by Virna DePaul
Alive, and full of energy.
Alive, and with Branden Duke by her side.
Gaunt hadn’t won. She had. She’d faced her enemy with a show of force, unlike her father. Sure, she’d been wounded along the way, but she’d ultimately won. No more hiding behind her conservative clothes and quiet demeanor, no more playing the part of the “nice girl.” No more withdrawing from emotional connections just because someone might hurt her.
No, she was done avoiding life.
Years ago, because her father hadn’t fought back, Carl Davies had succeeded in ruining the happiness of her entire family.
But when Mike Gaunt had tried to ruin her life, she’d finally fought back.
And there was no stopping her now.
She turned and faced Branden, who stared at her with a perplexed look, as if surprised by the joy she knew was suddenly written across her face. She knew he’d been worried about her the past few weeks. Worried that Gaunt’s attack had irreparably damaged her. Worried that the rift Gaunt had built between them with uncertainty and fear would tear them apart when they’d only just found each other.
He didn’t have cause to worry.
The patience and gentleness he’d shown her had only strengthened her resolve—Branden Duke was hers and they were going to spend their time together with gusto. She wasn’t going to let anything—be it her fear of the intensity of her feelings for him or her own unease at how ridiculously wealthy he was—stand in the way of her exploring the possibilities that were Branden.
Mike Gaunt, in his odd way, had taught her to let go of fear. To let in love.
With an impish glance at Branden, she untied the strings that attached behind her neck and let her dress fall to the ground, leaving her standing on the beach in a very thin white lace bra and matching thong.
A flicker of surprise flashed across Branden’s face and she laughed. She placed her hands on her hips. “What? This beach is private, right?”
“It certainly is.” He stepped toward her, narrowing his eyes when she playfully backed away.
“The water looks so amazing,” she said. “Can we go for a swim?”
“Whatever you want, angel. Remember?”
She waded slowly into the water and looked back over her shoulder to see Branden slipping off his shirt. “It’s like bathwater, Branden. Come in!”
After stripping down to his black boxers, he waded into the water with her. “Damn, that’s nice,” he said with a grin, but he was staring at the outline of her nipples showing through her white bra.
She splashed water at him. “Such a lech.”
“Just stating the truth, baby.” He reached out to grab her.
She took a step back and he lunged at her. Squealing, she tried to run away. His hands closed around her waist and pulled her back into him. He held her tightly, his erection throbbing against the curve of her ass, the gentle motion of the waves creating a soft humping motion.
She laid her head backward on his shoulder and closed her eyes. His hand glided across the soft, wet skin of her stomach and settled just below her breast. Cara reached for his other hand and brought it up to her lips. She kissed the tip of each of his fingers before sucking the middle one into her mouth and stroking it with her tongue.
His cock jumped as if anticipating when it would be its turn. She gave his finger one last flick of her tongue before Branden moved both hands to cup her breasts. Cara reached back between them and unhooked her bra, letting it drop into the water. Branden ground his palms against her hard nipples. When he kissed and nibbled on her shoulder, she pressed back into him even harder, moaning out, “Oh, God, Branden. That feels so good!”
Her breathing grew more ragged with every twist and pull and stroke of his hand. She cried out loudly when he took one of her nipples, twisting it vigorously between his fingers, pulling on it, stretching it. His hips rocked gently into her.
When he flipped her around, she wrapped her arms around his neck and rose on her toes to kiss him. Cara shuddered as Branden sucked her bottom lip into his mouth then ran his tongue across it with teasing licks as he held it between his teeth.
Cara reached down and ran her hand along the shaft of his cock and he moaned loudly. His kiss became more voracious, his tongue plunging in as deeply as it could. Reaching down, he grabbed her ass with one hand; with the other he ripped the thin material of her thong off and let it join the bra in the depths of the sea.
Branden lifted her, and Cara wrapped her legs around his waist even as he gripped the back of her neck, controlling the angle of their kiss. She pulled back for a second, gulping for air, and then she began to kiss his neck and shoulders, scraping her teeth gently across them as she did.
He pushed her higher until her breasts were level with his face. He kissed each breast and then drew one nipple into his mouth even as he slid a hand between her legs and a finger along her lips, teasing her swollen clit. Cara threw her head back, making little sounds of pleasure as she slipped into another dimension. She cried out loudly as he finally took her clit in between two fingers and began to rub it.
“Oh, Branden. Yes!”
“You like that, angel?”
“Yes!”
“How about this?” he asked, suddenly applying more pressure to her swollen clit and then biting down on her nipple.
She became a wild woman in his arms, writhing and arching, her fingernails digging deep into his broad shoulders. She hardly noticed as he carried her out of the water and back up to the shore. “You’re the sexiest woman in the world, Cara. And you’re mine.”
“Yes, Branden, I am yours. Always.”
Holding her hand, he led her over to their private veranda, stripping off his boxers before sitting down on one of the overstuffed chaise longues. Lying back, he stretched out his long legs before reaching for her again. She straddled his lap, dangling her legs off each side of the chair. Hands on her hips, Branden lifted her up before settling her down on his hard length. Cara used her legs to push up and down, and they both cried out in ecstasy as they merged.
