by Addison Fox
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
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
Teaser chapter
Also by Addison Fox
Praise for the
Sons of the Zodiac Series
Warrior Betrayed
“An action-packed and emotionally charged good time.”
—The Romance Dish
“Will delight paranormal romance lovers . . . Fox weaves mythology and romance into a fun-filled adventure.”
—Romantic Times
Warrior Avenged
“Sexy immortal warriors . . . powerful love stories.”
—Risqué Reviews
Warrior Ascended
“Fox debuts with a strong start to the Sons of the Zodiac series . . . [a] powerful romance.”
—Publishers Weekly
“This new series puts a delightful twist [on] the Greek gods and the myths surrounding them. Each character has [his or her] own depth and talents that will keep you turning the pages and begging for more. A great start to a promising paranormal series!”
—Fresh Fiction
“This book was a blast to read; combining paranormal romance, enjoyable heroes and heroines, and globe-traveling intrigue kept me turning the pages.”
—Errant Dreams Reviews
“Promise[s] plenty of action, treachery, and romance!”
—Romantic Times
Also by Addison Fox
THE SONS OF THE ZODIAC SERIES
Warrior Ascended
Warrior Avenged
Warrior Betrayed
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For Kerry Donovan
I only thought I was excited to work on this book—and then I was lucky enough to work on it with you.
Chapter One
New York City
The Sunday after Thanksgiving
Jane Austen had it wrong, Sloan McKinley thought miserably as the black Lincoln Town Car drove her ever closer to the bright lights of the George Washington Bridge and the Manhattan streets she called home. A man in possession of a good fortune only wanted to get laid.
Of course, she thought reflectively, that made rich men really no different from the poor ones.
Despite the fact that dear old Jane was being cheeky in her pronouncements on the proclivities of wealthy young bachelors, Sloan knew her point was valid all the same.
What she didn’t know was why her mother thought an endless parade of Scarsdale’s finest was going to be the answer to her daughter’s walk down the aisle.
She’d known these men since birth—had played Little League soccer with them, dissected frogs in science class as lab partners and attended the prom together. She knew who had been a bad loser, who had stuffed frog parts inside the principal’s tote bag and who had puked outside their limo after the prom.
Sadly, she knew these guys. None of them had developed any mind-blowing, irresistible qualities as they matured. Sloan hadn’t wanted any of them at fifteen and not much had changed.
Case in point: one Trevor Stuart Kincaid the Fourth—Trent to all who knew and loved him. If the asshole stuck his hand on her knee and allowed his pinky finger to creep up her inner thigh one more time, she was likely to go all Terminator on his Armani-covered ass.
And to think she had actually been looking forward to seeing him.
“I’m glad your mother suggested this. It’s a far more enjoyable drive back to the city with company.”
“She’s full of ideas.” Sloan shifted yet again, firmly pushing his fingers away as his other hand inched closer on the backseat. “So tell me about what you’ve been working on. That hotel you designed in Seattle is absolutely magnificent.”
“The Dahlia?” His bloodshot eyes sparkled for a moment under the reflected lights of the streetlamps and a surge of hope filled her. She’d visited the hotel shortly after it had opened and had been impressed that it was designed by someone she’d known since childhood.
It had been that spark—that innate belief that who you were at fifteen didn’t dictate who you were forever—that she’d been desperately searching for since Trent had arrived at her parents’ for dinner.
“It’s a sweet gig. They’re paying me to design a sister hotel in Malaysia, so I can’t complain. S
peaking of sweet gigs”—he let the words hang there for a moment before leaning closer—“why haven’t we ever gone out, you and me?”
Perhaps because Mitzi Goodby shared with our entire class at our fifteen-year reunion just how shitty you were in bed, how you enjoy the occasional cocaine bender and that you are a bad tipper. But Sloan said none of that and instead opted for, “I think we’ve likely just been in different places in our lives.”
“It looks like we’re in the same place now.”
“We’re probably not as close as you think.”
“We can easily fix that.”
