by Lisa Wells
He glanced at the address. A P.O. Box. He dropped it in the to-be-shredded bin.
Probably some author trying to get his attention. An author who couldn’t be bothered to read his guidelines before querying him.
An hour later, unable to concentrate on the manuscript he was reading, he got up and walked back to the kitchen for a coffee refill.
The manuscript in the trash called to him. The tree had already been killed to send it. Perhaps he should at least glance at the first few pages so the tree didn’t die for nothing.
He pulled it out, opened the envelope and tugged out the bound pages. He flipped it over and read the title.
THE SEDUCTION OF I. HARTLEY. A novella by Kinley Foster.
A rush of excitement swamped his heart, sending it floundering for dry ground. She’d finished her novella. She’d actually sent it to him. Would it have the tragic ending she promised?
He poured himself another coffee and topped it off with Bailey’s, then sat down in his favorite chair to read. Had their experiment worked?
Two hours later he set the manuscript aside. He poured himself another drink, this time without the coffee and Bailey’s. This time all scotch. And, no, he didn’t give a damn that it was barely half past noon.
Was he reading between the lines something that wasn’t there? Was it wishful thinking? Did she feel anything for him other than desire?
He reread the last line of her manuscript.
Downed his drink.
Poured another. “This is going to get interesting.” The seduction of Kinley Foster wasn’t over.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Kinley sat in the back of the Karaoke Lounge. Alone. She kept watching the doors for Ian—which was stupid. Just like spending money on a weekend hop to Vegas over her three-day, President’s birthday weekend from school. At least her room had been comped due to the conference hotel-room fiasco.
She also didn’t need to be spending money on a new pair of silver, sparkly Chucks, skinny jeans, and a sexy black top that made the most of her 34C’s.
She didn’t really expect him to show up. Happily ever afters only happened in novels and Hallmark movies.
If he’d loved her—really loved her—he would have come for her when she left Vegas. When she went back home. He wouldn’t have allowed all of this time to go by. He would have rented a private jet and been at the airport when she landed. That would have been a romance-novel worthy ending to her novella.
“May I get you another Red Zin?” the waitress asked.
Kinley glanced at her empty wine glass. “Sure.”
According to Charlie, a woman keeps leaving until the man stops following or stops allowing you to leave.
Ian allowed her to leave.
He stopped following.
He didn’t love her.
The fact that she was sitting in the Vegas lounge hoping otherwise was really pathetic. But love, she’d discovered, didn’t allow common sense to take root in your brain. Love swelled up so large, other thoughts were crowded out. Pride didn’t have a chance.
Which is why, despite common sense, Kinley was sitting in Vegas, betting her heart that Charlie was right.
Kinley was betting that sometimes when a man fails to follow, he simply needs a cattle prod to his ass to get him moving again.
“Here you go, doll,” the waitress said, setting her drink down.
“Thanks.” Kinley totally blamed the soft side of her brain on the same genetics that inspired her to write romances instead of espionage thrillers.
She’d sent her novella to Ian a week ago. Short a scene. The ending.
In her novella, she’d left her heroine in the Karaoke Lounge over the President’s birthday weekend, waiting for the hero to show up.
In her novella, the hero walked up on stage and started singing.
That’s when the heroine first noticed he’d arrived.
The song he sings is his answer to the heroine. It’s a song that tells the heroine if her love story is going to have a tragic ending or a happy ending. Happy ending—as in love everlasting.
Her phone vibrated. She tensed and pulled it out. Hope twirled like a windstorm around her heart.
She glanced at the phone number and sighed. A text from her brother. What did he want?
Where are you?
She took another drink of her wine. Turned her back to the stage. I got a wild hair and decided to get out of town for the weekend.
I wanted to talk to you about something.
Kinley propped her feet up in the empty chair across from her. What?
It’s about Ian.
Sweat popped out on Kinley’s upper lip. What about him?
I heard something today that concerns me.
She gulped back the desire to come clean. Spill her guts. She’d had sex with Ian, and she liked it. What?
About you and him in Vegas.
She downed the rest of her wine. “Shit.” What about us?
There was a short pause. Kinley nibbled her thumbnail.
Did seeing him rekindle the love you’ve felt for him forever?
The question brought her up short. She didn’t want to lie. She believed in telling the truth. Truth was the backbone of trust. A brother should be able to trust his sister. Why would you ask me that?
“This song is for Bossy Pants,” a male voice said over a microphone.
Kinley dropped her phone. Her gaze jerked to the stage. There stood Ian…in jeans and a cowboy hat. A black T-shirt hugged his muscles. When had he come in? And since when did he dress like a cowboy? God, he was freaking hot. Hot-coals-in-a-volcano hot.
Had her brother texted her to distract her? Were they in on this together? That was some coincidence if not.
The music started.
Kinley turned her chair around.
Oh, God. He was really going to sing…in front of a crowd. She blushed for him. What was he going to sing? Maybe something simple. Something anyone could sing. Like… She came up blank on a song he might be able to sing.
Ian couldn’t sing.
