* * *
Blair had never experienced the kind of loss Cole had and his words touched her. She’d finally had the courage to trust her heart and it had led her to Cole, but she wasn’t the only one his actions had broken. Maybe it was up to her to overcome the fear of failure that gripped her every time she thought about putting her own heart on the line, because he’d just done it for her and it felt glorious. Like an oasis in a long journey through the desert.
“I don’t deserve better than you, Cole,” Blair finally said, letting go of the fear. Her whole body felt light, the weight of denying her heart lifting. “Because you are pretty wonderful.”
His eyes widened at her about-face. And for the first time since she’d woken up to that note on her pillow, Blair felt powerful. No longer running or plotting revenge, she was going to do this right and give them a real chance. Cole wasn’t getting away from her again. Unless, of course, he truly wanted to break up with her—she wasn’t a person smuggler, but what she meant was that she had a part in this too. She was no longer the side girl in someone’s life where someone could take her out and play with her when they wanted while she accepted it because that’s all she expected from someone. She was going to be in Cole’s life for real. All in, cards on the table, future on the line, with an emotionally misguided man with a mouth that never shut up. He was hers and she was going to work at it no matter how much cutting her losses might be easier.
“You are the kindest, silliest, smartest, hottest and just plain perfect man I’ve ever met,” she told him. “And I’m just not going to let you go again, so decide now if this is a situation you’re okay with because the next time you leave me somewhere will be the last time you see me.”
He swallowed. “I understand,” he said, quietly, his voice serious. “I don’t ever want to.”
“And I decide what I do and don’t deserve,” she reminded him. “Do you understand that too?”
He nodded, looking appropriately chastised.
“Good,” she said. “So now what?” Smiling, she continued, “I’ve never been in love before so I don’t know what happens now.”
Cole’s shoulders shook. “I love you so much,” he said, lifting her straight off the vehicle and into his arms, some of the color back in his face. She was glad for it. “I don’t know what happens exactly at this moment, but I can tell you that we’re gonna make our way up to that bedroom of yours so I can show you just how sorry I am. Twelve unreciprocated orgasms, at least, are coming your way. Pun definitely intended.”
She shook her head, but then he grew serious as his forehead met hers. His smell, his warmth, the firm way he held her against him all felt new and familiar because this time she was in the arms of the man she planned to spend the rest of her life with. These were her arms now.
“Can you forgive me?” he whispered, anguish still in his voice. “Like honestly forgive me, Blair? I asked my manager to keep records of my time on the road, he’ll verify that I never left my room at night. Those pictures of me with women only surfaced again because of the anniversary of Scott’s death.” He took a deep breath. “I wanted to call and reassure you, but after what I did, I honestly didn’t think you’d care.”
The last part of Blair, the scared and hurt part she’d let rule her life for so long wanted to see the proof that he hadn’t been out, but she was either in this thing with Cole or out and whatever this was, a relationship or a marriage, their future together started with trust.
“I forgive you, Cole,” she assured him, finally letting her lips find his. He held on, squeezing her against him.
“I love you so much,” he rasped, clearly overwhelmed by the exoneration. “I’d still be miserable and hopeless without you, Blair. You gave me my life back.”
Blair smiled, unable to stop kissing him. “You brought me back too, Cole,” she told him. “For the first time I finally found someone who wants me for me.” He kissed her then, nearly suffocating her as he held her tight, their tongues and teeth bumping in a rush of exploding, uncontainable emotions.
She pulled back so she could see his face and grinned at him. “I should have known from the moment you shared my love of cheese that we were meant to be.”
Cole looked uncertain for a moment, cringing as he avoided her eyes. “Yeah, so the thing is...” he hedged, scratching the back of his head. “I actually don’t love cheese at all. In fact, I’m lactose intolerant. I just ate it to spend time with you.”
Blair laughed at first but it soon gave way to an uncontrollable giggle as she kissed him all over his face. “Well, what can I say,” Blair finally said, “I’ve always said there’s no accounting for taste.”
He lifted her into his arms and kissed her forehead. “Fair,” he agreed, “but then that would explain why I love you so much.”
Ignoring her playful glare, he kissed her again, and Blair knew she was loved.
