Captivate, book I of the Love & Lust

by Miles, Amy

  Captivate

  ~a Love and Lust novel~

  By:

  Amy Miles

  Captivate

  Copyright © 2013 by Amy Miles

  A Smashwords edition

  www.AmyMilesBooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to person, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  Also by Amy Miles

  Forbidden (Book I of the Arotas Trilogy)

  Reckoning (Book II of the Arotas Trilogy)

  Redemption (Book III of the Arotas Trilogy)

  Defiance Rising (Book I of the Rising Trilogy)

  Acknowledgements

  A huge thank you to Shannon Morton for encouraging me to step out of my comfort zone and write this book. Your insight has been priceless as have your snarky comments.

  For my family, who will always be my number one reason for writing.

  One

  Ashlyn Doyle can’t imagine a life without coffee. The enticing aroma never fails to make her morning just a tiny bit brighter and, although she doesn’t particularly care for the taste, she can never pass up the opportunity to stop and smell the beans… or the pastries.

  Those little bites of heaven are simply too addicting to walk by without at least a good dose of longing. After the all-nighter she just pulled, it’s no surprise that the instant she catches the scent of a coffee shop, she plunges straight into the street with hardly a thought to her safety.

  Her pale-pink cashmere scarf flaps at the side of her face in the chilly spring winds. She leaps back, her arms pin wheeling wildly as she narrowly misses slamming into the front of a compact blue Peugeot.

  “Sorry,” she shouts at the startled driver. The two small kids in the back seat make funny faces at her and she raises her hand in an awkward wave. It’s Thursday morning and school must still be in full swing, judging by the emblems on the children’s sweaters. School back home is probably out by now, but she knows England and America have very different school designs.

  “There’s a zebra crossing back there, you know,” the disgruntled mom shouts through a crack in her window.

  Of course there is. Ashlyn inwardly groans. She knows this. Only one block away lies the safe walking path she’d plotted out before she left the hotel ten minutes ago. It’s not like her to veer from her schedule.

  Her mother used to call her “Anal Ashlyn.” It wasn’t a very polite name, but it fit her perfectly. Ashlyn has a way of doing things and she likes them done right. Some people call it anal; she prefers to think of it as properly prepared.

  The disgruntled mom inches her car forward, allowing Ashlyn space to sneak through the narrow gap between her vehicle and the car behind. As she pauses on the centerline for the second row of cars to space enough to fit through, she tries to figure out what madness drove her out into the street in the first place.

  Risking life and death for a cup of coffee is insane no matter how you look at it.

  Perhaps her serious lapse in judgment stems from the migraine blooming behind her right eye. It started around 3:00 a.m. as she stared blurry-eyed at her laptop in the dark. Nearly twenty-four hours of travel time from the United States yesterday has left Ashlyn out of sorts. Waking this morning has brought her little rest or relief from the pain. She even decided to forgo her run to nurse her aching head, another red flag marring her morning.

  Rising onto her tiptoes, Ashlyn discovers that the roundabout a block north of her is congested with cars. A squat man honks his horn impatiently from a tall, boxy lorry. The scent of car fumes lingers in Ashlyn’s nostrils as she watches other pedestrians weave through the web of cars with far more grace than she could ever pull off. London at eight in the morning is a nightmare.

  “Watch it!” A cabbie shouts just as she attempts to dart out.

  Heat floods her cheeks as she meekly lifts a hand in apology and leaps onto the uneven stone path on the opposite side of the street. She pauses to catch her breath and allow her heart to stop beating erratically as the traffic moves past.

  Within five minutes, no one will remember the girl in an oversized gray coat and pink scarf. Ashlyn works very hard to blend in and after years of experience, she exceeds at it rather well.

  Her wild strawberry-blond hair is tied up in a messy bun at the back of her head, held aloft by two yellow pencils, the lead whittled down nearly to the wood. There are small teeth marks near the end where she absently chewed away her frustrations the previous evening.

  Small, rectangular metal frames perch on the bridge of her nose, sliding just enough to make it appear as if she is viewing the world from atop the lenses. There is nothing outstandingly remarkable about her features. She is fair of complexion and dainty in stature but relies on a natural beauty over the caked-on variety.

  Taking a calming breath, she is once again assaulted by the rich scent of freshly brewed coffee. Closing her eyes, she allows herself to savor the enticing aroma, cataloging each wonderful burst of sensory pleasure she derives from it.

  Ashlyn cries out as something large and determinedly solid slams into her side, knocking her off balance. She stumbles back into a trashcan as a scalding liquid splashes over her. She tries to compensate as she teeters on the curb edge.

  A hand closes around her forearm and saves her just before she collapses into the trash-lined gutter. “What do you think you’re doing?” a masculine voice snaps as she finds her balance again.

  “Oh! My coat,” Ashlyn groans as she wipes her hands down her side, the scratchy wool now splattered with the sticky residue of what appears to be the cream from a latte. She can feel the heat of the drink as it seeps into the fibers of her favorite coat.

  There is a moment’s hesitation before the man releases her arm and steps back. “Well, are you hurt?”

