by Lynn Cooper
I feel Winter’s gaze running up and down my body. She’s doesn’t have to say a word for me to know she is thinking about the way I used both to subdue and ravish her in my bedroom.
“But that day, I had no choice. Something happened to Herb’s wife. She and I were watching television after school when she suddenly doubled over in pain. I wanted to call an ambulance, but she begged me not to, saying Herb would be furious. She told me to go out to the farm and fetch him,” I say, taking a shuddering breath. Even though thirteen years have passed, reliving that day isn’t easy. “When I got out there, Herb was nowhere in sight. I wasn’t surprised. I figured he was off fucking around instead of working. Just as I was about to leave, I heard weird sounds like something scratching on metal. Those noises were followed by soft, muted cries. It took me a second to realize it was coming from the storage container, near the old, dilapidated barn. At first, I thought a wild animal had gotten trapped inside, then I saw the pad lock and knew whatever was between those metal walls had been put there on purpose.”
I’m full-on into the memory now, and the sound of Winter’s voice startles me. “You must have been frightened,” she says.
“Scared shitless,” I say, smiling sadly. “Knowing Herb, I figured whatever I found inside, it wouldn’t be good. Still, I quickly made my way to the barn where I found a pair of old, rusted bolt cutters. When I got the lock off, I was expecting to see some sort of wild, wounded animal. Instead, I saw fifteen terrified, sobbing women. They were filthy, wearing tattered clothes and covered in bruises.”
Winter promised not to interrupt, but I knew she couldn’t help herself. “You think Herb beat them?”
I nod. “And starved them and no telling what all else. I did my best to try and soothe them. To show them I was a friend and not a foe, but they spoke no English and didn’t understand me. I didn’t blame them for being terrified, but it was hot as hell inside that metal box. I knew they needed fresh air and water. It was while I was trying to coax them out that I saw the sirens and heard the whir of helicopter blades.”
“Someone called in a tip after hearing the women, right?”
“Yep. When I opened the door, their screams and cries filled the air. A nearby farmer called it in. By the time I was arrested and arraigned, Herb was in the wind. He fled to Mexico and left me to take the fall.”
“That’s awful.”
“No, that was evil. Lucky for me, if anything about the whole fiasco could be called lucky, I was charged as a minor. Since the women were in fairly decent health and were returned safely to their families, I was sentenced to a year in juvy and two years of probation. I was released on my eighteenth birthday.”
“Is that when you changed your name?”
“Yes. Even though my court records were supposed be sealed since I was a minor, I felt like I needed a fresh start. I didn’t want too drastic a change because I wanted to hold onto my true identity. The one where I was a son and brother before the cruelty of cancer robbed me of my family. So I made small alterations by turning Tagon into Torin and dropping the letter s, changing Stokes to Stoke.”
“I see.”
“Do you, Miss Primrose? Do you see that I was innocent and falsely accused of a crime Herb committed? Do you see how the judicial system failed me back then and is still doing so? I don’t know how your friend got her hands on those court records. All I know is, I’m sick and tired of this shit. A bunch of idiot cops stole a year of my life, and now another is trying to turn you against me and steal what we have.”
She furrows her pretty brow. “Didn’t you tell the police about Herb?”
“Until I was blue in the face, but it didn’t do any good. He was gone, and I was the one holding the padlock when the cops arrived. I was the one standing in front of the storage container that held those women captive. It was my fingerprints on the bolt cutters.”
“What about your lawyer? Didn’t he try to find your foster father and bring him in?”
“I had a public defender who had never won a case in his entire, pathetic career. He didn’t care if I was guilty or innocent, but I desperately needed him to believe me. I was telling the truth, but that didn’t matter to him. He was there to draw a paycheck and nothing else. He showed no inclination to put any effort into proving my innocence. He told me I should be grateful for the year in juvy. That I should be thanking my lucky stars for what he considered a slap on the wrist,” I say, feeling more exhausted than I ever have but needing to press on. To get this all out before Winter kicks me out. “But I wasn’t grateful; I was bitter. I guess I still am. I thought I had let all of it go. But I haven’t. When you left this morning in that cop car, it all came rushing back. I knew I was getting screwed again by our men and women in blue. And I was right. You swallowed everything your cop friend said hook, line and sinker. You were never going to call. You were going to walk out of my life forever and never look back.”