* * *
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Reawakened
by Rachael Stewart
CHAPTER ONE
‘To live is the rarest thing in the world.
Most people exist, that is all.’
—Oscar Wilde
Olivia
HOW RIGHT CAN one man be?
Wilde would definitely lump me in with the ‘most’.
And do I care...?
I throw back a shot of vodka and wince into the mirror beyond the bar, my blue eyes sparking back at me as the answer burns with the alcohol.
I care.
And I’m doing what I can to make up for it. To make up for forty-five years of just existing. Of giving my all and coming out the other side, like this.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not bitter... I’m not.
I’m angry.
I’m angry that my husband of twenty years has gone. Taken away from me without any warning. I’m angry that we spent our entire lives together dedicated to our work, to our charity, and we never found a balance.
I don’t resent the work we did. Especially the help we gave those who needed it. Those without homes, without money, without family or support. Those living lives that we could barely bring ourselves to imagine.
Just existing isn’t a choice for them; it’s all they can do.
I had a choice, and I chose badly.
So no, I’m not bitter. I’m angry. Angry with myself for not living. Angry that we ploughed so much time into everything else that we never hopped off the treadmill long enough to actually live. Never saw the world with our eyes wide open. Had fun. Adventure.
Cue me. Now.
Sitting alone. Propping up the bar of the exclusive DareDevils club. The sultry beat to the music pumping through my veins
, the soft white lights mixing with the vibrant strobes that work through the crowd, deepening the mood and highlighting the suspended dance cages above. Women and men locked within, their lithe bodies twisting and turning in movements that scream sex.
The same kind of allure thrums off the bodies below. People hanging out in varying states of dress. Subs crawling on leashes, led by their latex-clad Doms. Others, much like me, wearing club gear designed to entice, to seduce, to have the elusive fun I am so desperate for...
Hedonistic. Wild. Abandoned.
‘Your room is ready for you, Sky.’
I swallow a surprised laugh at the young bartender before me. My pseudonym is something I came up with on the spot and having it repeated back to me triggers a little rush of embarrassment. I may be forty-five, yet something about this has me feeling childlike and foolish and way out of my comfort zone.
But then, isn’t that the point?
I palm the cool bar-top with both hands like it will somehow steady me and return the bartender’s smile that’s so perfect I can easily believe him a model by day, a successful tip-gainer by night.
‘Lead the way...’
Because, no matter how ridiculous or silly or foolish I feel, what lies in wait upstairs has not only the nerves but the anticipation clambering up my throat and I need this.
Another tick in the many, many boxes I have yet to fill...
Valentine
This bar is not my scene.
Not the mood, the people, the music...the blatant hunger.
It’s carnal, animalistic, and the walls pulse with it.
Only I have no interest. For four years, I’ve been celibate. Four years avoiding anything close.
Yet here I am, and all for her.
Olivia Carmel.
The woman I’m supposed to help.
The woman whose PR image is going down the pan and taking her brand with it. And when I say brand I mean her company, her charity, her. All three. She’s a celebrity entrepreneur, an icon, but since the death of her husband a year ago she’s steadily gone off the rails and I’ve been sent to rein her back in.
To bring the Olivia the nation loves back.
To fix her.
I stroke my jaw as I watch her, my frown building, my curiosity too. She’s all cool, suave and sophisticated against the seedy backdrop and I can’t marry the two together. Not the venue and her. Not the tabloid gossip and her.
She’s an enigma.
An enigma that’s steadily pulling me out of my comfort zone.
I roll my shoulders beneath my tailored jacket and run a finger under my shirt collar, cock my head side to side. She’s far, far from reach but her presence does something to me; it creeps beneath my skin, teasing, taunting, goading out the old me.
‘Can I offer you another?’
I turn to my left, to a scantily clad waitress who I’m sure is offering more than the drink on her tray, and smile. It’s tight and she backs up a step. Easy.
I’m six foot four and broad; a tight smile isn’t going to soften my look. Especially with the jagged scar through my eyebrow that looks like I spend too long inside a boxing ring when the truth is far simpler and comes with a dark tale of its own.
‘No.’ My voice is gravel thick, another side-effect of the same event, and it only makes her back up further. ‘Thank you.’
