’d borrowed from my roommate, Paige, felt cheap, as Miller’s judgmental glare burned a hole right through me.

  “And you are so concerned because you grew up there?” He phrased it as a question, but it held a negative, probing undertone.

  “No, sir. I live there now, but I’m originally from Indiana. I moved to New York a few months ago.”

  “I see. Well,” he lifted his now-empty glass, “good evening, young lady.”

  He didn’t even bother looking me in the eye. He just waddled off and disappeared into the crowd, leaving me standing with an erratic pulse and LOSER stamped on my forehead.

  “Shit,” I breathed. Walter Miller had been my one chance, and I’d blown it. Paige had put her job on the line to sneak me into this political function tonight, and I hadn’t even hit the two-minute mark before Miller had shut me down.

  The whole reason I’d moved to New York and taken the entry-level job at New Beginnings was that people needed the rehab center. There were seven other employees with the same Level One job description as me, and only one Level Two position available. If I got this funding, I’d get that Level Two job and really be able to make a difference—not to mention benefits and a livable wage so that I could afford to stay in New York.

  I closed my eyes briefly, hoping the rejection would wash away as quickly as it had come, but it didn’t. Instead, I felt like an ignorant, small-town girl in a borrowed dress and stilettos that were both a size too small.

  It was a feeling I knew well, and had hoped I’d never experience again.

  Everything I had fought for this past year—my fresh start and take-charge attitude, coming to New York to rebuild my life—was crumbling around me. No matter how hard I tried, my sister’s death was still a haunting memory I couldn’t fix. Smoothing my long blonde hair, thankful I’d worn it down because my dress was more revealing than I was used to, I walked to the bar.

  “Ow—” An elbow jabbed into my side and I nearly toppled over, scuffing my—Paige’s—pumps along the floor to keep from falling. Regaining my balance, I looked up and saw a tall, well-manicured woman walking away, apparently with no regard for the fact that she’d just run into me. Maybe one of the many shiny diamonds she was wearing had blurred her vision, or maybe she didn’t give a damn that she had practically walked right over me. My guess was the latter. Running my palms down my dress, I continued toward the bar.

  “What can I serve you, ma’am?” the bartender asked. He was dressed in all white, from his button-down shirt and vest to his pants and shoes.

  “May I have a blueberry vodka and tonic, please?”

  “Coming right up.”

  I placed my hands on the counter and reminded myself not to fidget.

  Fidgeting shows you’re ill-bred and insecure, a voice sizzled through my mind. The same voice I’d been running from for the past two years. For a long time, I had made it a point to stay out of situations that made me feel inferior, that put on display all my shortcomings and flaws. Problem was, the career path I had chosen required me to talk to powerful people.

  Powerful people control the money, Paige always said.

  Taking another deep breath, I wished for the millionth time that it wasn’t true. Not only was my anxiety rising, but I had no interest in politics or money. I just wanted to get this center built.

  The bartender placed my drink before me.

  “Thank you.” I took a long swallow. The cold liquor burned going down my throat, but it was something that I very much needed in that moment.

  “You don’t belong here,” said a rough voice behind me.

  I looked over my shoulder and nearly toppled out of my heels. A pair of dark eyes bore down on me. Even more startling, the eyes were attached to a tall, chiseled man with equally dark hair and features.

  My lungs stilled and my stupid heart suddenly decided to stop pumping blood. Did he know I hadn’t been invited? If he did and tied it back to Paige, her job could definitely be in danger.

  Shit, shit, shit!

  “I…that’s just—”

  “I meant it as a compliment,” he said, forestalling my stuttering.

  “Oh.” Not the most intelligent thing to say, but getting my synapses to communicate with each other in that moment was a challenge: He was hovering over me and taking up the oxygen I needed.

  I couldn’t look away from him. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place where I’d seen him. He was younger than most of the men here. Early thirties maybe. Beneath the well-t
ailored tuxedo, I could tell he was fit. Between the way he held himself and that intense stare, the man radiated power and strength.

  “I saw you talking to Walter.” My shoulders sank and I took another sip of my drink. “Don’t let him bother you. He’s an ass, especially after a few brandies.”