Her eyes mist over, but I don’t want her pity. Kneeling in front of her on a throw rug that’s fraying around the edges, I take her hand in mine and say, “I took a gamble on you, Miss Primrose. Even though the stakes were much too high, I rolled the dice of truth, bet my heart and lost.”
Tears are rolling down her cheeks, and I can hardly bear it. Rising, I look down at her at the exact same time she is looking up at me. “I love you, sugar. If you ever need anything, just holler.”
Turning on my heel, I stride to the door. I have to get the fuck out of her house before I take her in my arms. If I touch her, I won’t ever be able to let her go.
The second I reach for the knob, she crashes into my backside, sending me face-first into the cracked wood. Thanks to fast reflexes I’m able to catch myself, softening the impact with my palms.
She wraps her arms around my waist and squeezes harder than I thought possible. Despite her lips being pressed against the knotted muscles of my back when she speaks, her words are surprisingly coherent. “I love you, too, Torin.”
Taking her by the wrists, I pry her hands from my waist and turn to face her. “You don’t know how badly I’ve wanted to hear you say that, Winter, but it’s not enough.”
She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “What do you mean, it’s not enough? What else is there?”
I place my hand at the nape of her neck. I want her to feel the possessiveness of my touch. “Trust. If you can’t trust me, none of it’s any good. If you don’t believe me when I tell you something, we have nothing.”
The tip of her pink tongue darts out to moisten her dry lips. It’s all I can do not to kiss her senseless, but I can’t allow myself the pleasure, and I want her to have all of her senses about her in this pivotal moment. The one where I walk out of her life or the one where she walks away with me.
I hear her swallow nervously, and I know she’s screwing up all of her courage. I hold my breath and wait.
“In that case, Mr. Stoke, it’s all good, because I trust you with you my life. And we have everything because I believe every word you have told me. I’m sorry I walked away. It won’t happen again, and that’s the truth.”
Relief floods my soul as I grab her up, enveloping her in my arms. I allow myself a brief kiss before picking her up and hefting her over my left shoulder.
Through an outbreak of giggles, she says, “I can see my caveman is back in full force.”
Smacking her playfully on the butt, I say, “You got that right, Miss Primrose, and he’s here to stay.”
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Winter Primrose
IT’S BEEN THREE MONTHS since Torin asked me to marry him. Two weeks since we said, I do. James stood up for Torin as his best man. Casey served as my maid of honor. I asked her after she apologized profusely to Torin for digging up his past.
To make amends, my bestie also reached out to one of the precinct’s international informants now living in Mexico and asked for his help. Thanks to his diligent undercover work as a hospital orderly, Pepe Gonzale
s was able to get a confession out of Herb. On his sick bed, the shitbag came clean about all the horrible things he had done.
Torin’s record was expunged, and he and Casey became friends.
Chad and Sarah Hellerman are separated and on the fast-track headed to a divorce. A week or so after the auction, he was picked up for soliciting twin prostitutes named Holly and Molly. Casey said they were reminiscent of the Double Mint twins from the old chewing gum commercials.
In light of Chad’s arrest, Torin bought out Marketing Madness. We renamed and rebranded the company. Now it’s Primrose and Stoke Advertising Agency. The business is thriving. Torin and I have just landed six new accounts and gained back all the old ones Chad had lost.
Life is good, and things couldn’t be better. Torin and I work side-by-side during the day and act out our naughtiest fantasies here at Stoke Estate when night falls.