The comment he’d made to her in the bathroom about not being able to sing all those years ago had been her own words twisted and thrown back at her. Words she’d spoken to him hours earlier.
As payback, he’d snuck in while she was taking a shower to steal her clothes. And it had been her bad luck that she’d been singing at the time.
Giving him perfect ammunition.
Was he really going to sing her a song? Humiliate himself in that way? A guy would only do that for someone he…
The music started. A country song. A George Strait song.
She grinned. That explained the cowboy hat. He’d always liked country music. She preferred rock.
He placed the microphone to his lips.
She stood up—too quickly, because the room spun. She grabbed the back of her chair for support. Was there a shortage of oxygen in the room?
Their gazes met. He dipped his head in her direction. His cowboy hat shadowed his face. Maybe that’s why he wore it, so no one would know who he was.
“Dear Kinley, you left your tears on your story,” he sang, in a country twang.
She smiled. She knew that tune, but like her karaoke debut, he was changing the lyrics. He’d gone to the trouble to make the song theirs. They had a song. She wiped her palms on her jeans.
“And, damn you girl, they got mixed up with mine.”
Did he cry tears over her? No way.
As if reading her mind, he nodded.
She felt a tear roll down her cheek. She wiped it away. She bit her lip to stop crying.
“…there are pieces of my heart I can’t find.”
She swallowed. If only he knew. She hadn’t been able to think straight in a month. Her students noticed when she failed to enforce the one-week checkout rule. Her peers noticed when she wore the same outfit to school two days in a row.
“We’re two lonely hearts of a kind.”
Had he been f
eeling as discombobulated as her?
“Let’s fall into bed together. Why should we both sleep apart?”
Despite her watery eyes, she smiled. Shook her head at him. His singing sucked. His changing of the song’s words sucked. But God, he had a body that made a woman dream of inappropriate behavior.
“Tonight, you and me,” he crooned.
She walked toward the stage. People whispered.
“Come on up here, darling,” he said using a slight drawl, his cornflower blue-eyed gaze beckoning.
Her heart skipped a beat. Damn, she had a weakness for smooth talking cowboys. She walked to the end of the stage and stared at him like a groupie.
“Kinley and Ian are much better together.”
She nodded. Was it her imagination or was his voice getting better?
He continued singing.
“Kinley—why should we go insane alone?” He held out a hand to her.
She walked up on the stage. He pulled her into his side. He placed the microphone so they could both sing. She rolled her eyes.
He winked at her, causing her knees to feel like the branches of a willow tree.
“Let’s fall…” they both belted out the song’s iconic verse, not caring that they sucked.
When the song ended, he went down on one knee.
She gasped and went down on her knees in front of him. Mainly because her legs refused to hold her up. Her heart spun in her chest like a Vegas roulette wheel. Could this really be happening?
Ian took off his hat and laid it on the floor. Took her hands in his. “Kinley Foster, I’ve spent the last month thinking you don’t like me nor love me. And as a former football player, let me just say loving someone you think doesn’t love you back hurts worse than getting slammed by a 250-pound linebacker.”
“Awwwww,” the crowd said.
Kinley didn’t say anything. She was afraid she was misinterpreting his words. Was he asking for her love or her body?
He closed his eyes briefly and then reopened them. “Then I received a novel with no ending. And my heart soared. Kinley Foster, I need to know—do you love me?”
The crowd was so quiet you could hear the slot machines in the casino outside the walls.
Kinley moistened her lips. Her heart squeezed and fainted. She gave him a big, goofy smile. “Ian Thompson—”
“Use the microphone, we can’t hear,” someone in the crowd yelled.
Kinley laughed, and took the microphone. “Ian Thompson—I’m not supposed to like you. But I do… I’m not supposed to love you, but I do.”
The crowd erupted.
She bit her bottom lip. She glanced out into the crowd. Was that Charlie and Dan in the front row?
Ian took the microphone. “Kinley Foster, when you were little, you made me your prince charming.” He gently touched the scar on her forehead. “But like an idiot, I let you down. I can’t promise there won’t be any more scars.”
She leaned in and whispered “I can’t believe you’re really here” in his ear.
“Say it in the microphone,” someone in the crowd shouted. She was pretty sure it was Charlie.
“Some things are just for my ears,” Ian told the crowd, sitting down the microphone. He kissed her fingertips. “Do you want to marry me?”
She grinned. Nodded. Threw herself in his arms, knocking him over and they both tumbled to the floor, her on top of him. “…I do,” she said, with her hands on his chest, gazing into his beautiful eyes.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“If I die tonight, I’ll be a very happy man,” Ian said, spooning with Kinley. His cock was finally sated. They were staying in the same hotel room they’d shared during the conference. He’d paid double for the hotel personnel to move the couple assigned the room to a new room and sent the couple champagne as a thank you for their trouble.
She wiggled her ass against him—gasped. “Wow, Mr. Boner’s asleep.” Her voice was full of a type of wonder that stroked his ego as cleverly as her hand had earlier stroked his cock.
He chuckled and pulled her in tighter. “That’s your nickname for my dick?”
