by Holly Hart
Table of Contents
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
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
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
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
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
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
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
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue - Penny
Part One
Chapter One
Extended Epilogue
Chapter Two
The Chase
Holly Hart
Red Cape Romance
Contents
Stay in touch!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
60. EPILOGUE: CASSIE
Stay in touch!
Let it Byrne
1. Casey
2. Declan
3. Casey
4. Casey
5. Casey
6. Declan
7. Casey
8. Declan
9. Casey
10. Declan
11. Casey
12. Declan
13. Casey
14. Declan
15. Declan
16. Casey
17. Casey
18. Casey
19. Declan
20. Casey
21. Declan
22. Casey
23. Declan
24. Casey
25. Casey
26. Declan
27. Casey
Epilogue
Byrne Baby Byrne
1. Kieran
2. Kieran
3. Sofia
4. Kieran
5. Sofia
6. Kieran
7. Sofia
8. Kieran
9. Kieran
10. Sofia
11. Kieran
12. Sofia
13. Sofia
14. Kieran
15. Sofia
16. Sofia
17. Sofia
18. Sofia
19. Kieran
20. Sofia
21. Kieran
22. Sofia
&
nbsp; 23. Kieran
24. Sofia
25. Kieran
26. Sofia
Epilogue
Faking It
1. Penny
2. Penny
3. Penny
4. Charlie
5. Penny
6. Charlie
7. Penny
8. Penny
9. Charlie
10. Penny
11. Charlie
12. Penny
13. Penny
14. Charlie
15. Penny
16. Charlie
17. Penny
18. Penny
19. Charlie
20. Penny
21. Charlie
22. Penny
23. Charlie
24. Penny
25. Charlie
26. Penny
27. Charlie
Epilogue - Penny
Faking It Extra Content!
1. Extended Epilogue
2. Deleted Kinky Scene
Stay in touch!
Copyright © 2017 by Holly Hart and Red Cape Romance
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, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Chapter One
1. CARSON
I’m standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down at the 1,500-foot drop just beyond my toes and thinking very hard about jumping off.
Under other circumstances, it would be breathtaking: the Italian Alps positioned against a clear azure sky, the dappled surface of Lake Garda in the distance, the red tile roofs of the villas in the town. If I had binoculars, I’d be able to make out the jagged fingers of granite pointing up from the valley floor below me. As it is, I have to imagine them. I’ll be seeing them up close soon enough.
It’s not a situation your average thirty-year-old billionaire playboy finds himself in, I’ll admit. One might well ask why a guy with more money than he could ever spend, more women than he could ever sleep with, and less body fat than most men could ever hope for, is standing here, of all places, contemplating what I’m contemplating.
The answer is simple: I’m bored out of my fucking mind.
The wind caresses my cheeks and I turn my face up to the diamond-hard summer sun. I’m starting to sweat under this outfit, which is kind of gross. No point in putting this off any longer.
I fill my lungs with clear mountain air and leap off the cliff. I have to make sure I clear the outcropping right below me—wouldn’t want to clip it and end up going ass-over-teakettle all the way down. That would make for an incredibly ugly corpse.
As I fall, my body naturally tilts forward into a dive position. I travel about forty feet in an instant, then I spread my arms and legs wide. Time to embrace the inevitable.
The motion allows the billowing fabric under my arms and between my legs to catch the ambient air, slowing my descent velocity by about eighty percent and pushing me forward, away from the mountainside and toward the lake. The so-called “wingsuit” carries me on natural air currents at a 2.5:1 angle of descent. That means that for every meter I drop, I gain two and a half meters moving forward. That’s important math, because I’m going to attempt something ridiculously dangerous, and I’d really prefer to live through it.
As I glide over the rooftops of Sirmione, the town on the south shore of Garda, I lower my arms several inches to reduce my angle. Easy? Hell no – it’s tougher than it sounds when you have several thousand pounds of air rushing up at you.
In the distance I can see Isola del Garda, the island where St. Francis of Assisi founded a monastery in the thirteenth century. I doubt old Frankie would approve of my current lifestyle, but I’ve got more important things to worry about.
The surface of the lake is rapidly filling my field of vision, but my goggles are polarized to keep the reflected light from blinding me. I need every sense on high alert right now to make sure that I don’t come in at the wrong angle. Too steep and I risk smashing head-first into the immense stopping power of the water. Too shallow and I’ll come in too hot, which means I might not be able to slow myself down before I hit the side of the boat like a bug on a windshield.
Timing here is everything.
Still, it would be a hell of a way to go, wouldn’t it?
The coolness of the water kisses my face as I draw parallel with the surface of the lake. Raising my arms again lowers me closer to the skin of the lake. If it wouldn’t completely fuck up my trajectory, I’d reach down and run my fingers through the cool wetness.
I feel like Superman.