Speaking of role-play, I gotta go now. He’s yelling for me from downstairs. The tall, sexy, dark-eyed, black-haired real estate agent is waiting to show me—a potential buyer—the pleasures of acquiring a new house. I plan on fighting him hard but, in the end, I’m sure he’ll win.
His for the Touching
Chapter One
Aviana Leif
THE SIXTEEN-FOOT HIGH, wrought-iron gate in front of my father’s mansion serves two purposes. One: to keep other people out. Two: to keep me in. When a person thinks of a prison, they visualize cold, vertical bars sliding and clanking loudly within the tracks of a rectangular frame. No one pictures black, burnished steel elegantly constructed in a fancy scroll pattern or gorgeous electronically-driven twin gates that swing open like the massive jaws of a lion lazily yawning.
They imagine someone being confined in a six-by-eight cell with a grungy toilet and filthy sink. They cannot fathom a prisoner sleeping in the lap of luxury inside a southern plantation-style home with twenty rooms, five of which have full baths complete with Jacuzzi tubs. A place so grand it makes Tara from Gone with the Wind look like a dilapidated hovel in the ghetto.
Forgive me for sounding like a poor little rich girl, but that’s exactly what I am. Within these walls of wealth, I wear the finest fashions. Daily my body is draped in Dior, veiled in Versace and covered in Chanel while my soul is stripped naked of any real emotional connections. I consume the tastiest cuisine prepared by the most elite chefs—all trained in France—yet I am starved for even the most basic of affections.
My father—Mander Leif—is a big-shot billionaire perfume manufacturer. He’s also a brilliant chemist who has created some of the world’s most famous fragrances. He spends every waking hour on one business deal or another. The rest of the time, he’s filming his flamboyant perfume commercials, building his blog and advocating his online ads.
Despite his absences, I truly am proud of his accomplishments. Being an African-American man born into poverty, he literally had to claw his way out of the mire. With nothing more than a steely determination, a thirst for knowledge and a hunger for power, he built his empire from scratch. His company—Feline Fragrances—produces the most seductive scents in the entire world. So seductive he can’t resist screwing the waif-thin models who spritz their feathery-boned wrists and skinny, elongated necks with his brand.
Speaking of the adulterous devil, here he comes now.
Striding into the kitchen like the King of Confidence, he’s wearing a fitted suit from the Armani Collezioni G-Line. Leisurely, he selects a porcelain cup rimmed with 14-carat gold off a silver, Sheffield serving-tray. Filling it with espresso, he says, “Good morning, Cherub.”
The nickname is his subtle way of saying I’m his chubby angel. I prefer it to my mother’s not-so-subtle nicknames for me: fat-ass, pudge-bucket and dough-girl. In her defense, she mostly uses them while inebriated. Which is pretty much around the clock unless she’s in a ritzy resort somewhere drying out. This month it’s the Phoenician in Scottsdale, Arizona. I can’t say I miss her, but I do pity her. Why? Because she was really something before electricity.
Based on old photographs, she was the belle of the ball. Now, due to the heavy drinking and pill-popping, she’s a lily-white, washed-out, wrinkled-beyond-her-years socialite. That’s right. I’m the result of an interracial marriage. I don’t mind my much lighter shade of mocha skin tone or my unruly, raven-colored locks. What difference does it make how I look anyway when no one but the servants and my bodyguard see me?
Smiling up at my father from the table where I’ve just devoured a pile of smoked sausages and a stack of whole-wheat pancakes with real maple syrup, I say, “Good morning. What’s on tap for you today?”
He takes a silent sip of his highly-caffeinated beverage—such a debonair man of his financial stature wouldn’t dare slurp—and says, “More of the same. What sort of lofty plans does my princess have?”
Before answering, I guzzle my non-GMO, organic, pulp-free orange juice. I know he abhors this type of unrefined behavior, and I take great pleasure in the clench of his freshly-shaven jaw.
I answer his question with a question. “What sort of plans can a princess locked away in an ivory tower have, King Leif?”
