by Lynn Cooper
Chapter Two
Gavin Winslow
AS WITH ALL OF my book signings, women of every age, shape, size and social status are lined up out the door and around the block. Don’t get me wrong; I’m grateful for my readers. I appreciate each and every one of them. But I have a gut feeling they wouldn’t appreciate me nearly as much if they understood what a dud I am in the sack. If they knew I was only able to make love to a woman between the pages of my books, they wouldn’t turn out in droves to see me. No female romance reader could respect a man who couldn’t do the deed in real life.
And no, it’s not a matter of taking a little blue pill. My problem is not a physiological one. It’s a psychological one. There’s nothing wrong with me physically. For complicated reasons, I simply have a slew of sexual snakes in my head which prevent me from performing. I’ve spent as much time on a psychiatrist’s couch as I have watching television on my own sofa. Years of therapy have done nothing to resolve my issues. I am no closer to fucking a woman now than when I first sought help.
My latest therapist has suggested I take a hiatus from my writing. She seems to think I need to steer my thoughts and energy in another direction. But what the fuck does she know? She’s not the one suffering from blue balls. She’s not the one whose teeth stay on edge, wanting and needing a coupling that never comes.
Sliding stacks of my latest book to the side, I take a long drink of seltzer water and plaster a smile on my face. The owner of All Booked Up, Skyler Chapman, gives me a gentle nod and unhooks the red, velvet rope separating me from my fans.
When I turn my attention from her to the first woman in line, I feel a jolt of white-hot electricity in my nether regions. My cock jerks as hard as a fishing rod with a Hammerhead shark struggling against the line. With her sinfully-abundant curves and her soft, sad eyes, she instantly has me under her spell.
My mouth goes dry, and my throat works convulsively as she steps up to the table with my novel—Shadows of Seduction—pressed against her ample breasts.
I’m at a loss for words while the raging boner in my trousers threatens to burst through my zipper. Clearing my throat, I manage to ask, “Who should I make the inscription out to?”
She blushes. “To your future wife.”
“Come again?”
“I’m positive you haven’t made me come the first time,” she says, giggling. “Although I have no doubt you are quite capable of giving a gal multiple orgasms many times over. Your author bio states you’re single, Mr. Winslow. And as sure as I know my name, I’m certain you’re the man I’m meant to marry.”
I have no idea what to say to this woman. I’ve encountered overzealous fans before but none as bold as this one. She gives shock-value a whole new meaning. Even if she wasn’t acting completely nutty, she is way too young to be on my radar at all. Judging by her flawless, creamy skin and her youthful glow, I’d say she can’t be more than eighteen. I’m a damn decade older than her.
Feeling an overwhelming need to get her gone, I ask, “Why don’t you tell me your name? There’s a really long line behind you. We mustn’t keep the others waiting.”
“I’m Aviana Leif, soon to be Aviana Winslow,” she says, batting her velvety-black eyelashes.
She’s a natural flirt. A relentless one. I will give her that. But that’s all I can give her. Even if I were willing to entertain such foolish notions, I couldn’t be a husband in the biblical sense to her or any other woman. However, I’m sensing there is something super-special about Miss Leif. Something that calls to me on a deeper than physical level. A solidly-entrenched loneliness I can relate to.
This woman-child looks as if her soul is barely holding on by a thread. Her naked vulnerability and the need to be loved cries out from the depths of her soulful eyes. Pretty peepers that are wise beyond her years.
She slowly, almost reluctantly pushes the book into my outstretched hand. While I’m signing it, she quickly grabs my extra pen and jots her phone number down on one of the bookmarks I always give out to my readers. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she folds the bookmark in half, slides it across the table towards me and says, “Don’t lose this, Gavin. I’ll be waiting for your call.”
With a trembling hand, I pick up what I know without a doubt is a metaphorical Pandora’s Box and slip it into my pocket.
She takes her signed copy of Shadows of Seduction, gives me a little wave and disappears into the night.