The rest of the world ceased to exist.
Her entire being was focused on Branden, sensations surging through her body, each nerve standing on end, exposed, feeling everything.
Gradually, their pace increased even as their rhythm grew more erratic. He groaned and she felt his body tense.
“Oh baby, I’m going to come. Come with me…”
Cara bounced harder. Branden groaned louder. Within seconds they both exploded, hotly and loudly, reveling in the fact that this was only the beginning of their vacation.
Only the beginning of their lives together.
Branden pulled her gently up his body and cupped her face, staring into her eyes. “I love you, Cara.”
Cara had never felt as happy as she did in that moment. Never felt as safe. Never felt as loved.
“I love you, too, Branden. So much.”
She laid her head on his chest, sighing as he ran his fingers through her hair.
Her life had radically changed the moment she met Branden Duke. While she couldn’t say it would be smooth sailing for them from here on out, she was looking forward to every single moment of the journey.
This book is dedicated to my family and friends who’ve supported me throughout this wild writing journey.
Thank you to Sue G., Gina W., and the entire RH team for making me feel so welcome at Random House.
Special thanks to all my readers for your support.
Finally, love to Craig, Josh, Ethan, and Zach. For always and forever.
BY VIRNA DEPAUL
The Belladonna Agency Series
Turned
Awakened
Filthy Rich
A Vampire’s Salvation (e-Original Novella)
Arrested by Love (e-Original Novella)
A former prosecutor, VIRNA DEPAUL is the bestselling author of steamy, suspenseful fiction. Whether featuring vampires, a Para-Ops team, hot cops, or swoon-worthy identical
twin brothers, her stories center on complex individuals willing to overcome incredible odds for love. She loves to hear from readers.
virnadepaul.com
Facebook.com/booksthatrock
@virnadepaul
Find out more about the Belladonna Agency in Virna DePaul’s first book in the series
TURNED
Available from Bantam Books
Chapter One
Seattle, Washington
A few weeks later…
Back in the Bronx, Eliana Maria Garcia’s weapons of choice had been a smart mouth, the occasional threat of a knife, and her fists. Now, standing with her back pressed against the brick wall behind Monk’s Café, Ana Martin had something even better—a gun. One she was hoping she wouldn’t have to use.
Confronting the man who’d been following her, however, was unavoidable. She’d noticed him at the bank yesterday, then the market. But last night she’d seen him outside her house. And moments before? Across the street.
That was one coincidence too many. She’d left Primos Sangre over seven years ago, but if there was one thing the gang had taught her, it was that survival meant confronting danger head-on rather than running from it. Since she didn’t trust the cops—didn’t trust anyone—her only choice was to handle this herself. Her way.
If only she wasn’t so scared. But she’d put her old life behind her, and even though she wasn’t happy—could never be happy without her sister—she was often content. Sometimes when she looked in the mirror she even managed to like the person she saw looking back at her. The thought of losing that scared her more than any threat of physical harm ever could. And it scared her enough that she was willing to fight to make sure it didn’t happen.
The sun had set long ago. Now and then a stab of light from a passing car pierced the shadows of the alley where Ana was hiding, forcing her to dodge back. Invisible, shrouded in darkness, she waited. When she heard footsteps, she knew it was him.
Forcing her near-numb fingers to tighten their grip on the gun, she watched as he walked past her, then made her move, coming at him from behind, pressing the barrel of her gun against the back of his head.
He didn’t even jerk.
From the back, he looked big. Broad. Muscles rippling. Dangerous.
But from the front? Even from a distance, he’d looked more than dangerous. He’d looked deadly. Beyond handsome. Midnight hair and eyes just as dark. Savage and sophisticated at the same time. She’d never seen his equal. Certainly never met anyone that came close.
Part of her knew she’d gotten the drop on him a bit too easily. That perhaps she was doing exactly what he’d been expecting. Hoping.
But it was too late to go back now.
“Hands where I can see them,” she managed to get out.
Slowly, he raised his hands in surrender. Only she still wasn’t buying it. Her nerves screamed at her to run, but logic kept her feet planted firmly on the ground. Somehow, she knew if she ran, he’d only come after her.
“Why are you following me?”
No answer. No surprise.
With her free hand, she patted him down, the way she’d learned to do in the gang. By the time she’d frisked him from the back, she was the one who was sweating. And not from exertion.
Nothing about him was small. He was tall and buff, more than big enough to overpower her slight frame. Sangre-style paranoia set in, and it occurred to her that this guy might be undercover. She instantly recalled the run-ins she’d had with cops as a teenager. The way they’d often pulled her long dark ponytail, hard enough to make her back arch and breasts lift. The way they’d sometimes copped a feel or implied they’d leave her in peace if she made it worth their while. She’d never given them that satisfaction.
But no, she decided. This guy’s vibe was just too different. Not so much cop as outlaw.
His entire body was contoured with interesting ridges and bulges and planes. This close she could smell him, a subtle spicy scent that managed to convey unabashed maleness and warmth despite what seemed to be a rather low body temperature. The man held himself in control. Unlike her. Gritting her teeth, she ignored the rush of heat to her cheeks and moved faster to disguise the telltale trembling of her hands.