He sighs heavily. “Must you be so dramatic, Aviana? You know very well that your isolation is for your own safety.”
“I’m suffocating here!”
“Then go out.”
I blow my breath so hard, a few pancake crumbs roll off the edge of my plate. “You mean with Landon?”
“Of course. He’s your bodyguard. I pay him good money to protect you.”
“Father, can’t you understand how I feel? I long to be free. To drive through those gates by myself and explore the world. I want to go for a long walk alone. To think and dream without intrusion.”
“Do those thoughts and dreams include being kidnapped by some sick psycho and held for ransom? Because that’s a very real possibility, young lady. There are thousands of criminal opportunists out there waiting to get their greedy hands on my fortune. And the best way to do that is through you. Cherub, you have been so sheltered, you have no idea how crazy the world is.”
“I can’t imagine it being any crazier than this world,” I say, spreading my arms in a gesture meant to encompass the entire mansion. “I know you think you’re taking care of me. That what you’re doing is for my own good. But there’s nothing good about being alone all the time.”
He scoffs, “You are not alone. You have the servants as well as Landon and Laura. She’s been your nanny since you were born. You are literally surrounded by people all day long.”
I shake my head. “Yeah. People on your payroll. I have no real friends. I’ve never even set foot in a classroom.”
“You had the best tutors money could buy. You have a better education than any student could hope for.”
“Education isn’t entirely about books, Father. I’m an eighteen-year-old with no life experiences. No boyfriend. No hopes of falling in love and getting married.”
He smiles and softens his voice. “I was going to wait until your mother got back from her vacation to share this news. But given your current state of despondency, I shall tell you now. Next month, I will be throwing a debutante-style dinner party for the sole purpose of finding you a suitable mate. Many of my business associates have fine sons. Young men with the proper pedigree and financial status to keep you in the lifestyle you’ve grown accustomed to.”
“Oh my God! I have heard it all now.”
“Actually, you haven’t, but I don’t have time to fill you in on all the details. I’m running late for a meeting,” he says, finishing his beverage. “We’ll talk more when I get home tonight, Cherub.”
Knowing this will be another one of many unfinished conversations, I push my plate to the side and eagerly grab the entertainment section of the newspaper. I like to look at the latest movie releases and daydream of sitting in a theatre full of my peers, holding hands with a man of my choosing, watching Hollywood’s best on the big screen.
Of course the man
sion is equipped with a home theatre bigger than most cinemas. My father gets prescreen copies of movies long before they are released for public viewing. But like so many other activities I engage in, they are completely empty and hollow without someone special to share them with.
As I’m about to dispose of the paper, I see an announcement that turns my insides to jelly and sends me floating away on cloud nine.
I can’t believe it, but my favorite author of all time, Gavin Winslow, is doing a book signing at All Booked Up—our town’s local bookstore. Because I live a life of loneliness, novels have become my closest friends. When I was younger, I enjoyed tales of action and adventure. But when I hit puberty, I discovered the delicious world of romance. For the last five years, Mr. Winslow’s books have taken front and center stage in my reading. The man writes women and love scenes so well, I can’t help but imagine how good he would be in bed.
Feeling better and more hopeful than I ever have, I run to my room and start planning my great escape. No matter what it takes, I’m determined to sneak out and meet Gavin. I refuse to have such a scrumptious experience tainted with my father’s limo driver waiting by the curb or a bodyguard lingering by my side. Tonight, I’m going to make a memory with the most passionate, prolific writer in the romance genre. And guess what? He also happens to be the dreamiest man alive.
How do I know he’s so handsome? His picture is on the cover jacket of all his novels. I can’t tell you how often I’ve fallen asleep to the sight of his thick, chestnut-brown hair haphazardly falling across his forehead. How many times I’ve traced my fingertips along the image of his strong, square jaw and the cleft of his chin. How desperately I’ve longed to feel his full, firm lips pressed against mine. With any luck, I’ll at least be able to gaze into his emerald-green eyes tonight at All Booked Up.
