by Autumn Grey
Havoc
Copyright © 2014 Autumn Grey
All rights reserved including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are a product of the author's imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons living or dead, is coincidental. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. Thank you for respecting the authors work.
Cover design: LM Creations
Edited: Hot Tree Editing, The Eyes For Editing
Formatting: Champagne Formats
Table of Contents
Other books by this author
Quote
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other books by this author:
Obliterate (Havoc #2) coming January 2015
Mend (Havoc #3) coming February 2015
Nineteen months ago. . .
WHEN I woke up this morning, I had a feeling my life was about to change dramatically. I wish I would have known the extent of the damage.
I glanced around the living room, my gaze searching for something to take my mind off the envelope sitting on the kitchen counter.
Hopelessness and heartbreak swept through me like a hurricane, destroying everything in its path. My heart splintered a little more as I listened to my soon-to-be ex-husband, James’s, heavy footsteps upstairs. Finally, unable to delay the inevitable, I opened the envelope and stared down at the papers.
The past few years had been filled with heartache for both of us, and I'd grown dependent on James. I wondered if my therapist had a cure for heartbreak because she sure as hell hadn't given me a solution to stop the never-ending ache of losing the only hope I had of saving this marriage.
I pressed my belly, the safe haven where only months ago had nestled a life, and the loss slammed into me all over again. All I wanted to do was lock myself in a room and take the medication that would take me away from this world for a few hours or days. Not that it would help. It never did.
God, what was I thinking? Just because life knocked me on my ass didn't mean I was going to curl up in a corner and die. I hadn't spent half my life fighting to be where I was today only to fail in the end. I wasn’t going to admit defeat.
I straightened as James came down the stairs carrying a big, brown box. I studied the man who had been my first in everything. He had blond hair meticulously combed back, ice-blue eyes, and lips that, when touching mine, stoked an unquenchable need only he evoked.
James. Beautiful James.
There was no going back. He had made the decision.
I grabbed the pen on the table, and steeling my arm to stop it from shaking, signed my name across the dotted line.
"Is that all?" I asked him, forcing myself to meet his gaze, and pushed the envelope and papers toward him.
He nodded, his eyebrows scrunched up as if in thought. "I've arranged for a real estate agent to stop by to appraise the house." He looked like he wanted to say something else. Instead, he came around the table and took the papers before kissing my forehead.
"Good-bye, Selene.”
He turned and walked out the front door without looking back, taking with him the end of six years of marriage.
Air rushed from my lungs in one single breath. I had failed to make him stay. I felt as though everything was disintegrating around me and the world was quickly shifting beneath my feet. Suddenly, rage like no other swept through me, settling deep in my bones. My body on fire, I swung my arm and knocked the bills off the counter. Then I stalked into the living room, snatched the silver-rimmed picture frame from on top of the cabinet next to the television, and stared at it through red-hot tears. There I was on my wedding day, dressed in white and staring lovingly into James’s face, but his gaze wasn't focused on me. I hadn't noticed that tiny detail until now. If I remember correctly, my best friend, Gena, had been standing behind me. Gena with her long, dark-brown hair and slim body was the reason he’d left me, James confessed when he walked in the house an hour ago. I flung it across the room, and watched as the glass shattered into a million pieces. I continued smashing everything in sight, angry with him, angry with myself, and angry with God for taking away my child. Angry at the whole fucking world.
I had thought I knew pain, but the past two years had proven me wrong. I felt it crush my chest until I couldn't breathe. Oh, my God, I couldn't breathe.
I need to breathe.
I need to breathe.
I shuffled blindly to the nearest couch and sat down, pulled my knees to my chest, dropped my head on them, and took deep breaths the way the therapist had shown me. I could feel my heartbeat slowing down and blood returning to my head.
Moments later, I lifted my head and wiped my cheeks with the sleeve of my sweater, feeling completely spent, both emotionally and physically. I picked up the sonogram on the table where I'd left it earlier this morning and stared at it, running a finger along the tiny shape on it.
My sweet baby, Ines.
I could feel air leaving my lungs again. No, I wasn't going to panic. I shot up from the couch and headed upstairs, focusing my mind on the only thing that helped me keep my sanity in times like this.
I changed into my running shorts and shirt, but this time I didn't need my iPod to keep me company. I wanted the chaos raging inside my head out, scattered into the chilly evening, and I hoped the dark night would consume it.
As soon as the door slammed shut behind me, I hit the ground running, blinking the hot tears from my vision. I knew the route by heart, so I let my legs guide me, and right there I made a promise to myself.
This was life. When you stumble and fall, pick yourself up and dust yourself off. I had done it before, and I would do it again.
I was heartbroken, but I wasn’t dead. In fact, I’d probably been given another chance for life. A do-over. There was no way I was going to let bitterness and rejection rule my life.
Present. . .
AH, PARIS. City of love, lights, and everything in between.