“Turn around,” she commanded.
Slowly, he did.
Despite the heat in his gaze, his mouth was tipped into a mocking smile, as if he knew how affected she was by touching him. What he didn’t know—couldn’t know—was how confused she was by her reaction. He made her feel…restless. Edgy. Vulnerable.
She hated it.
As such, she hated him.
Methodically, she frisked him from the front, delving between his denim-clad legs to make sure he wasn’t packing more than nature had provided.
He grunted slightly and said, “Keep that up and you might find more than you want, princess.”
His accent was clipped and tidy—upper-crust British. Despite herself, her gaze shot to his.
“Don’t call me that,” she said automatically, just before she found the gun tucked into a sleek holster concealed inside his waistband.
She pulled it out, and the sight of the Luger didn’t surprise her. The well-made weapon suited him. Swiftly, she slipped it out of his holster and into the front of her own waistband.
The only other time she’d seen a Luger was when she’d delivered a package to Pablo, the leader of Devil’s Crew, another street gang, and he’d insisted on inspecting the contents before he paid. He’d told her the guns had been stolen from some Richie Rich who liked fancy cars as well as fancy guns. When he’d asked her what kind of car she drove, she’d told him the truth. None. She’d only been fourteen at the time.
Even so, her youth hadn’t stopped her from fighting the gang leader when he’d decided to inspect more than the package she’d delivered. All she’d gotten for her trouble was a beating and the ugly scar on her face.
To her, big and male was synonymous with power and violence.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” the man in front of her said softly, as if he’d read her mind. “If you’ll listen to me, I can help you, Ana.”
The fact that he knew her name shocked her…and scared her even more. “Fuck you,” she snapped without meaning to. Swearing was an old habit, one she’d fought hard to break, but sometimes it came out. When she was angry…when she felt threatened…the tough girl inside her lost control, cursing and spitting and speaking Spanish in an effort to protect herself despite the fact that it merely revealed how vulnerable she really was.
How weak.
She bit her lip, furious that he’d sensed her fear. Furious that his offer of help made her easily long for things she couldn’t possibly have.
She’d gotten soft. Too soft. And once again she was paying the price. The only question was how high the price would be this time.
“Move.” She gestured with her gun. “Face the wall.” He had her so rattled she was second-guessing herself. She needed to frisk him again. Make sure she hadn’t missed anything the first time.
He merely stared silently at her, and she forced herself to snap, “Now.”
Unbelievably, he practically rolled his eyes just before he obeyed, cursing when she suddenly shoved him face-first against the brick; Eliana Garcia, gang member, was quickly chipping away at the civilized, respectable woman Ana had been trying to become.
But instead of retaliating, he waited while she frisked him yet again. When she was done, when he failed to make a move on her, she relaxed slightly. “Face me.”
As he did, she saw the slight trickle of blood now dripping from a cut on his forehead. She felt a momentary pang of guilt. Along with it came the strange temptation to wipe the blood away and kiss the wound better. To kiss all his hurt away. Hurt she somehow sensed was there.
Which was beyond ridiculous. Like one of those tearjerker movies where the love of a good woman saved some useless son of a bitch.
He didn’t need her to wash his freakin’
pain away. He needed to know who was boss. Besides, she didn’t take care of anyone but herself anymore. It was better that way. Safer.
Instinctively, she gripped her gun tighter while he leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, no longer smiling but watching her with an intensity that made her shiver.
“You’ve been trailing me since yesterday,” she said, “and not just because you like my coffee. ¿Porqué?”
At her lapse into Spanish and the thickening of her accent, Ana clenched her teeth, then deliberately modulated her voice so it was once again white-bread Americana. “Why are you following me?”
He smiled again, as if her speaking Spanish had amused him.
Embarrassment washed over her and she wavered, accidentally lowering the gun. “Answer me, bastardo—”
In a blur of movement, he grabbed her wrist, wrenched the gun from her hand, flipped her to the ground, and covered her body with his much larger one.
Reflexively, she struck out, striking him in the face before he pinned her arms and his body simply weighed her down. Damn it, she’d known it had been too easy. He’d set her up. And the way he’d moved…Faster than anything she’d ever seen before.
But oddly enough, he had his body braced so his full weight wasn’t on her. As if he wanted her pinned but not hurt.
As if he was taking care of her.
Breathing hard, she stared into his mesmerizing face. His scent would be all over her, she thought absently. When he shifted, rubbing his lower body against her, she blinked at the unexpected warmth that flooded her. He was cold, yet he made her feel so good. So hot. Literally. For another crazy second, she wanted to grab either side of his face, pull him closer, and kiss him.
Ah Dios. She was losing it.
He tsked. “It was your f-bomb that finally got to me, you know. Normally, you hold back. You don’t have to. Your cursing. Your use of Spanish. I like it. I more than like it. I just had to see if you felt as good as you look. As you sound.”
Again, that dazzling smile. The British perfection in the way he modulated his words. Those cold eyes. Danger emanated from him like a flashing red light, while charm oozed from him like honey.
