Riding High

by Zara Stoneley

  Copyright © 2012, 2014 by Zara Stoneley

  Cover and internal design © 2014 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Danielle Fiorella

  Cover image © Artem Furman/Shutterstock

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc., in conjunction with Xcite Books Ltd.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

  www.sourcebooks.com

  Originally published in 2012 in the UK by Xcite Books Ltd.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  To the people who are always there for me, and the man who inspires me

  Prologue

  “I’d kill the bastard if he were my husband.”

  “Yeah, so would I.” Roisin leaned over and sloshed another generous measure of Toby’s best scotch into Sam’s glass. “If he wasn’t already dead.”

  “Sorry? He’s what? For a moment there you said…” For the first time since they’d sat down she actually had Sam’s attention. All of it. “Jesus, you did, didn’t you?” There was silence for a moment, while Sam peered into her glass as if for inspiration, which, when it came, just had to have been alcohol-induced. “Shit, he didn’t—you know, die in the middle of…?”

  “Sam!”

  “Sorry, it’s just I once saw this film where the guy had a heart attack while he was…”

  “Sam, will you shut up? I’m so glad my mind doesn’t work like yours. It must be scary.”

  “You don’t mean someone…?”

  “I wish.” Roisin grimaced and took a good gulp from her own glass, which did more than hit the spot; it almost annihilated it. “Well, no, I don’t even wish, though it would make it easier.” She spluttered as the scotch burned its way down her throat, leaving it dry. No, she couldn’t wish him actually dead, even if she was drunk, which was a bit of a bummer. “No, it was just a heart attack, probably too much excitement.” She swirled the remaining liquid, watching it crawl up the edge of the glass.

  “Wow.” Sam gaped at her for a moment. “You don’t mean…There wasn’t more than one, was there?” Her gaze had switched back to the laptop, which was doing its best to illuminate the whole room.

  “Oh yeah, there was more than one.” She almost laughed—almost. Even when she was well on the way to drunk it wasn’t funny, though, not yet. Maybe in another zillion years or so. And nor had it been the slightest bit funny finding the home movie when she’d been sorting out his office—or, rather, the collection of home movies. Toby, it seemed, was quite a collector.

  “So I was almost right the first time. But”—Sam’s silences said as much as her words—“it’s just I wouldn’t have thought that he…”

  “Had it in him?”

  “Well, um, you know he isn’t—he wasn’t exactly…” Sam’s voice trailed off and she downed her drink in a kind of awed silence, still staring at the frozen image on the laptop.

  Roisin had to admit it was kind of mesmerizing, seeing him in glorious Technicolor with a look of uninhibited pleasure on his face. Mesmerizing and weird because it just wasn’t—well, it wasn’t Toby. The Toby she knew hadn’t exactly been stud material; he wasn’t hot, or even lukewarm, not even by her standards, which Sam assured her were pretty low. Toby had just been Toby: normal, slightly boring, slightly pompous Toby. Her husband.

  And she’d already spent far too many hours staring at him humping away on the screen; she’d only shared the movie because it was easier than trying to explain. She jabbed at the Eject button and the DVD jumped out, clattering with finality onto the table.

  Sam gave a guilty start. “Sorry, I just don’t know what to say.”

  Ah, those words you just never think you’ll hear, and voilà, there they are. In a “you couldn’t make it up” type of situation. This was the point when she should be able to press the Rewind button and relive this part of her life.

  Damn. She took a more cautious sip of whiskey. “Don’t worry, nor do I.” It had been one thing to find out that her shit of a husband had been having an affair, or more likely several consecutive affairs, since the day they had taken that long walk down the aisle. Bad enough to see that lousy DVD of the clammy-handed idiot having his silly little cock sucked by some platinum blond with bare boobs that looked like they were about to explode from implant overload. Faintly nauseating to see those long, red talons rake over his puny, pale body. But it was quite another thing, and so, so much worse, that the bastard had had the temerity to drop down dead before she could tell him she knew. That was the bit that really wound her up. That, and the look of pure satisfaction that had been shining on his sweaty face as he’d shot his load all over the poor girl’s triple-Ds. She gave a shudder; what a bloody mess. In more ways than one, which should be funny except that right now it was just adding insult to injury. They both stared at the blank screen.

  She missed him. That made it worse too.

  “So I missed the funeral?”

  “Well, I knew you two hated each other”—she smiled at Sam’s worried look—“and anyway, you were away, there didn’t seem much point in bothering you.” Roisin shrugged. “Let’s face it, he wasn’t exactly Mr. Popular.” But she had loved him, or thought she did. Or at least been very fond of him in a fairly polite, distant kind of way. Like her mom had been fond of her dad. Shit, had she really been so stupid? Talk about the sins of your fathers…

  “Oh, it wouldn’t have been a bother.” Sam grinned lopsidedly, which could have been the whiskey or it could have been confusion. “So what now? Are you going to carry on with this place?”