  I smiled at the handsome stranger. He was the first nice person I’d met all night. His strong jaw was cleanly shaven but between the tan skin and thick, chocolate hair, I guessed he could shave every day and still have stubble by five p.m. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had Italian ancestry.

  He pulled out a bar stool and offered me a seat. I took it.

  “Your feet must be killing you.” He looked at the four-inch red heels I was wearing. While they were sexy and gave my usual five-foot three-inch stature a nice boost, they hurt like a mother.

  “I’m thinking of writing a letter to my local assemblyman, telling him that torture devices do exist in the US.” I wiggled my feet and—holy hell!—Mr. Handsome unleashed a dazzling smile, complete with dimples and so much male swagger it should have been considered a weapon.

  He knelt down and cupped my calf in his warm palm. I almost jerked out of my seat at his unexpected touch. Before I could form words, he slipped one stiletto off, then the other, and placed them beneath the stool.

  “Can’t have you being tortured on my watch.”

  Trying to relocate my mind and figure out how my panties had gotten a bit damp in a matter of seconds, I folded my lips together to keep from speaking. That onyx glare shot to my mouth. There was an odd contradiction to him. Influence and capability were obvious at the surface, but there was a glimmer of something deeper going on behind the kempt facade. An expression like that came from a man who had seen certain things and lived a life very different from one I could imagine, yet he coaxed me to go barefoot at a thousand-dollars-a-head dinner like I had nothing to be ashamed of.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Amy Underwood.” He nodded, continuing his assault on my face with his hypnotic eyes, as though he was trying to see past my scared smile and into my real nervousness. “What’s your name?”

  “Roman.” His voice cut through the air like a fistful of thrown gravel. His glare locked on something behind me. I turned to see what he was looking at, but he gently gripped my knee, which got my attention in several ways. “I was going to get some fresh air on the terrace. Would you care to join me?”

  “Um…” I looked around, trying to find Paige but had no luck. “Sure.”

  He held out his hand and helped me up. When I made a play to slip my shoes back on, he bent and picked them up.

  “Allow me.” He held my pumps in one hand and extended his other arm. There were massive French doors propped open at the opposite end of the ballroom, which I assumed led to the terrace. Problem was, we’d have to walk around or through the entire crowd to get there.

  “I’m going to need my shoes.”

  He frowned down at me. “I thought you said they hurt?”

  “Well, yeah. But I can’t walk through here barefoot.”

  “Why not? The floor is clean. I happen to know for a fact they waxed it this morning.”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s…because it’s inappropriate.”

  “I see.” He nodded, glancing first at the floor, then at my feet, as if calculating the best method of travel. “Then how about a piggyback ride?” he winked.

  The silly giggle that erupted from my throat couldn’t be helped. Roman, with his casual attitude and charm, made me feel like everything was really okay. Like I, in the middle of this shit storm of the elite and entitled, was okay. Scuffed heels or not.

  “Lead the way.” I smiled.

  His palm rested on the small of my back, and I could feel heat radiating from his touch as he steered me around the edge of the room and toward the doors. He didn’t seem to want to interact with people any more than I did.

  Keeping my eyes generally downcast, I glanced around quickly to try to find Paige. I spotted her in the corner talking to an older woman decked out in what looked like costume jewelry, but I had a suspicion it was all real. Paige’s eyes met mine and widened. She mouthed something to me.

  I frowned.

  She mouthed the same word again, but I had no idea what she was trying to say. Cover? Gopher? Vendor? I shot her a tense smile and slight shrug, hoping it looked more relaxed than it felt.

  We finally reached the doors and Roman led me through, out into the crisp fall air. The terrace was massive and wrapped around the entire building. Elegant white lights were strung overhead, and the smell of lavender wafted around. The low hum of the conversations inside grew softer as he led me farther away from the open doors.

  The faint sound of traffic from the bustling city streets echoed quietly.

  “You’re not from New York, are you?” he asked.

  “I was born and raised in Indiana. I moved here after college.”

  He smiled, looking me up and down. “Which was what? Last year?”

  Yes. Apparently my age and non-New Yorker attitude weren’t hard to spot. “I’ve been here for six months.” Barely.