THERE WAS A TIME when I found a book signing to be invigorating and energizing. Now I’m just happy it’s over and glad to be back home. Ready to relax, I flip the lever on the side of my recliner. It’s not until I’m prone that I realize how exhausted tonight’s event made me. Maybe my therapist was right after all. Perhaps a nice long hiatus would do me a world of good.
Clicking the remote, I turn on the late-night news and take a sip of iced tea. A banner for the lead story crawls slowly across the bottom of the screen. It reads: Aviana Leif—daughter of fragrance mogul, Mander Leif—has been hospitalized following a mugging outside a bookstore in downtown Sparkle City, South Carolina. Details of her condition have not been officially released, but sources are saying her injuries have resulted in blindness.
Panic grips my heart as nausea roils in my stomach. Fighting back disturbing, dick-deflating memories from long ago, I reach into my pocket and pull out the bookmark with Aviana’s number on it. Against my better judgement, I feel the need to call. My gut tells me to leave it alone. To leave her alone. But my soul says she needs me.
The phone rings several times before someone comes on the line. It’s a gruff, male voice, sounding a hundred times wearier than I feel.
“Who is this?” the voice demands.
“Gavin Winslow. I’m calling to inquire about Aviana.”
“I’m her father. Where did you get this number?”
“Uh, she gave it to me.”
“When, where and how?”
“Earlier this evening at All Booked Up. She wrote it down on a bookmark.”
“I see. So all of this is your fault.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t follow what you’re saying.”
“What I’m saying, Mr. Hotshot Romance Writer, is this: my one and only child, the heir to my vast empire, is lying in a hospital bed, blind as a bat because of you.”
“With all due respect, sir, I would say your daughter’s tragic condition is the mugger’s fault, not mine.”
“I disagree. Based on what Aviana said after regaining consciousness, she snuck out of the house to see you. Now, she can’t see anything at all. Had she not been so severely smitten by your stupid little love stories, she never would have used such poor judgement. She denies it, but I’m not so sure you didn’t do something to lure her to that bookstore. Why else would she have foolishly ventured off alone?”
“I won’t even attempt a guess at your daughter’s motivations, but I can assure you there was no luring involved. Until this evening, I had never met or even heard of her or you. Please give Aviana my best. I hope her recovery will be a speedy one.”
“You will give her those well-wishes yourself. Be at my mansion tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. This is your mess, Mr. Winslow. You’re going to clean it up,” he says, ending the call before I can reply.
Apparently, the arrogant asshole assumes everyone knows where the Leif mansion is located. I suppose that’s what GPS is for, I think before drinking the rest of my tea and wishing it was something a whole lot stronger.
Chapter Three
Aviana Leif
“FATHER, FOR THE LOVE of God, why in the world would you order Gavin Winslow here to our home?”
“I want him to witness firsthand what he’s done to you.”
“He didn’t do anything. The person who assaulted me did this,” I say, placing my fingertips gingerly against my temples and rubbing them in small, soothing circles. The threat of yet another migraine is hovering on the horizon.
He huffs loudly and, in my mind’s eye, I can
clearly picture the disdainful look on his face.
“By this I assume you are making reference to your blindness.”
“Temporary blindness, Father.”
“We don’t know that, Cherub. The doctors aren’t even sure exactly what caused you to lose your sight. How can they know if you’ll get it back?”
I shrug. “Given how psychologically traumatic my mugging was, the ocular specialist who examined me before I was discharged said it could be a simple case of hysterical blindness.”
“But you are not hysterical in the least. So why the blindness?”
I roll my sightless eyes. “You are being far too literal, King Leif.”
“He’s being a concerned parent.”
At the sound of Gavin Winslow’s deep baritone voice, my ears perk and twitch like a puppy dog’s. In less than twenty-four hours of being blind, I’ve had all of my other senses magnify, sharpening to shimmering blades of awareness.