My gratitude has her smile returning, her shoulders easing. ‘No problem. Just wave me down if you change your mind.’
I nod and go back to Olivia.
She’s perfectly poised on the bar stool. Her platinum blonde hair, smooth and sleek, snakes down her exposed spine in a ponytail that ends just above the low curve to her dress. Her eyes are all made up, the dark shade making her crystal-blue eyes strike out across the distance, her lips far more subtle in their blushing pink gloss.
The entire look is sexy, sultry, and so far removed from the polished businesswoman and wholesome charity organiser the press were once accustomed to.
She’s not the official face of the charity any more; she stood down months ago when her wild behaviour first hit the tabloids. In all fairness to the press, they did cite mitigating circumstances. She’d recently lost her husband after all. But it wasn’t long before they started putting the boot in anyway.
And I get her behaviour. I feel it. The ache of loss. The mark it leaves and the interminable chasm. I understand. And I know that’s why Alan, my friend and mentor, her chief operating officer, came to me for help.
So that’s why I’m here. To witness it for myself. The truth. Not the persona the press now project, the rumour mill doing its thing. I’m here to get a feel for what lies ahead, to decide if it’s worth the battle that’s bound to ensue and the raking over old wounds that I seek to forget.
Is she worth it?
My head says yes. She doesn’t deserve the hand she’s been dealt in life and the PR shitstorm brewing. Not to mention the potentially grave consequences if she takes it one wild step too far.
But my gut...that’s a whole other ball game.
I’m too interested. Too intrigued. I feel it build with the atmosphere as I wait for her next move. Just how far does she partake in the illicit fun under this roof? Is it natural curiosity that has her coming here as an innocent bystander, an observer? Or is it something more...is she seeking to indulge another side to her?
A side I long ago denied myself...
I watch as she swirls the glass in her hand, her eyes lost in the movement of the drink and then they lift, pierce the mirror, pierce me.
My lungs still, my breath caught in some weird suspended state...but she can’t see me, I’m in the shadows, and yet that feeling she sparks returns tenfold, stirring up something deep, long forgotten.
I shift in my seat, look away. It’s time to go. I’ve seen enough. She’s nursed the same drink, not even touching it until now. And, whatever she’s here for, it doesn’t matter; it’s enough that she’s crossed the threshold in the world of Public Relations. It isn’t just some falsified rumour designed to discredit her.
I rise, turn to leave, but the bartender catches my eye as he pauses before her, says something that has her turning rigid. I can see her eyes dance in the mirror, see her cheeks streak with a flush of colour as she nods and then she’s lowering herself from the stool. One long, creamy leg unfolding to reach the floor, followed by the other. Her red-soled black stilettos making her appear taller, all the more slender as she rises up...
Her dress, what there is of it, shimmers in the lights, the draping curve to its back sashaying as she turns and faces me head on, and I lose the ability to breathe once more. The dress ends mid-thigh, the high front and full-length sleeves contrasting with the skimpy rear, but the way it clings to her with that accentuating shimmer...
She’s something else.
I force my eyes up, take in the sleek ponytail, blue eyes and alabaster skin and realise with a surge of heat inside just how much I’m attracted to her. And I haven’t felt that kind of pull in so long.
I blame the alien environment, the carnal longing thrumming off the crowd. It’s messing with my status quo. I haven’t wanted anyone since Layla and no brief visit to a den of iniquity will change that. No matter what my reawakened body is trying to tell me.
I control it. Not the other way around.
I learned my lesson the hard way. And it really is time to leave.
I turn and smack into something.
‘Shit!’ it curses. Big brown eyes stare up at me as something cold and wet seeps through my shirt and glass shatters on the floor at our feet. It’s the waitress from moments ago, her tray now devoid of drinks and stuck flat between us.
I step back. ‘Apologies.’
‘No, I’m sorry, I’ll just...’
But I’m no longer listening. Every eye in the vicinity is now on me, on u
s.
Including hers. Olivia’s.
Bollocks.
Copyright © 2021 by Rachael Stewart
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ISBN-13: 9780369702586
Fast Lane
Copyright © 2021 by Terra Rogerson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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Fast Lane Page 16
