by J. Haymore
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Connect with Jennifer
Excerpt from Swept Away, Volume 2
Copyright
Swept Away First Digital Edition, October 2014 Copyright 2014 Jennifer Haymore
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the author.
Digital books are not transferable. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright holder is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
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Swept Away
Volume 1
by
J. Haymore
Swept Away, Volume 1
He is everywhere. He surrounds me, wends his way under my skin. I can’t escape his strength, his intensity, his presence.
I’m trapped.
There’s nowhere to run.
Nowhere to hide.
But even if I could escape...would I be strong enough to leave?
I needed something—something big—to get myself out of the rut I’d fallen into after the car accident that killed my sister. This sailing trip was meant only to mark a new chapter in my life. Until Ethan Williams stepped on board.
Ethan radiated confidence. His darkly handsome good looks and ocean-blue eyes mesmerized me. But it was the way he looked at me that drew me in. He wasn’t looking at my past or at my scars, but the real me behind all that baggage I was trying so hard to leave behind.
But Ethan had secrets—dark, dangerous secrets. I was trapped in the middle of the ocean in a tangle of lies, sex, and violence. The problem was, I was happy to be trapped forever...if it meant I could have him.
Warning: Swept Away is a 4-part serial. This story is messy and twisted and very, very sexy. It is not for people under 18.
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Also by J. Haymore
Coming Soon:
Swept Away, Volume 2
Swept Away, Volume 3 (November)
Swept Away, Volume 4 (December)
Now Available:
Never Let Me Go
Sugar Cay
The Remix
The Reunion
Highland Knights
A Highlander's Heart
The House of Trent
The Duchess Hunt
The Rogue's Proposal
The Scoundrel's Seduction
The House of Trent Novellas
Devil's Pearl
His For Christmas
One Night with an Earl
The Donovan Sisters
Confessions of an Improper Bride
Once Upon a Wicked Night (a short story)
Secrets of an Accidental Duchess
Pleasures of a Tempted Lady
The James Series
A Hint of Wicked
A Touch of Scandal
A Season of Seduction
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Dedication
For L, as always. Love you, babe.
Prologue
March, 2013
I grip my cane hard, my knuckles growing white over the polished metal of the handle. I stare narrow-eyed at the convenience store, a squat building with bright lights pouring from the inside onto the parking lot.
Every muscle in my body screams at me to turn around towards home. My toes curl, my feet itching to run. But I lock my knees and fight it.
I'm going forward, not back. I can't survive forever trapped between the walls of my little apartment. I need this. I need to be out here.
Traffic roars behind me, headlights slashing over the sidewalk. The smell of exhaust permeates the air. A couple strides out of the store hand in hand, a bottle of wine peeking from the top of a plastic bag the man carries.
In the past three months I've forgotten all this...the sights, the sounds, the people of Los Angeles. They press in on me from all sides, crushing. My heart pounds. Cool beads of sweat pop out across my forehead. My throat is so constricted, it feels like I'm pushing out breaths through one of those tiny red-and-white restaurant straws you use for coffee. My bad leg throbs, unused to walking, even though I'm only three blocks from home.
Another two blocks, and there will be a smorgasbord of choices for food, from Thai to Italian to Persian. But there's no way I'm going to make it two more blocks. It's convenience-store food for dinner tonight.
I push my legs forward, hobble to the glass door and jerk it open with my free hand. A bell tinkles as I enter, feeling like I'm dragging my body against its will.
Thank God. It's quieter in here. Though it's not late, the store is empty, not even one person inside except the cashier—a pimply guy about my age, who offers me a polite nod. I go straight to the refrigerated section and start looking over my options. Tuna salad sandwiches with wilted lettuce. Sushi with avocado slices that have browned at the edges. Fruit in bulging plastic containers.
The frozen burritos appear safer than any of the other options. Burritos it is, then.
My fingers wrap around the freezer door handle, but a commotion rising from the front of the store stops me short. And then a man shouts, "Show me your fucking hands, or you're going to get a fucking bullet through your head. Do you fucking understand?"
The voice booms through the store, ripe with anger and desperation. And there is no doubt in my mind that this man is close to going over the edge. He won't hesitate to kill.
Terror holds me there, suspended in motion, as another man demands the money in the cashier's register. "All of it," he says. This guy sounds cool, calm, and somehow even more dangerous than the first man. "You keep the fifties and hundreds in the back, right? You dumbasses don't even have a safe. Take me back there. Now."
"Okay, okay," the cashier says in a breathy, frightened voice.
Footsteps clomp into the back room of the store, and I can't help it. I suck in a shaky, gasping breath.