Sloan caught the driver’s raised eyebrows in the rear-view mirror and shot him a glare. While she knew she wasn’t in any danger—Trent was a world-class jerk with opportunistic hands, but that was about it—she also knew most people saw only what they wanted to see when they looked at her. Blond hair, all-American blue eyes and a slender five-foot-eight-inch frame had a way of doing that to a person.
The gangly, ugly duckling Trent must remember from high school—which was one of the many reasons they never had been in the same place—had been replaced on the surface by a swan.
But it was the duckling that Sloan couldn’t seem to shake loose.
People thought they were so discreet, but Sloan knew how she was discussed in her family’s social circle. The only daughter of Forrest and Winifred McKinley had been saved, according to the wealthy matrons of Westchester, by the overpowering influence of genetics. The gawky teenager had long ago been replaced by a grown woman with poise, intelligence and flawless skin, a fact for which her mother would be forever grateful.
What Winnie wasn’t grateful for, however, was the fact that her only daughter was still unmarried at the oh-so-advanced age of thirty-three.
Oh, the horror.
So whatever fears her mother had harbored when Sloan was a teenager—that she’d never catch a husband, have children and take Winnie’s place as one of the movers and shakers of Scarsdale—were still firmly in place. And—Sloan couldn’t help but dwell on it—she’d become the town charity case to boot, based upon an overheard conversation between her mother’s best friends—Betsy and Mary Jo—just before everyone sat down to Thanksgiving dessert.
The memory of that whispered conversation still rang in her ears, no matter how hard Sloan tried to fight it.
“You know Winnie’s just been sick over this. I mean, can you imagine? She went to her reunion alone.”
“Oh, Mary Jo, it’s just so sad. Sara told me when she brought the twins over the other day that Sloan was the only one in their entire class who didn’t have a date.”
“It’s not natural. What’s wrong with that girl?”
“You know she’s always been independent.”
“Independent is having a cocktail by yourself at the Plaza before your lunch date arrives. Not going to your high school reunion alone.”
Sloan unclenched the tight fists that had formed at the memory, as the bite of her nails digging into her skin finally registered.
The fact she’d given the overheard comments more than a few minutes of her time was growing tiresome and Sloan was hard-pressed to understand why she couldn’t let them roll off her back. She knew she had more to offer the world than her uterus. And despite the fact she fervently hoped to put it to good use someday, it wasn’t the only body part she had that worked.
“So what are you doing this week? I’ve got Coldplay tickets for the Garden on Wednesday night.” Trent’s invitation pulled her back from her maudlin holiday memories.
What would be the harm in going on a date? Sloan wondered. Except for the bad tipping and the drugs, she amended as a quick reminder.
Still—some good music, a nice evening out. A quick glance at Trent’s clueless face and overheated gaze and she knew what the harm would be.
She wasn’t interested—in Trent or the myriad ways he spent his time—and she’d long ago stopped trying to fake it.
Sloan was prevented from having to craft a polite refusal by a buzzing from her coat pocket. She pulled out her cell phone and quickly forgot Trevor Stuart Kincaid the Fourth as she read the message from her best friend, Grier.
SOS. DESPERATE FOR HELP. ANY CHANCE YOU CAN COME TO ALASKA AND SAVE ME? THIS WHOLE INHERITANCE MESS HAS GONE OFF THE RAILS.
Trent gazed at the phone, a mixture of irritation and jealousy filling his features. Sloan hit reply and tossed a brief apology at the problem. “A friend of mine. Her father passed away and she’s dealing with his estate.”
“Oh. That’s too bad.” His tone was flat with irritation, but she’d managed to stamp out the jealousy.
“It is a shame. It was very unexpected. Sorry. Just give me a minute.” Sloan tapped out a quick text of her own.
WHAT’S GOING ON? I THOUGHT THE LAWYER SAID THINGS WERE MOVING ALONG FINE. P.S. MOM’S STRUCK AGAIN. YOU’LL NEVER GUESS WHO I’M SHARING A CAR BACK TO THE CITY WITH.