I glanced around the lobby of the Hotel L’Arc where I’d be spending the next three months and smiled. I felt content; so far, considering where I was nineteen months ago, my life had turned out pretty good.
The months following my divorce had been a blur of tireless workouts to get into shape to return to modeling. If there was a city that’d make me forget the shit plaguing my life, Paris was it. I was here for work and pleasure, and I intended to take the pleasure part very seriously. Just because things hadn’t worked between James and I didn’t mean I had to give up on romance. Plus my therapist, my family, and I had worked hard to get me where I was today.
As my sister, Marley, had said, right after hugging me tightly and pushing me toward the boarding gate with tears in her eyes, “Follow that rainbow, Selene. You might find a pot of gold or a very hot leprechaun.”
I smiled again at the memory, turning back to face the fidgety receptionist returning from the back office with a sober look on his face. The wave of bliss I’d been riding since my feet touched France’s soil vanished. I’d conveniently forgotten the idiots had lost
my reservation. In other words, I didn’t have a place to sleep for tonight. I was still waiting for Andrew, my contact with Sara Arden Modeling agency here in Paris, to call me back after having left several voice messages on his phone.
I hoped to God there would be a no-show so I could get a room. Jet lag was starting to set in, and I had a busy morning tomorrow. I needed a good night’s sleep.
"Any messages for me?" a deep voice said, pulling me from my thoughts.
My spine straightened as the breathy quality in those words slammed into my senses. I looked beside me and for a moment forgot I didn't have a room for the night as my gaze locked with the tall man standing beside me, dressed in a black pea coat and jeans. His eyes widened slightly as if surprised, or shocked, to see me standing there. He quickly schooled his expression, but the intensity of his stare deepened. His brow furrowed as though he were trying to figure something out. Or was it confusion?
I couldn't take my eyes off him though. He was tall with dark, slightly wavy hair that curled at the nape of his neck, high cheekbones, and a chiseled jaw covered in a light scruff. Dark eyebrows and long, spiky lashes fringed his emerald-green eyes, which were now fixed intently on me, his expression unreadable. Finally, his full lips. Sexy and kissable were the only things that came to mind when I looked at those lips.
My gaze moved away from his to take in the way his coat framed his broad shoulders and his blue jeans hugged his muscular thighs.
God, he is hot.
Why the hell was he still staring at me like that? Like I was the next best thing since crème brûlée, yet he couldn't wait to get away from me. Weird. Crème brûlée was supposed to be devoured.
As a size-twelve model, I was used to people staring at me appreciatively or sometimes in veiled disgust. I saw none of that on this man's face. Admittedly, not everyone was into women on the fuller side like I was. Not knowing what was going on behind those green eyes was as disturbing as the weird pull I felt toward him. I've always heard people say how they met someone, and right there the earth shifted around them or some gravitational shit. This wasn't that kind of pull, but a primal awareness of two souls.
I NOTICED her in one point five seconds.
She stood about five feet ten inches at most. Her jet-black hair fell in a riot of black curls to her mid-back, and as if it were a beacon, my hands twitched at the thought of fisting locks of it in my fingers. She shifted her weight to her left foot, and my eyes slid down her curvy body.
Mon Dieu!
That right there was the reason God put women on Earth. She had lush curves and great legs that had my cock hardening shamelessly. Dangerously sexy with one hip jutted out. I bet the front view was as generous as the back.
"She is beautiful, no?" a voice on my right asked.
My gaze slid to the man at my side, one of the students attending the Art Symposium. He looked up at me and whatever he saw on my face wiped off the smile on his.
He cleared his throat, smiling nervously. "Great seminar, Monsieur St. Germain."
I gave him a curt nod and murmured, “Thank you.”
He swiveled around and quickly darted through the crowd in the lobby. I returned my focus to the woman, who was now leaning on the counter in front of her, tapping her foot. Gripping the portfolio case in my hand, I strode toward the reception desk.
The receptionist shifted nervously in front of the woman before he noticed me and came dashing toward me, looking relieved.
"Any messages for me?" I asked him, switching my gaze to the woman with curves that could make me commit all of the seven deadly sins. I was already lusting after her, even though she hadn't cast a glance my way.
Merde! This woman's incredible body reminded me that I had starved my body of sex for far too long.
"None, Monsieur St. Germain," he replied in French.
I nodded, finally focusing on her at the same time she lifted her head and turned around.
Everything in me froze as I took in her features. Wide, hazel eyes. High cheekbones. Straight nose with a slightly upturned tip. Her lips looked soft and plump and even from where I stood, I knew they could drive a man insane.
I couldn't breathe as attraction and confusion warred within me.
Is this some kind of a joke? Or maybe I’m just hallucinating? How is it possible for one person to look so similar to another?