"What the fuck was that?" screeches the first man.
My fingers squeeze the handle of the glass door of the freezer while my other hand tightens over the top of my cane. My feet are rooted to the linoleum floor.
The guy strides around a display of potato chips and stops, staring at me over the barrel of his pistol. I have no idea what he looks like. All I can see is the flashing silver of the gun.
"Get down!" The shrill command hurts my ears. He waves the gun at me.
I just stare at it, too frozen, too stiff to even collapse onto the floor.
"Did you hear me? I said get the fuck down!"
I try to unlock my arms and my legs and sink to the floor, but it's n
ot working.
Snap. He's flipped the safety off. And then, beyond him, there's movement. A man yells, "No!"
A cacophony of shouts fills the store, loud and angry. Another man tackles the guy holding the gun in a blur of motion. He barrels backward, his body slams into a shelf, and aluminum cans crash everywhere. The gun skitters over the linoleum.
The men tumble around on the floor along with the fallen canned goods, one in black leather, the other in black slacks and a white shirt, while I stand there, frozen in place, even as my mind screams to cower or to run or to pick up the gun—do something but stand there like a damned statue.
They're both big men with dark hair, though one has lighter skin than the other, and the guy who was holding the gun is bulkier. Their arms fly as they try their hardest to kill each other, grunting and growling.
I just stare. I've never witnessed violence like this before. Only on TV, and this has a grittier, uglier feel to it than anything I've ever seen on TV.
"What the fuck, Anthony?" comes a shout from the direction of the register.
The man in slacks punches the man in black leather—Anthony, I'm sure—in the face, and there's a loud crack. Anthony screams in agony. The other man and rushes toward me, his face a blur.
Just beyond him, Anthony scrambles for the gun, and I gasp as he grabs it and points it at me…or at the man. One of us.
"Be care—" I scream to warn him. But it's too late. Anthony fires. The boom of the gunshot overwhelms my senses. The man bulldozes into me, and my head cracks against the glass of the freezer door. The impact knocks my cane from my grasp. He jerks against me, and pain shoots through my head.
Something warm and wet trickles down my cheek. Blood. Is it mine or the man's?
It must be the man's. There's a hole in his shirt, beneath his left collarbone. Blood pours out of the hole.
He's going to bleed to death. I reach out, intending to press my hand to his wound to put some pressure on it, but black edges my vision, and my body slides down the glass with the weight of the man half on me. Dizziness rushes over me in a sickening flood. I try to hold on, but everything blurs and then fades away as I lose my grasp on consciousness.
Chapter One
Fifteen Months Later
June 2014
The car comes to a stop in front of the marina, but instead of opening the door and getting out, I sit glued to the leather seat, gazing through the backseat window, my fingers curling into fists, then opening again, over and over.
I need to get out of this car. Venturing outside is nowhere near as scary as it was a year ago. The convenience-store robbery was a setback, but after that, I worked hard, and I got better. Therapy—lots of therapy—helped. I caught up with my required classes during the summer and went back to school for my senior year in the fall. I can leave home without having a panic attack now. And I'm a newly minted college grad—I even went to my graduation ceremony last month and had a great time. My best friend, Kyle, took me to a bar with a group of friends afterward, and we all got shit-faced drunk. It was a first for me, and it was fun. Real fun, like a girl my age should be having.
I'm feeling normal again. Human again.
This, though—this is different. This is not walking three blocks to a convenience store, or going out with friends. This is more.
It's more than more. It's crazy.
Beyond the sidewalk and a chain-link fence, boat masts sway gently to the cadence of the afternoon breeze against the backdrop of a clear blue Southern California sky.
I unclench my fingers and grip the door handle, ready to open it and face whatever lies ahead, but my hand falls away when Juan opens the door.
"Thanks," I say. Juan is the driver who always comes for the car service whenever I need a ride somewhere. We've grown friendly over the past couple of years.
"No problem." Juan helps me out, then turns toward the trunk. "I'll get your luggage."
I watch him unload my duffel and my laptop bag.
All I need to do is ask, and Juan would take me home. He'd return me to the comfort and safety of my apartment, where I wouldn't need to face boarding a fifty-foot boat or spending three weeks sailing across an ocean with four other people, three of them virtual strangers.
Stop it! It's my sister who scolds me in my head. You need this. Do it. That's an order.
Emily would have done it. She wouldn't have hesitated for a second. And that's what spurs me on, in spite of my clammy hands and the fact that my heart feels like it's going to hammer out of my chest.
"Have a great trip, Miss Jameson." Juan hands me my laptop bag.
