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The Dimple of Doom
ISBN # 978-1-78184-399-4
©Copyright Lucy Woodhull 2013
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright July 2013
Edited by Eleanor Boyall
Total-E-Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2013 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Total-e-burning and a sexometer of 2.
This story contains 222 pages, additionally there is also a free excerpt at the end of the book containing 7 pages.
Samantha Lytton
THE DIMPLE OF DOOM
Lucy Woodhull
Book one in the Samantha Lytton Series
It may sound like common sense, but never hump an art thief. Turns out, Samantha Lytton’s Common-Sense-O-Meter is super-duper broken.
Failed actress Samantha Lytton is getting along just fine in her lonely little life when a charming criminal called Sam or Nate or maybe even Richmond kisses her, square dances most provocatively, opens his not-so-wicked heart, and gets her in trouble with not one, but two international art theft rings as well as the LAPD.
She’s either gonna end up in jail or famous. Maybe both.
Along the way, she fights for her life and falls for this funny, sexy disaster of a man…and learns that finding happily ever after with yourself is the first step to real contentment. A cute dimple is just the second.
Dedication
To my amazing, supportive husband with the Han Solo frown. If you didn’t scowl at me at least once a day, I’d think you were saving all those delicious faces for some other woman. Your smiles ain’t bad, either.
And to all the women mired in crud who still try every day:
You are fabulous, and you can do it.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Achy Breaky Heart: The Marcy Brothers
All By Myself: Eric Carmen
Car Wash: MCA Records
I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas: Columbia Records
Stayin’ Alive: RSO
Absolutely Fabulous: BBC
Arrested Development: Fox
Austin Healey 3000 Mark II Roadster: Nanjing Automobile Corporation
Axe: Unilever PLC
Beetle: Volkswagen AG
Bellagio: MGM Resorts International
Best Buy: Best Buy Co, Inc
Beverly Hilton: Hilton Worldwide
Big Mac: McDonald’s Corporation
Birkenstocks: Birkenstock Orthopädie GmbH & Co. KG
Golden Girls: NBC
Brady Bunch: ABC
Bullitt: Warner Bros
Caesar’s Palace: Caesar’s World Inc
Casablanca: Warner Bros
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory: Roald Dahl
Chips Ahoy!: Nabisco
Cirque du Soleil: The Dream Merchant Company
Clairol: Procter & Gamble
Cosmo: Hearst Communications, Inc.
Disneyland, Walt Disney World: Disney
Diet Coke: The Coca-Cola Company
Doctor Who: BBC
Doritos: Frito-Lay
Dr Pepper: Dr Pepper/Seven Up Inc
The Princess Bride: 20th Century Fox
Dress Barn: Dressbarn Inc
Facebook: Facebook, Inc.
Flipper: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer
Formica: Formica Corporation
Fritos: Frito-Lay
Garden & Gun: Evening Post
Ginsu: Ginsu Products, Inc
Inspector Gadget: Walt Disney Pictures
Golden Globes: Hollywood Foreign Press Association
Gone with the Wind: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer
Hallmark: Hallmark Cards, Inc.
Han Solo, Stormtrooper, The Force: Lucasfilm
Hitachi Magic Wand: Hitachi
Hobbits, Lord of the Rings: Tolkien estate
Harry Potter, Hogwarts: JK Rowling
Hot Pockets: Nestlé
Ikea: INGKA Holding B.V.
International Delight: Dean Foods
iPod: Apple Computer, Inc.
James Bond: Ian Fleming/Metro Goldwyn-Meyer
Jell-O: Kraft Foods Holdings, Inc.
Judge Judy: CBS
Keeping Up with the Kardashians: E!
Kubla Khan: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
LA Fitness: Fitness International LLC
Law & Order: NBC
Leave It to Beaver: ABC
Long John Silver’s: Long John Silver’s, Inc
Macbook Air: Apple, Inc.
Maglite: Mag Instrument Inc
Michelob: Anheuser-Busch
Monty Python: BBC
Mrs Potato Head: Hasbro Toys
Nike: Nike, Inc.
Ocean’s Eleven: Warner Bros
The Oprah Magazine: Harpo Print LLC
Oscar: Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences
Pizza Rolls: General Mills
Pizzeria Pretzel Combos: Mars Inc
Playboy: Playboy Enterprises, Inc
Prius: Toyota Motor Corporation
Ramada Hotels: Wyndham Worldwide
Rambo: Orion Pictures
Risky Business: Warner Bros
Robocop: Orion Pictures
Rolling Stone: Wenner Media LLC
Sailor Jerry: William Grant & Sons
She Walks in Beauty: Byron
She-Hulk: Marvel Comics
Smurf: Studio Peyo
Snakes on a Plane: New Line Cinema
Star Trek: CBS
The Godfather: Paramount Pictures
The Music Man: Warner Bros
Twitter: Twitter, Inc.
Vogue: Advance Magazine Publishers, Inc.