“I think it’s cute.” They were laying sideways on the king-sized bed. The pillows and comforter were on the floor. Their clothes were on the floor. And a lamp from the bedside table was also on the floor.
“Cute?” He groaned. “A man never wants his cock thought of as cute.” He tried to sound gruff but didn’t succeed.
He spoke the words into her neck where he breathed in the lavender scent of her, mixed with the more earthy scents of their hours of passion.
She scooted away slightly and rolled over so they were staring into each other’s eyes.
“You’re beautiful, soon-to-be Mrs. Thompson.” He splayed his hand over her hip.
She swatted his arm. “Soon-to-be Mrs. Kinley Foster-Thompson,” she corrected. “There’s one thing I need to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
She paused and took a deep breath. “I do remember our conversation about you and Stacy. The one we had when I was drunk.”
As clichéd as it sounded, his heart felt like it stopped beating. “And?”
She sat up in bed. “And, I believe you. I’m sorry I took her explanation so easily and never pushed you for a more believable account.”
Her words were like medicine, reviving his heart and healing him in places that he didn’t even know were broken. “Thank you for believing me. That’s the best gift you’ll ever give me.”
Her mouth fell open, but her eyes twinkled—a tell she couldn’t control. “You’re not mad at me?”
He’d seen that gleam in her eyes before. Knew that sparkle in her eyes from years of playing Three Card Poker. She thought she was about to get away with something. “No. But…you definitely deserve a spanking for keeping the information from me.”
She gave him a what-the-hell look. “In your dreams. Whatever we talk about tonight is off-limits to spanking punishment.”
He chuckled, stretching his hand. Anticipation warmed his palm. “Why would I agree to that?”
She didn’t look the least bit concerned by his posturing. “Because if it’s not, I’ll do to you what women do to men when they want to punish them.”
“And what might that be?” His gut told him to brace for her reply. That she was about to school him in the ways of a relationship.
She lifted her arms above her head and stretched from side-to-side. “I’ll withhold sex,” she said mid-stretch.
“You think so? You think you can resist my charm if I want to have sex with you?” He reached out and cupped her breast, rubbing her nipple between his thumb and finger.
She lowered her arms, reached out, and stroked his cock.
He gave her a lazy so what look.
She leaned down, her mouth hovered over his cock, and her hair fell down around him.
The stroke of her tongue along the underside of his dick caused him to hiss out a breath.
“Checkmate,” she said in smug confidence, quickly moving and getting away from him.
He grinned like an idiot. His brain was a bowl of happy mush. Ian was pretty sure his cheeks might even be pink. “Well played,” he said, his voice rough. “Very well played.” The vixen knew exactly how much power she had over him.
She frowned. “Wait, just one minute. You agreed way too easily. Why? You’ve got something to say that I’m not going to like—don’t you?”
He sat up, twisted around, and leaned against the bed’s headboard.
She turned so she was facing him.
Ian didn’t want to introduce anything into their evening that might mar the memory. But he had to. Their relationship had two more hurdles to clear. He hoped she would see them as low hurdles. “Even though we’re getting married, I can’t be your agent. Nothing has changed there.”
She blanched. The color drained out of her face like an IV blood drip with a fat tube. “Do you think my sex writing still sucks?”
He lean
ed forward and kissed her swollen lips. “You have it down to perfection. I was hard the whole time I read your novella.”
“Then why? I know I said I didn’t want you to, but I was lying. I want you to represent me.”
He cleared his throat. His heart punched against his chest, trying to escape like a racehorse about to be released from the gates at the Belmont. “I can’t be clear-headed when I’m reading what you write. I can’t give you the type of brutal honesty you’ll need, because I won’t see the problems.”
The color that had drained from her face earlier flamed back into her cheeks. She fanned herself with her hand. “I’m going to be married to the hottest romance agent in the business, and I don’t even get to call you my agent?”
Ian hesitated but nodded. “Is that a deal breaker? That’s not why you said yes to my proposal, is it?” Although he said it in a joking tone, there was a part of him that needed to hear her say it wasn’t: the part that still couldn’t believe she’d said yes.
She growled. “You’re an ass. Of course it’s not why I said yes. But I did think it was a bonus of saying yes.”
He leaned toward her and kissed her trembling lips. “I did a little digging into your Twitter history and discovered there’s an agent you really wanted more than you wanted me.”
She touched her lips. “What? Who?”
“I read one of your tweets where you told Ann Collette that if she ever decided to represent romance authors, you would be the first to send her a manuscript.”
Her eyes darkened. “But she doesn’t represent romance.”
He smiled, feeling pretty full of himself. “You’re wrong.”
“What? When? Did she make an announcement? Oh my God.”
“I just happen to be friends with her. We had lunch, and she mentioned that she’s been toying with the idea of taking on a romance author.”
“You’re kidding. Has she already opened to submissions? Do you think I have a shot at getting her to represent me?”
“It just so happened that I had your novella with me at our most recent luncheon. I told her who you were on Twitter, and she remembered you because you always retweet her slush pile tweets and leave comments.”