  I hadn’t realized how far we’d walked until I looked up and saw him standing near the railing, the glow of the open door no longer visible. We were alone. In the dark. With only a few flickering strings of light above. I crossed my arms, holding my elbows.

  “Here,” he said, putting my shoes down and unbuttoning his jacket. Shrugging out of it, he placed it over my shoulders.

  “Thank you.” He backed away. Putting his hands in his pants pockets, he leaned back against the railing.

  My goodness, the man was beyond sexy. So poised and confident, but in a casual way that made him approachable. Made a girl wonder if the rest of his skin was as tan and edible looking. I looked up at him, my mind doing jumping jacks in an attempt to process the last few moments. Getting lost in the beauty of him was not smart, especially since I still couldn’t tell if he knew I had snuck in. Not wanting to push the subject, I went for small talk.

  “It’s a nice night. I can see why you wanted to come out here.”

  “I wanted to bring you out here,” he corrected, and straightened his stance.

  My breath caught as my judgment balanced on a line between danger and excitement.

  “Why?” I hated that my voice was little more than a whisper.

  “Because you were painfully out of place in there.” He stepped toward me and lifted my chin with a single finger, coaxing my gaze to meet his. “Again, I mean that as a compliment.”

  Once upon a time I’d thought I’d known how to handle powerful, wealthy men. I had been wrong. There had always been a secret expectation I couldn’t measure up to, and that knowledge had eaten away at the already-hollow spot in my chest. It had been made clear that I didn’t know how to blend into this kind of world, and I had no desire to try. But this man? All I could focus on was him. He wasn’t cold and calculated. He was warm and inviting.

  “I don’t belong here,” I admitted and shook my head, hoping that the slight movement would jar my brain enough to keep it from imploding.

  “I wish I could say the same,” he rasped. There was something so raw and genuine about the way he said it. As if he understood what it was like to have the earth spin around him instead of beneath him.

  Once again, I was in over my head, and I had no idea how to dig my way out. Unfortunately, his presence was like gravity. It was hard to break away, and even more difficult to want to.

  “I want to know something about you, Amy.” He tugged on the lapels of his jacket that covered me, pulling it a bit more securely around my shoulders.

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Something true.” He smiled, and I got a little caught up in it.

  The more minutes passed, the more comfortable I grew. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was a touch off. Of all the people—the women—in that room, he had chosen to talk to
me. He must have an angle. Maybe he was trying to get me to admit to trespassing?

  “You look like I asked you for the codes to a nuke.”

  “Sorry.” I glanced down. “I was just trying to figure out why.”

  “Why I want to know something about you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it wrong to have a conversation with someone who interests you?”

  I chewed my bottom lip. He didn’t sound like someone who was angry or on the prowl to bust party crashers. Maybe the man just wanted a conversation.

  “You want to know something true about me…will you return the favor?”

  He arched a brow and his grin widened, seemingly pleased with my counteroffer. “Of course.”

  “Okay, then.” I looked over his shoulder at the view of the Albany skyline. “Back home, I used to stand on my parents’ porch and just look out at all the acres of green grass. I was a kid and it seemed so big. I remember thinking that it must be the center of the earth, because nothing surrounded our farm for miles. But now, in the middle of all these old buildings and skyscrapers, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so small in my life.”

  I looked up to find him gazing down at me. A mixture of fascination and raw heat burned through those obsidian eyes. He oozed so much alpha masculinity that it was hard to imagine what he was thinking. Most people wore their generic emotions—happy, sad, angry—rather obviously. Not him.

  “Sometimes it’s nice to drown in the world instead of always riding at the forefront,” he murmured.

  He picked up a lock of my hair. The back of his fingers grazed my breast, causing a totally different kind of shiver to race through me. Rubbing the tendril between his finger and thumb, he looked into my eyes.

  “Small or not, Miss Underwood,” he said, his mouth hovering over mine, “you are certainly striking.”

  I tried to catch the better judgment that was flying from my mind. I failed. Instead, I tilted my chin up. “Y-your turn to say something true.”

  His gaze locked on my mouth. “I just did.”

  He seized my lips with his. His warmth surrounded me, clutching me to him. One strong arm encircled my back while the other cupped my neck. His thumb brushed over my earlobe, and a shot of pleasure raced through my veins.