Wonder Woman: DC Comics
X-Men: Marvel Comics
Xanadu: Universal Pictures
Xanax: Pharmacia & Upjohn
Chapter One
It’s a Not-So-Wonderful Life
Accountants should not be so sexy.
It all started at the office Christmas party, as many terrible hangovers do.
My palms began to sweat at the sight of The Accountant walking in my direction. His shining eyes said, I wanna spread your sheet, his masterful gait said, Damn, I’m masterful, and his tantalising smirk said, I’ve read the Kama Sutra—all the way through.
I swallowed the lump of lust in my throat and twiddled with the tablecloth of the catered buffet table. My usual party plan involved making winsome eyes at the food, but tonight I salivated over more than just the pigs in a blanket.
“Potato ball?” h
e asked. Sam Turner, aka The Accountant, held the fried offering palm up on a festive red and green paper plate.
I had the hots for a dude named Sam. My name is Samantha. Samantha ‘n’ Sam. It was the stuff of obnoxious wedding invitations.
What colour were his hazel eyes today? Glancing up, I slid into hormone heaven. He stood, eyes mossy green pools of sensual seductiveness, and offered me the Garden of Eden apple. Except it was a potato ball.
Cocking my head, I posed in an alluring manner that I hoped brought Marilyn Monroe to mind. I should say something. Something not stupid.
“I love balls.” Oh, damn. “And potatoes!” Did I just tell him I loved to eat balls? “I mean I love to eat food! In ball form. You know. Because it’s easy. To eat. Except when it rolls. Then it can be hard to catch.”
Stop.
Talking.
“Okay.” Sam’s lips turned upward in mockery on his almost handsome, totally charming face, topped in curling, floppy, please-run-your-hands-through-me brown hair.
Yes, I absolutely had told him I loved to eat balls. I decided I should smile through this faux pas. Everyone knew a bright grin made unpleasant things go away. Ask Judy Garland.
“I like food in stick or chip form myself,” he said, munching a piece of celery in stick form.
I couldn’t come up with anything to say about sticks that wasn’t dirty. “Chips are good.” Really, I impressed even myself with the brilliance of my witty banter. At any moment my clothes would be ripped off my quivering body by Sam, my same-named accounting crush.
I hated the office Christmas party.
Sam blinked and appraised me in what I chose to interpret as a captivated manner. A girl could dream. Instead he said, “So, Scott told me you entertained the employees at last year’s party.”
“Yes. I fell down the steps.” My cheeks burned like the carpet at the end of two flights of stairs. I wasn’t clumsy too often, but when I made the effort, I really won at it. “You can still see the splotch on the floor from the blood. I lost a tooth, but gained a reputation.”
“That’s gross.” He grinned. One wouldn’t call him drop-dead gorgeous or anything. At first, you might consider him kinda ordinary-looking. Then the naughty glimmer in his eye caught your breath. The smile appeared, emphasising the lickable curve of his bottom lip. Charm emanated from his very pores.
And, of course, he possessed the nuclear weapon of facial features. The dimple. Only one—on the left side of his face—deep enough to bury yourself in. One flicker and panties fell at thirty paces.
My body temperature had suddenly shot upward to somewhere near surface of the sun levels. I’d disconnected completely from the conversation and reverted to teenage-girl-like gawking.
I took a steadying breath and jumped back into the fray. “So, accounting? Is that as glamorous as it sounds?” I had, apparently, decided that deriding his profession was the way to go, flirt-wise. Plays like this were risky, but desperation had sunk in. His temp job in the finance department ended today—I would have no more chances to bend and snap at the water cooler for his benefit.
The corners of his sometimes green, sometimes brown, always dreamy eyes crinkled. “Of course. Usually I have eight models in my accounting entourage, but I gave them the night off.”
Uh-oh. He was funny, too. It just wasn’t fair. “How kind of you. You could say you’re a model boss! Ha ha!” Yes, I laughed at my own joke, which was a behaviour shared by the most sophisticated of ladies. Then I remembered I turned a horrid shade of blotchy red when I got too excited. I choked off my laughter and forced down some potato.
“I could say that, but I won’t.”
“No, you really shouldn’t.”
The dimple chose that moment to come out and play. Oh, Sam—let’s retire to the supply room and hump. It had been so long since I had humped anyone. Or anywhere. I shoved more mmmmm-yummy potato ball into my mouth and almost didn’t get it on my festive sweater, the beautiful red one I’d spent way too much money on in the hopes of getting Sam to notice me.
He noticed now. “You have a blob of—”
Then he grabbed my boob.
“Jesus, I’m sorry!” His eyes became saucers, and he jerked his hand back, leaving my skin scorched and feverish. “There’s a bunch of potato on your…sweater. Let’s, um, let’s go to the kitchen. There’s a sink.”
My stomach dropped three storeys—I’d just accidentally got to second base in public. He grabbed my arm, and we hurried past a maze of monochrome cubes draped in twinkle lights to the break room. This was the most exciting event in the office since they had switched the carpeting from taupe to tan.