"Thanks, Juan."
He gives me his kind smile, flashing bright white teeth. "I'll see you next month when you get back."
"Yes. You definitely will." There. That sounded strong and confident. I'll be back in Los Angeles in just six weeks. What can happen in a mere six weeks?
Juan walks back to the driver's side and gets in. I grab the handles of my duffel bag, which is packed with everything I'd ever need for crossing an ocean on a sailboat, and heft it over my shoulder. I watch the car roll away, and when it disappears behind the apartment buildings that line the marina road, a part of me feels like my only lifeline has been severed.
My breaths start to speed up. There's a panic attack coming on, but I know how to control them. Most of the time.
I grip the handles of my duffle and force myself to inhale and exhale slowly, turning my thoughts to simple, logical truths—You have lifelines right here, Tara. Literally and figuratively. You're safe. Nothing bad is going to happen.
My gaze turns to the marina basin. It's low tide, so the concrete dock floats far below street level, giving a good view of all the slips and boats moored along its length.
The Temptation, the catamaran we'll be sailing to Hawaii, is at the very end of the dock. It stands out from all the other boats that lead up to it—it's bigger, sleeker, sexier. It is brand new and state-of-the-art, from its computer systems to its rigging to its plush interior.
A charter company based in Hawaii bought the catamaran a few months ago, and they've hired a captain to sail it from LA to Honolulu so they can use it to take tourists snorkeling and scuba diving on the reefs of Oahu. That's where Kyle and I came in. A captain needs a crew, and this captain just happens to be sleeping with my best friend.
I limp toward the dock gate. I stopped using my cane shortly after the convenience-store robbery, and my limp is noticeable, but it doesn't elicit the looks of pity the cane did. It does make it awkward for me to walk downhill, though. Since it's low tide, the ramp down to the dock is steep, but it's also covered in a sandpapery substance, so I don't give it a second thought. Until it's too late.
About halfway down, my right leg—the bad leg—steps forward, and my foot slips to the side. My leg crumples beneath my weight, and I go down, all flailing arms and legs and bags. I land hard on my side, grunting with the impact, and then lie there for a second, blinking, the wind knocked out of me. The ramp beneath me is slimy, as if someone dragged something over it that had been immersed in seawater for a year.
I struggle up to a seated position and take stock of myself. A layer of green-and-black grime slicks my white capris. And judging by the soreness in my thigh and hip, I'm going to have a nice set of bruises to go with my scars later.
I grind my teeth. Not two steps into this adventure, and I've already screwed up. Hopefully this isn't an omen of things to come. And hopefully no one saw—
"What the—?"
Startled, I glance over my shoulder as the gate slams shut. The person who spoke is haloed by the sun, so it's impossible to make out his features. He approaches me with long, sure strides, the ramp bouncing under his weight.
I scramble to my feet, gathering everything up, hoping I didn't break my laptop, ignoring the twinge in my leg.
"Are you okay?" Worry underscores the smooth, masculine voice. Oh God—this is so embarrassing. The sight of me going down must have been
spectacularly bad. "Can I help you?"
"No, I'm good. I'm fine. Thanks. No problem. I just wasn't paying attention." Thrusting the strap of my duffle bag over my shoulder, I finally look at the stranger. "Than…ks." The word fizzles away on my lips.
This man is…wow. He's got an oval face with sharply slanted cheekbones, and his full lips are a soft, kissable pink. His almost-black hair, brows, and lashes contrast with the lightness of his ocean-blue eyes, and a dark scruff shadows his strong jaw.
I swallow hard, resisting the urge to look down at my muck-covered leg.
His lips tighten as he studies me carefully, his gaze trailing over me like a cool breeze. He takes in my blond ponytail, my makeup-free face, my shirt with horizontal navy-blue stripes and the white capris. Well, as of a few seconds ago, they were white capris. My skin tingles everywhere he drinks me in with those eyes.
God—I've separated myself from the world for too long. I'm getting carried away. He's probably checking for broken limbs.
"You're Tara Jameson, right?" He sounds friendly. Easygoing. But his eyes seem to pierce through every one of the protective walls I've ever built around myself, and his posture is stiff and alert, the energy shimmering around him nearly palpable.
"I—" My voice breaks, and I clear my throat, shaking off the frozen feeling that's come over me. He might have thought I was an idiot, flailing around on the ramp like that and then getting all tongue-tied, but enough is enough. I straighten my spine, taking in his tailored three-piece suit, the black wool offset by a white shirt, a gray tie, and silver cuff links. He's completely GQ-hot, and he definitely doesn't belong in a Southern California marina.