Sloan hit SEND and turned her attention back to Trent. Her exit was coming up soon and now was the time to firmly extricate herself from whatever ideas her mother had put in Trent’s head. “Thanks for sharing the car with me.”
“So you never answered me on the Coldplay tickets. You up for it?”
“I’m sorry, Trent. It’s a full week workwise, so I should pass.”
“I’m sure you can get out on the town for one night. The concert doesn’t even start until eight.”
“Yeah, but I really shouldn’t.”
The chiseled features that had been distantly annoyed veered straight toward pissed off, evidenced by the narrowed eyes and tightly drawn lips. “Seriously?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I really don’t get it. Your mom makes this huge fuss about coming over to dinner. We take a car back to the city together. What the hell am I supposed to think?”
“Um. That two people who’ve known each other since they were five shared a ride home?”
Trent ran a hand through his perfect hair. “What a fucking joke. You come on to me all night and don’t follow through?”
A slow burn started low in her stomach, her rising anger the culmination of a long weekend full of subtle clues saying she was a failure in the only area her family chose to place value. “Again, all that happened is we shared a car. If you thought that was a come-on it’s not my fault.”
“High-society bitches. It figures.”
Sloan abstractly heard the ringing bell of her phone, letting her know another text message had come in, but she ignored it.
How dare he?
When it was roaming hands hoping to get lucky and a few suggestive comments, she could handle it. But this? To borrow his phrase—seriously?
“Look. Whatever impression my mother gave you isn’t my fault. I know I wasn’t the one giving off vibes I was interested.”
The car had come to a stop outside her building and she could hear the driver opening the trunk for her luggage. Trent’s face was a cold mask of irritation and indifference. “Whatever. Your mother wonders why you’re not married. You can’t even go on a date you’re so fucking repressed. We’ve arrived at your castle. Have a nice life, Princess.”
The door opened and she knew the prudent thing to do was to ignore the barb, get out of the car and go home.
Fuck prudence, her subconscious taunted as she slipped out of the car.
“Oh, Trent,” she crooned as she leaned over and stuck her head back in. “There are about three thousand reasons why I’m not asking you up for a drink this evening. But there’s one reason—above all the others—that you should know.”
“What reason is that, Princess?” he sneered as he kept his gaze on his cell phone.
“It’s your penis.”
That got his attention as his eyes snapped from his phone to her. “Excuse me?”
“Aside from its less-than-impressive size, the way I hear it, all that cocaine’s ruining your ability to wield it. Maybe you should think about that next time you start shoving a t
housand dollars’ worth of powder up your nose. Ta-ta, darling.”
She slammed the door on her own, before the driver could take care of it. Sloan didn’t miss his broad smile before she slipped him an extra twenty on top of the tip already sitting on her mother’s credit card.
“Sloan, he’s a slimy bastard. He’s just pissed you didn’t want to have sex with his sorry ass.”
The tears had stopped over an hour ago, leaving behind the fatigue of a good crying jag, coupled with raw, angry frustration. Even now, Sloan wondered why she’d let him say those things.
And why she was even bothering to give Trevor Stuart Kincaid the Fourth another second of her time.
“Yeah, well, we can thank my mother for whatever expectations she put in his head. Hell, she’s so desperate at this point she probably implied I haven’t had sex in five years.”
“It’s not any of her business anyway, even if it were five days.” Thank God for Grier. Her champion, no matter what the subject.
It had only been two years, Sloan thought defensively, not five.
Well, shit.
Had it really been two years?
A quick mental tally indicated her math was correct. And the knowledge only added to the uprising of gloom Trent had managed to unleash. Firmly tamping down on the rampaging self-pity, she turned her focus to her friend.
“So what, exactly, is going on up there?”
“Where do I start?” Grier quickly got her up to speed on the rapidly deteriorating inheritance battle she was waging in her father’s adopted hometown of Indigo, Alaska. “So there you have it. A contested will, barricaded from entering his home and the cold shoulder from every single person I’ve met in this damn town.”