Sam stood there while I applied a paper towel to my tit. Actually, he didn’t merely stand there—he stared, turned away, blinked and stared again. I couldn’t blame the guy. The girls were rather ravishing—perky from the cold water, encased in a formidable push-up bra, eager for more inappropriate fondling.
“I’m sorry about…that.” He slumped and shoved his hands in his pockets.
“It’s okay. It happens.” I smiled, brimming with reassurance.
The tension finally broke when he snickered. “It does? How often does it happen? You should avoid potato balls.”
“And accountants.”
We laughed at each other. For once I wasn’t laughing by myself.
My ears pricked at the silence surrounding us. The back office echoed, and we were alone. The whirring hum of the old refrigerator sounded like a Lionel Ritchie love song to me in my hyper-aroused state. Hello? Is it me you want to do on the floor?
I stared at him, knowing I resembled an enraptured puppy, but unable to help it. Unbelievably, he gazed right back. Soft green eyes mesmerised me. After what felt like ten minutes, I found my voice again. “I think I’ll wait here until my boo—sweater dries.”
“I understand.” His focus never left my face. “We don’t want to start any lactating rumours.”
“No. It takes a long time for those to go away—I know from experience.”
Sam chuckled, flashing the dimple again.
What happened next was one hundred per cent the dimple’s fault—the evil dent winked in his cheek like a boozy lounge singer, urging me to bad behaviour.
I reached up his five-nine or so height and pulled the collar of his green shirt down to my five-foot lip level to kiss him.
He smelt divine—shaving cream and man skin. An enticing combination. His lips were soft and surprised at first, but soon parted to allow my exploration. Sweet. He tasted sweet, warm, delicious. Oh, God.
My fantasies about kissing him were pale, pathetic compared to the real thing. Sparks flew from my lips through my veins to my toes, singeing various important parts in between. The sudden heat emanating from his talented mouth made me dizzy. Blood pounding, I clutched him harder to remain upright. This was not an ordinary kiss. This was a masterpiece painted by the two of us.
I let his shirt go before his lips.
His hazy gaze melted into mine. “I should be inappropriate more often.”
“I wrinkled your nice green shirt.” I smoothed the cloth over his chest—his solid, inviting, muscled, taut… What on earth is going on? Oh, yes, I’ve messed up his shirt.
“I don’t care. Do you like it?” His eyebrows hovered upward, as if he really cared about me liking his clothes.
I dared a glance into his eyes again. I should learn not to do that. Warmth pooled in my stomach when he leaned in, desire writ large in the purse of his lips, the falling of his eyelashes. I gripped his shirt. I didn’t have to pull very hard—this time his arms locked around my waist and lifted me until I stood on his feet. On my tiptoes, I flicked my tongue across his bottom lip. Marvellous. With an approving grunt, he sucked on mine, and I heard myself moan into his open mouth. Accountants shouldn’t have such nice bodies, but I felt firm, delicious muscle when my belly pressed against his.
“Ahem.” We froze.
In slow motion, I turned around to fin
d Scott, the company scumbag, leering. Scott made office irritation an art form by eavesdropping, rumour-mongering, licking his fingers and leaving messes in the communal microwave. He gave his best smarmy laugh before leaving.
Sam closed his eyes. “Crap.”
“Crap,” I agreed. “I should have taken you home, and then kissed you.”
Grinning, he said, “Samantha, I like you.”
He did? I held my breath. There was no candid camera. No pointing and/or laughing. A hot, normal guy liked me.
I did not believe that women should derive their self-worth from the approval of male persons. However, the dating scene in Los Angeles was…unique. It was riddled with loser actors, and loser producers, and loser losers and more tall, tanned silicone than you could shake a jiggling arm at. Let’s just say that pale, short girls who don’t speak Dipshit did not enjoy as robust a dating life as they might have desired. In other words, there were slim fucking pickings. Therefore, it was cause for real celebration when he continued—
“I have to ask you out now. For the office’s sake. To ensure a legacy of rakishness.”
“There aren’t enough old-fashioned rakes nowadays.”
His response was a leer Casanova would have envied.
This man caused my brain to revert to Primal Mode, where the animalistic priorities were food and sex. Usually food was my number one passion, but this man was locked in a dead heat with fried chicken. “I’m not really easy, you know.”
“Too bad. I am.”
Quite breathless, I smiled and stepped off his feet. Everyone knew what they said about large feet. That they were easy to stand on when you kissed the guy attached.
He tucked a tendril of hair behind my ear. I felt that shivery little touch like it was an earthquake. “Do you have the keys to Oliver’s office?” he asked.
“Oliver the CEO?”
“Yeah, I saw him leave.” He twirled a strand of my hair—it shimmered like gold against his skin, making me suddenly feel beautiful. It had been a while since that had happened. Leaning closer, he whispered, “His empty office might be a better place to…let your sweater dry. Besides, if we go back out to the buffet table everyone will stare.”
The Dimple of Doom (Samantha Lytton) Page 1