  Ashlyn clamps her eyes shut and shakes her head, wishing she’d left her loose curls down instead of winding them into a bun so she could hide from this uncomfortable situation. The urge to tug out her hair tie grows with each second he watches her.

  “I don’t think so,” she says, hearing the slight tremor in her voice. “I’m so sorry about your drink. I shouldn’t have been standing there. I guess I was just lost to the moment.”

  She raises her head to offer the man an apologetic smile and stops short. Warm, chocolate-brown eyes stare back at her, narrowing a fraction as she meets his gaze. A hint of a frown tugs at his full lips. Shiny raven locks fall just over his forehead, unsettled by the wind.

  “I’m a bit clumsy before my first cup of the day too,” he mutters, staring at the empty cup in his hand. He sighs and tosses the Styrofoam cup into the trashcan a few feet away and then shifts from one foot to the other. His gaze flits toward her and then quickly shifts away to focus down the street.

  Ashlyn takes a second to admire the strong lines of his face. A high brow dips into a rigid nose and well-defined cheekbones. Dark stubble clings to his jaws and she can just spy a hint of a scar, nearly an inch in length, carved into his chin.

  When he refocuses on her, she blushes and shifts to stare at the colorful array of pastries in the coffee shop window, embarrassed that he caught her looking. A flush begins to creep along her skin, making her squirm from the growing heat.

  “Can I, um…?” She waves her hand awkwardly toward the shop. “Do you want me to get you a new cup?”

  The man snorts a
nd shakes his head. He plunges his hand into a canvas satchel at his side and pulls out a few wrinkled napkins. He wipes his hands before dabbing at a stain on his white long-sleeve shirt. The sleeves are rolled halfway up his forearms, revealing a small Celtic tattoo on the inside of his wrist. Although his jeans are baggy and riding low on his hips, she can tell he has taken great care with his appearance.

  “I was already running late.” His words are clipped and unfairly harsh, just like the pinched expression on his face. She steps back, suddenly feeling as if this entire encounter was entirely her fault, but he did bump into her first.

  “I’m very sorry,” she says, unable to meet his gaze now. All she wants to do is run, hide, and forget she ever got out of bed.

  And this is what happens when you deviate from your plans, she silently scolds.

  The man turns to look her over and sighs. “Here, take these. They’re not going to help me now.”

  Ashlyn hesitantly reaches for the napkins and fights to contain a wince when he shoves them into her hand. “I gotta run.”

  “Oh.” She tugs on the sleeve of her coat nervously, feeling a slight tightness in her chest. The desire to flee grips her again. “Yes, of course. Again, I’m really sorry.”

  “Yeah, you already said that.”

  Without so much as a glance back, the man tugs the strap of his satchel tight over his shoulder and steps up to the street edge. He dashes out into the traffic and emerges on the other side. She watches as he heads down the path, weaving around merchants just setting up for the day’s market.

  Feeling a cold dampness against her skin draws Ashlyn’s attention away from the fleeing stranger and to the moist napkins in her hand. “I’m not entirely sure if I should take offense to this or not,” she mutters to herself as she dabs at her coat.

  The three napkins soak through rapidly, staining the white paper a muddy brown color.

  “Saw it all, I did.” She turns to find an older woman with a blue apron tied about her waist step out of the coffee shop. Her dark hair is speckled with powdered sugar. “Comes in here every day to chat up the ladies. He’s a smooth one, that’s to be sure.” The woman pauses to look Ashlyn over. “It’s not like him to pass over a pretty little thing like you, but I guess he had a match under his bum today.” She offers Ashlyn a large handful of napkins. “These might help you a bit.”

  Ashlyn smiles back with gratitude as the lady returns to the shop, the bell over the door tinkling as it closes behind her.

  “Guess I’m not his type,” she says to no one in particular.

  Rising up onto her toes, she strains to see the man two blocks away. He looked too old to be heading to university. If she were to hazard a guess, she would place him in his early to mid-twenties, not too far off from herself.

  What on earth could be so important that he would just leave her standing alone, dripping in the street?

  She takes her time dabbing at her side as she watches him. Despite his abrupt departure and less-than-chivalrous behavior, she finds herself torn by their brief encounter. She is annoyed to be sure but also oddly intrigued.

  Over the years, she has met her fair share of guys like him, posers who tend to view the world for only what they can get out of it. He fits the bill all right, but then why go ahead and offer her the napkins? Was it merely an afterthought?

  Ashlyn tosses her used napkins in the trashcan, overflowing from the previous day, and turns her back on the stranger and the coffee shop. She’s had enough of both for the day.

  Two

  Slade Collins stares at himself in the wall-to-wall mirror. Droplets of ice-cold water patter from the end of his nose onto the granite countertop. He certainly isn’t looking his best today. His skin seems a bit ashen under the row of lights dangling from the loo ceiling. Leaning forward, he can see puffiness just under his eyes, betraying his lack of sleep. Working the late shift at the pub last night wasn’t a great idea.

  Hopefully his choice of casual yet trendy clothing and slightly messy hair will help overcome any initial negative impressions. His white shirt looks good on him, cut so that it fits along the narrow taper of his waist. His jeans hang low on his hips and his belt is cinched so his pants don’t sag too far and make him look like a right wanker.