In the distance, my target comes into view: a catamaran anchored about a mile off shore. As I draw closer, and lower to the lake, I finally make out silhouettes of people on the deck – still tiny, like ants.
According to the incredibly detailed math that went into my computer simulation, that’s my cue to drop one last time. I silently thank every crunch and sit-up as my abs strafe the surface of the water, providing the friction I need to slow my forward momentum and begin my long stop.
After several seconds, I lower my legs and arms, and the water pulling against the fabric yanks me backwards, hard.
My teeth grind as the bow of the catamaran fills my field of vision, growing until I can see Maksim Orlov grab his head in his hands and hear him shout “Look out, you idiot!”
The stress on my joints is painful, but I can handle it.
Just.
I don’t spend hours a day in my gym with a giant Swedish personal trainer just to rock a tank top and dance to Europop. That’s just a side benefit. No, I’m all about functional strength. And really, what could be more functional than wingsuiting off a thousand-foot cliff?
I come to a full stop no more than ten feet from the boat. I release the handles on my arm wings to keep them from dragging me down into the depths and pull my goggles up onto my helmet.
My breathing is already starting to slow and I can feel the adrenaline ebbing out of me, leaving me faintly cold, even in the Italian summer heat. I grasp the rungs of the ladder and pull myself up, knowing that within minutes, the thrill of the experience will be all but gone. As usual.
It seems the further I push myself, the more I have to keep pushing to maintain the excitement.
“You are the crazy son of my bitch!” Maksim hoots as he clasps my hand and pulls me onto the deck. As always, his comical Russian accent and mangled English make me grin. And, as always, he’s surrounded by girls.
The latest additions to his posse are bikini-clad British tourists we met at a club last night, looking to act decidedly un-British for a couple of weeks. They swarm me, wide-eyed, passing me around in a hug train.
“That’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen,” says Joanna, a statuesque blonde who’s straining the confines of her bathing suit. She’s a little unsteady on her feet, thanks to the cosmopolitan in her hand and the baking afternoon heat.
“The most incredible thing so far,” I correct her as I shrug out of the wingsuit. Underneath is a Speedo and nothing else. “Wait until later tonight.”
Her eyes run down my body and widen as they reach the bulge under my suit. She smiles.
On to the next thrill.
Sigh.
Chapter Two
2. CASSANDRA
Every instinct in me is screaming out not to do this.
I spent years training in the bowels of a faceless building in Langley to resist exactly this kind of situation. I’ve kept my wits through sleep de
privation, pharmaceutical interrogation, physical torture. Every time, I’ve come out the other side, wiped the sweat off my brow and said: “Is that all you’ve got?”
But this is something else, something much more insidious. It comes to you as a friend, lulling you into a false sense of security. I’m here for you. I won’t hurt you. You love me.
It doesn’t love me, though.
Sure, it wants me to give in, to feel the brief surge of pleasure. It doesn’t talk about the crushing shame that follows, the hours of torment as you realize what you’ve done. That you can’t undo it, no matter how hard you try.
Do I have what it takes to resist this time? They just keep coming at me. I’ve given in every time – does it even matter any more? At this point, do I even want to resist?
That’s just it: I don’t. God help me, I don’t want to resist.
Fuck it, I tell myself, plucking the little spoon from the paper cup and sliding it into my eager mouth.
“Jesus Christ, that’s the best one so far,” I mutter through a mouthful of ginger-spiced carrot-cake ice cream. As I do, flecks of cream fly onto the lace napkin I’m holding under the treat.
Tricia Clarke folds her arms across her ample chest. “That’s the last of them,” she says. Her strangely masculine voice always sounds odd coming out of her mouth, all full lips and cherry lipstick. You might actually mistake her for a guy if you couldn’t see her Meghan Trainor body.
“Finally,” I say, placing the napkin on the counter. “I’m going to have to run a marathon to work off all of those, you crazy bitch.”
Tricia rolls her eyes. “Yeah, you should probably call the cops, the way I held that gun to your head. You know I need another set of taste buds when I’m working on new recipes. And if you want to be a partner in this thing, those taste buds, for better or worse, are going to be yours.” She sweeps her hands down her body like a game show hostess showing off a new car. “Besides, this doesn’t just happen, you know.”
We look sternly into each other’s eyes for a full second before we both lose it.
God, this feels good. Tricia and I laugh so easily together that it’s hard to believe we’ve only known each other a few months. I’ll never forget it the first time we met at yoga class: she was on the mat in front of me, doing downward dog, and our eyes met through her legs.
It was just so utterly absurd that we both burst out laughing, like we’re doing now. After class we met up for a glass of wine, and she had me in stitches.
“What if I’d farted at that exact moment?” she’d asked, wide-eyed. She was totally serious. The look on her face made me howl so hard I actually started to worry that I might wet myself.