Inhaling slowly and deeply, I allow the woodsy scent of his cologne to fill me with a spicy warmth.
My father barks, “You’re early, Mr. Romance Writer.”
I hear my favorite author clear his throat. I can’t tell if it’s from nerves or frustration. My father can be maddening and downright annoying at times. I wish I could see their faces. Until now, I never realized how vitally important a person’s facial expression could be in determining their moods, emotional reactions and state of temper.
“Yes, well, I wasn’t sure of the address. I figured it’s better to be a little early than a lot late,” he said, clearing his throat again.
Now I’m pretty sure it is a nervous habit.
My father says nothing in response. Gavin speaks again. This time I can hear a slight irritation in his otherwise sensual voice. “I’m sure you’re a busy man, Mr. Leif. Why don’t you tell me exactly what it is you think I can do to help your daughter?”
“I’ve been doing some research. It would seem you have quite a bit of experience with the visually impaired.”
“I assume you’re making reference to my grandmother.”
“You assume correctly. If my sources have given me accurate information, she lost her vision to an unfortunate combo of cataracts and glaucoma.”
“She did. It was quite sad. My grandmother loved to read, to watch old movies on Turner Classic and she never missed a sunrise or sunset. Going blind was terribly difficult for her.”
The tension mounting between my father and the man of my dreams is making me antsier than a prostitute in church. I don’t know where King Leif’s line of questioning is going, but I don’t want to go there and find out.
“Father, we’ve already taken up enough of Gavin’s time. Perhaps—”
“Perhaps you should show more respect to your elders, young lady. You’ll refer to our guest as Mr. Winslow and continue to address him as such when he starts working with you.”
I gasp. “Working with me as what?”
“As your mobility coach.”
Jumping in, Gavin says, “I’m not that old. But age difference aside, I’m afraid coaching her won’t be possible. I’m a romance writer. I have no formal training for the position you’re looking to fill.”
My father grunts. “You have something better. You have invaluable, real-life, hands-on experience. You taught your grandmother to be so self-sufficient that she lives alone.”
“Hey!” I say, feeling my temper reach its boiling point. “I do not want or need a mobility coach. My blindness will be short-lived, as in not permanent.”
Gavin’s voice softens, and I can tell by the acoustical projection he has turned his head toward me. “Whether your blindness lasts for four days, four months, four years or forever, you have to learn how to get around without falling down and breaking your beautiful neck.”
I sense the fury radiating off my father.
“Are you fucking flirting with my daughter right in front of my eyes?”
“No, sir. I’m flirting with her right in front of hers.”
“Get out of my mansion right now, you damn smartass.”
“Wait!” I yell. “On second thought, I think Mr. Winslow would be the perfect person to help me acclimate to my blindness.”
“Why the sudden change of heart, Cherub?”
Because I get the feeling Gavin might be every bit as attracted to me as I am to him. Because I want to kiss him and touch him all over. Because I want to be his wife and need at least a day to convince him to marry me. I think these knee-shaking thoughts to myself but don’t dare say them aloud.
“Like you said, Father, he helped his grandma become independent. Surely, he can do the same for me.”
I feel the motion of Gavin retreating. His cologne wafts past me as he takes steps toward a departure I don’t want to happen.
He clears his throat again, and I can’t help but imagine his gorgeous green eyes riveted on me. I wish I could gaze into them now like I did back at All Booked Up. I am determined to look deeply into them again very soon.
“Mr. Leif, most rehabilitative activities take place in a facility designed and equipped for mobility training.”
My father groans disagreeably, embarrassing me even more. “Well, that’s stupid. My daughter should learn how to navigate these surroundings. After all, this is where she lives. Now that she’s blind, it’s where she will always stay.”
Now it’s my turn to groan. “I cannot believe what I’m hearing.”
“Why not, Cherub? This is your home.”
“What I meant was, I can’t believe the gleeful tone I’m detecting in your voice. You’re glad I lost my sight.”