I blinked and my vision cleared just as she straightened, scrutinizing every inch of me as I was her. I exhaled and shook off the confusion and forced myself to focus clearly. She was definitely not a ghost from my past. Her makeup-free, flawless—her rich, brown skin reminded me of warm caramel instead of the pale face that had haunted me for years. Her body was fuller, her face kinder, and her eyes more green than brown.
Besides, I didn’t believe in ghosts. This woman was flesh and blood. The ghosts of my past had been buried five years ago.
This was ridiculous. My mind was once again playing tricks on me. I probably needed to get my brain examined.
As beautiful as her eyes were, an air of sadness dulled them, but then, the faint lines bracketing her mouth indicated she smiled often. She was quite the conundrum.
She licked her lips. It was obvious my scrutiny made her nervous, yet I couldn't take my eyes off her.
"Can I help you?" she asked in French, frowning. Her voice was sultry and breathy, sending blood straight to my cock. The way she spoke told me she wasn’t French. And damn it, I wanted to hear her speak again.
How could I feel this way, when only moments ago I thought she was someone from my past? A woman who had brought nothing but utter chaos into my life and had almost destroyed me?
I cleared my throat to get rid of the lump stuck there. "What's your name?" I asked, stepping closer.
"Selene," she said in that voice again. "Selene Michaels."
"Selene Michaels," I said, letting her name roll off my tongue. "I guess from your accent you're not French."
Is that all I could come up with? I shook my head in disgust and blamed it on the fact I hadn't dated a lot in the past year or two.
"American."
Merde! I had to calm down or I'd scare the shit out of her.
My gaze fell to her top full lip, the urge to touch, taste, and bite it forcing me to step an inch closer. Her eyes widened, briefly darting to my mouth before she quickly brought them back to my face.
Ah, yes. It seemed like we were both experiencing the same unexpected attraction if the flush creeping up her cheeks was any indication.
HE EXHALED deeply and opened his mouth to speak, but a group of young men and women stopped in front of him, interrupting whatever he’d wanted to say. His eyes shifted away from me for just a few seconds while he greeted the group before returning to me.
Monsieur St. Germain was a suitably mysterious name to match the man. Undeterred by his inattention, one of the women in the group launched into a conversation with him, her hands touching his arm to catch his interest. When he didn't show any sign of changing his focus, she stopped and glanced my way. The group eventually left, leaving me and Mr. Tall, Handsome, and Brooding in a battle to outstare each other.
Finally, he dropped his gaze to his black dress shoes and ran his long, strong fingers through his dark hair before turning around and striding away, his gait confident. He was almost arrogant in his impatience, commanding the people and the air around him. A few people stepped in his way, hands extended in greeting. He halted, but only for a few seconds to return the greeting.
The pea coat was long enough to cover half his body, leaving a hint of a tight butt in jeans.
Oh, wow! Someone hand me a paddle and bend that guy over. "Who's that man?" I asked the receptionist.
He smiled, relieved and eager to divulge the information, now that St. Germain's appearance seemed to have diverted my attention from the fact I didn't have a room to sleep in tonight. A room Andrew had booked ages ago, but somehow, I wasn't registered as a check-in.
"Monsieur St. Germain, no
? He is a famous artist here in France." His eyes lit up in obvious admiration.
Well, okay. "So, have you checked with your boss about my reservation?"
“I’m sorry, Madame Michaels,” the receptionist repeated, the words fast souring my optimistic mood. His eyes darted over his shoulder toward the back office, probably hoping his boss would materialize to rescue him. He sighed then turned to face me. "He is still in a meeting."
Where the hell is Andrew? I had worked with him on my previous modeling jobs and this was the first time something like this had happened.
I exhaled a breath of frustration. "Could you please call some hotels to check if they have a room for me for tonight?"
He nodded, quickly snatching up the phone at the same time it started to ring. He spoke into the phone for a minute or two before handing me the phone, a slight blush creeping up his cheeks.
“Monsieur Carmichael,” he said then shuffled to the end of the reception desk, darting glances at me as if I could bite him.
Smart guy. I was tired and cranky. I wasn't above biting, and not the good kind.
Even before I pressed the phone to my ear, I could hear Andrew cursing wildly in French. I waited until he paused his tirade before uttering the first word.
“Selene?”
“Thank God, Andrew,” I said, shifting around to face the crowded lobby, noting most of the guests were carrying a portfolio similar to the one St. Germain had in his hand. “What’s going on?”
Andrew blew out a breath. “Inefficient bastards. I got your messages. I’m held up in Lyon and won’t be back until tomorrow morning. Are you okay? How was your flight?”
“Good. Just tired.” I sighed wearily. After eight hours of travel, all I wanted to do was take a shower and collapse in bed.
“I'm so sorry about this, Selene. Look. Let me make some calls and call you back in five minutes, okay, babe?”
“At this point, I'd sleep under a truck. I'm too tired to be too choosy.” Seconds later, I handed the telephone to the receptionist. “I’ll be at the bar if Mr. Carmichael calls.” I turned to leave, not in the mood to discuss anything.