  She stared blankly at Sam. The million-dollar question: what now? “I dunno, really.” The last dregs of the whiskey parted company with the bottle. “The library of home porn is just about all he left me. Seems like he spent all the money.”

  “You’re kidding me? But I thought you were loaded.”

  “So did I.”

  “That’s a helluva lot of home movies, isn’t it?”

  “A helluva lot.” She swirled her glass, letting the fumes drift up until they caught the back of her throat and she had an excuse for the fact her eyes were watering. She’d thought money hadn’t been a problem; she’d thought l
ots of things. A new life hadn’t featured on the list.

  “You’re better off without him, Ro, honest. You know what you’ve got to do?”

  “Surprise me.”

  Sam grinned. “Whatever you fucking want, girl. In fact”—she leaned forward conspiratorially—“I’d have wild, crazy monkey sex with the first guy you bump into.”

  “I know you would, you do that anyway.” Roisin grinned back, hooked her legs over the arm of the chair. “But knowing my luck, it would be the horny pig farmer up the road and not some handsome sex god.”

  “Well yeah, but you know horny can beat handsome hands down. If the flesh is willing…” She rumpled her pretty face into a leer and thrust her hips forward.

  “The one I’m thinking about would need a sack over his head and a good spraying with disinfectant.”

  “Oh, Ro, you’re such a frigid prude.”

  “And you, Sam, are such a tart.”

  She stuck her tongue out as Sam hitched her skirt suggestively and blew her a kiss. Drinks with her old school mate hadn’t been on the menu for a long time; too long, not since she’d gotten married and they’d drifted their separate ways. Roisin toward slightly staid coupledom, Sam striding determinedly along the rude and raunchy road of singledom.

  Well, she wasn’t sure about jumping the first man she saw, but at least burying Toby had been the first step, which, she had to concede, wasn’t an option a lot of cheated women were given.

  Chapter 1

  Roisin banged the half-empty bottle of scotch back down on the shelf abruptly and watched the other bottles jump in sympathy. Move on. Yeah. Move on, that’s what she needed to do, once she worked out how to do it without any money. And once she worked out how to get that image of a wanking Toby out of her head.

  “Whoa, is that the way you treat all your good scotch?”

  Roisin froze as the deep voice hit and sent a tingle straight down her spine. All the way down to its base, then it spread out into a kind of warm shimmer between her thighs that made her breath hitch. That shouldn’t be possible, and nor should the rush of dampness straight to her panties. She was supposed to be Miss Frigid, wasn’t she? Not Miss Jump On The First Man You See And Have Wild Monkey Sex.

  “Or are you just heavy-handed with the cheap stuff?” The low reverberation of a male chuckle made her nipples tighten in anticipation. Shit. Her grip tightened on the bottle; she’d be quite happy just standing here clenching her pussy until she came, except she couldn’t. It was a bar, and she was the only person behind it, and he was a customer. Getting off on his voice wasn’t an option.

  So she turned around. Mistake.

  Roisin could have sworn she could see every one of his toned abs through that fitted shirt, or maybe it was just her overactive imagination filling in the gaps. But the strong, broad chest was real, and so were the brown Labrador eyes that matched the voice perfectly and should have had a sanity warning attached.

  Standing with your mouth open while you’re running your tongue over your lips and teeth as though you want to run it over him is so not a good look. But she couldn’t help it, even though this stranger was not her type. He was definitely—no, more than definitely not her type. He had a suit on, and she didn’t like suits, didn’t like brash City types. She liked them even less than she liked horny pig farmers. Well, maybe not if they looked like this.

  “Hey.” He grinned and started to tug his tie off, undoing the top button of his shirt with a tanned, strong hand as if he was more comfortable out of his clothes, the dark eyes never leaving her.

  Oh my God, please don’t show any more of your body. Slowly, he rolled up his shirtsleeves. Shit. “You look like you need a drink as much as I do right now.” He ran his hand through a mass of unruly dark curls, his head tipped to one side, all beguiling man-boy.

  Oh yes, she needed a drink. A strong drink. Okay, she was pretty sure she was staring, staring at him like he was prime steak and she hadn’t eaten for days. But it wasn’t food she was hungry for, not really. Just looking at him reminded her she hadn’t had sex for longer than she wanted to remember. In fact, when it came to sex she was a one-woman famine zone. And she’d definitely never before had, or even thought she wanted, a taste of a man who looked quite like this. And he was right: she needed a drink. And she needed to operate her mouth and say something, instead of mentally licking her lips. God, she hoped it was just mentally.

  “Um—I mean, yes, I’m only rough with the cheap stuff.” Bugger.