  He lifts his hand and examines the coffee stain on his sleeve. His lips flatten into lines of disapproval. What had that girl been thinking to leap right into his way like that?

  She nearly gave him a heart attack when she teetered back toward the road. He was sure he would be on BBC news that night with some wild claim that he pushed an American tourist under a London bus, or something equally tragic.

  He dabs a damp cloth against the stain, knowing it is hopeless. “So much for looking perfect,” he mutters as he rolls his sleeve up his forearm. He works on the left sleeve, measuring them against each other to make sure they look even.

  Glancing back in the mirror, Slade dabs the cloth against his face. He feels flushed, but thankfully he doesn’t look it. A slight sheen of sweat clings to the line of his brow, but his smile still looks cool and confident. Just how it needs to be.

  But a casual smile isn’t enough to restrain the hollow feeling winding through his stomach. It’s a good thing he didn’t eat anything yet or he’d be like the guy in the end stall tossing up his cookies.

  For the twentieth time since entering the lobby of the Covent Garden Hotel, Slade wonders if this was a big mistake. His friend Sean was the one who saw the ad in the paper. “Model needed for Ender’s Betrayal photo shoot.” That was it. No details. No contact information. Only an address and a time. Seems a bit shady to him, but Slade couldn’t not go. Not when there was a chance he might actually be able to break into the modeling industry.

  University never really worked out well for him. The parties were too frequent and the birds too fit. After a year of school, his mum called him back home and told him to get a job.

  He bounced from job to job, but nothing really fit. It wasn’t like he actually wanted to grow up to wear a stuffy suit and tie and be chained to a desk for the rest of his life. He also wasn’t the least bit interested in asking sarcastic little prats if they wanted fries with their meal.

  So Slade got a job at the only place he ever felt comfortable: a pub.

  It’s a good gig. Late nights, more numbers for birds than he could keep up with, and of course, all the free pints he could want. Well, maybe not all that many, but it was still better than bagging groceries at a Sansbury’s.

  But after three years as a publican, Slade was ready to make his mark on the world, and what better way to do that than to flaunt what Mother Nature gave him.

  Slade unbuttons the top button of his shirt and steps back. He frowns, turning to get a view from all sides. He shakes his head and re-buttons it.

  There is a tremor in his hands that makes him feel jumpy. Normally nerves don’t really get to him, but today he’s got a whole swarm of butterflies taking up residence in his stomach.

  Leaning over the sink, Slade stares himself down. The scent of lavender from the soap dispenser does little to make him feel calm. “You can do this. It’s just a photo shoot. A few pics, a few smiles, and you’re golden, mate.”

  A toilet flushes behind Slade and he stiffens. He’d thought he was alone in the loo apart from the guy in the end stall. He leans back and clears his throat as the door lock slides.

  A man with an angular face and wide blue eyes smirks at Slade as he steps up to the sink beside him. His clothes are obviously designer-made, as are his shoes and the fancy haircut. Slade instantly dislikes him.

  “Nervous too?” the stranger asks as he turns on the water and makes a show of wetting down his face.

  Slade grimaces. The bloke didn’t even wash his hands first. “Nah, mate. Cool as a cucumber.”

  He tosses the paper towel into the waste bin. After he slings his satchel over his shoulder, he turns to leave. The man chuckles and shakes off his hands. “Right, because it’s no
rmal to chat with yourself in a bathroom.”

  Yep, definitely American. Should have known. Slade glances back over his shoulder. “Only in London.”

  He shoves the bathroom door open and tosses a wave back over his shoulder. Slade hates Americans. Okay, well, maybe not all of them, but certainly the ones who think they are better than everyone else.

  He’s met some really great American girls in his time at the White Horse Pub. Of course, they were just looking for a guy to show them a good time and he was more than willing to oblige.

  Slade walks down the hall but at a much slower pace than his normal gait. He feels too restless to sit so he paces back and forth in the corridor instead. Artwork in wide frames lines the walls, but he hardly stops to notice. He is so intently focused on the pattern of the carpet to notice the American pass by or to respond to his biting comment.

  His stomach clenches as he hears the steady hum of voices from down the hall. Most of the guys waiting are still talking crap about their exaggerated resumes. He’s heard inflated rumors about TV spots and magazine ads. One guy even bragged about landing a role on an American soap show, but apparently the scene he was in was cut before it aired.

  Some of the guys are dressed like him, casual yet particular. Others have gone for more of a flashy style with jeans and a sports coat. He’s even seen a few polo shirts in the mix.

  The waiting room is too stuffy for Slade. It feels close, suffocating.

  Slade can’t care less about his competition’s indulgent resumes or the swagger they pair it with. All that matters is winning over the lady in charge, and that’s something he plans on excelling at.

  As a kid, he discovered that women liked him. Not in a creepy, report you to the police sort of way, mind you, but rather the simply noting of his long eyelashes or his easygoing smile. As he grew up, he learned that all he had to do was slip into an easygoing smile and life just got so much easier.