“That’s insane.”
“Is it? You’ve always treated me like a prisoner, sentencing me daily to a life of endless solitary confinement. Now you have even more ammunition to continue doing so.”
“Not this again.”
Gavin interjects, “This sounds like a personal conversation. I’ll leave the two of you alone to talk.”
“Don’t you dare leave,” my father and I say in unison. For the first time ever, we are in absolute agreement on something.
Picking up where I left off, I say, “Yes, this again. If you hadn’t kept me incarcerated, I wouldn’t have felt the need to escape. I broke out of here to go to Gavin’s book signing because I needed one night of freedom. One night to really live and have an experience that was mine alone. Not one watched over and spied on by a bodyguard.”
“And how did that work out for you, Cherub? You couldn’t make it one hour on your own before you got mugged. You couldn’t stay out of danger when you had your sight. Do you think for a minute you could survive in the world now? You’re blind, and you will never leave this house alone ever again.”
I sniff back a tear. The last thing I want is for Gavin to see me cry. “I think you’re a lowdown, two-timing bastard who cheats on my mother every single chance he gets. I think your perfume business and your slutty whores on the side are all you care about. I think you’re crazy if you believe you get to live your life and mine, too. I will not stay here forever, and I most definitely won’t marry some rich, pompous asshole you pick out for me. I finally see you for what you are. My vision is perfectly clear on that.”
I hear my father drag in a ragged breath as I try to control my own.
“Aviana, I choose to believe this unladylike outburst is due to the duress you have been under. Once you’ve calmed down, I expect an apology. In the meantime, I will take my leave so you and Mr. Winslow can get better acquainted. I’m sure he has had time to reconsider and would be happy to be offer you any assistance you might need.”
Chapter Four
Gavin Winslow
“WHAT THE HELL JUST happened?” I ask Aviana as I knife my fingers through my hair in utter frustration and disbelief.
“You’ve been bullied by the one and only Mander Leif. Don’t feel bad. You’re not the first man to cave under the pressure of his ridiculous demands. My father hasn’t gotten wher
e he is today by taking no for an answer. He always gets what he wants.”
I clear my throat and realize it’s become an annoying habit to my own ears. “I have not caved, and I don’t give a rat’s ass what your father wants.”
She sighs, and I inhale the sweetness of her breath. I wonder if she realizes how close I am standing to her bed.
“How about me? Do you give a donkey’s dick what I want?”
I laugh in spite of myself. “What kind of talk is that?”
She giggles. “I thought we were speaking in some special animals-plus-their-naughty-parts code.” Then far too quickly, her expression turns somber. “Seriously, Gavin, are you interested in what I want?”
I can’t stop myself. I clear my damn throat again. Since when did I become such a Nervous Ned?
“Look, Aviana, I—”
“What good would looking do me?” she asks, sounding so small and fucking vulnerable it breaks my heart.
“Poor choice of words. Let me try again,” I say, feeling exasperated. “Of course I’m interested in what you want.”
I’m also interested in what she needs. In her hopes and dreams. Hell, I’m just interested, period. Which is almost as insane as the rest of this situation. My being attracted and overwhelmingly drawn to this young woman won’t do either of us any good.
She lifts her head in the direction of my voice. It’s obvious she has great instincts. Her other senses are already strengthening under the absence of her sight.
“Could you come sit by me on the bed, please? I’d like for you to hold my hand when I tell you exactly what I desire, Mr. Winslow.”
Did she really think I wouldn’t notice her changing verbs on me? Desire is so much stronger than want. That shift, along with her addressing me in such a formal manner, puts my Spidey senses on alert. She sounds like she’s getting ready to broker a deal. There’s no doubt she has inherited some of her father’s business-savvy ways.
Sitting beside her, I reach for her hand. It’s soft and warm and at least two times smaller than mine. Her delicate femininity fills my chest with a powerful protectiveness I have never felt before.