  “Ah, looks like I’ll have to watch my manners, then.” He grinned, a big, dirty grin that said he wasn’t planning on watching his manners at all. “Unless I want some rough handling.” He was close. Too close, far too close. Sending a strong whiff of maleness in her direction. It could have been aftershave; it could have been hormones, but who cared? It was making her feel seriously randy.

  “Yes.” Which came out all squeaky. Calm. She just had to be calm and relaxed. “What do you fancy?”

  He leaned forward a bit, resting his tanned, muscled forearms on the bar, and caught her arm with his thumb, which didn’t help at all. “Well”—his laugh rumbled around her—“seeing as you’re asking…”

  Christ, she must be able to stop blushing, and she really must be able to say something that didn’t sound like she was asking permission to jump him. Except she was asking, wasn’t she?

  Talking to men had never been her strong point, and it would seem that even at thirty it still wasn’t. Maybe five long years of a soulless marriage and the type of sex that made your eyes water for all the wrong reasons had made her even worse at it.

  She shifted her arm nervously away. This wasn’t how she normally behaved at all, but he was just so sexy, or she was sex-starved and desperate. Or both.

  “I think I better…” She edged back, trying to ignore the way his gaze raked over her body, but her nipples were peaking in response, and her stomach was coiled with a fierce kind of hunger. She straightened a glass that didn’t need it; what was she even doing here? Just for once she’d thought a change of scene would do her good, help her forget the disaster she once called a life. And it might have done if Mr. Sex-on-Legs hadn’t walked in.

  “I’ll go for the bitter if you promise to pull it nice and slow.” He grinned. “No rough handling.” He shifted back a bit on the bar stool, and she remembered she knew how to breathe.

  “Fine, I promise to pull it exactly how it’s supposed to be pulled.” There must have been the teacher’s edge to her voice from the slightly amused look he shot her, but it was something she couldn’t help; that instinctive warning when somebody was telling her how to suck eggs. Even if he was making her all gooey inside, which proved she wasn’t a completely lost cause when it came to men, and almost made her smile.

  He reached out just as she put the beer down, so that for a brief moment his hand covered hers, sending another shiver of something that really wasn’t good straight through her body. “I can’t persuade you to stop for a sec and have a drink with me?” He glanced pointedly around the deserted pub. “Join me on the wrong side of the bar, seeing as you’re not exactly run off your feet?”

  “Well…”

  “Just for one before you shut up shop for the night? I promise I won’t bite.”

  Biting might be good. She bit down on her bottom lip to stop the grin that twitched at her insides, and refilled her glass. “I take it you’re used to somewhere a bit livelier than this?” She wasn’t fishing, not really. She didn’t care who he was or where he came from. She was going to accept him for the gift she was starting to realize he was.

  “Ever so slightly. I don’t think anywhere in London can compete with this, not even the morgue.”

  Ah, London. She’d been right, City type. So what was he doing here in Hicksville?

  “This corner of Cheshire isn’t exactly the bright lights, though you should see it on ma
rket day.” Pulling the stool farther from him looked a bit obvious, so she guessed she’d just have to settle for unnervingly close.

  “You do sometimes get people in here, then?” He shifted in closer, his gaze intent on hers.

  “Yup, now and again, though probably not what you’re used to.”

  “It has its attractions, this corner of Cheshire, even without lots of people.” She tried to ignore his finger as it traced a slow line of heat from her elbow right down to her wrist, tried to ignore the almost indiscernible pressure from his fingertips that was sending a flutter of something illicit straight between her thighs. “Bright lights aren’t everything, you know.”

  “Really?” She tried to control the squeak.

  “Really.” The heat of his thigh against hers burned its way straight to her pussy, building up the ache that had started the moment he had touched her.

  “You’re just, um, passing through, then?” Just so she knew, had it straight in her head.

  “I’m just passing through.” He nodded, close enough for her to feel his warm breath caressing her neck.

  So she was rubbish at interrogation; at least that was firmly established. No one just passed through this place; it wasn’t as though there was a motorway running through it, or anything else, for that matter. But if she sat and had a drink with him, if she sat and let him flirt…At least he’d be gone tomorrow. When she might be regretting it and wishing she’d stayed at home and finished the chocolates and book, in that order.

  ***

  Saul Mathews watched the barmaid pour him a second pint. He wasn’t that bothered about another drink, but he didn’t want to give her a chance to skip off and busy herself doing nothing again. Normally he did his best to avoid talking to the locals when he did a job like this. He came in, made his assessment, and left. No whimsical fancies about the people or the place, no emotions, just decisions based on clinical facts. But he hadn’t been able to ignore her; she was just there, inescapable, and when those soulful green eyes had locked with his, it had been an invitation he couldn’t ignore. Even if she didn’t seem to realize she was issuing an invitation at all.