Falling for the Forbidden: 10 Full-Length Novels

by Jessica Hawkins

  A future where FBI agents aren’t about to storm through the door.

  “Don’t cry, ptichka.” His thumb strokes over my wet cheek, and I see the mocking smile return to his lips. “This doesn’t change anything. You can still hate me. Just because I love you, I’m not any less of a monster—and I’m not going to disappear from your life.”

  But you are. I want to scream out the truth, but I can’t. I can’t warn him, even though my heart feels like it’s tearing apart. I don’t love him—I can’t—but it hurts as though I do, as though losing him will be the worst thing ever. A choked sob rips from my throat, then another, and then I’m in his arms, clasped securely against his chest as he carries me out of the bathroom.

  When he reaches my bed, he sits down, holding me on his lap, and I cry, my face buried against his neck as he strokes my back, slowly, soothingly. He’s right; his confession of love shouldn’t change anything, but somehow, it makes things worse. It makes me feel like I’m losing something real… like I’m betraying him and us.

  How can a monster hold me so tenderly? How can a psychopath love?

  My skull feels like it’s being sawed open from the inside, my headache worsened by my crying, and I push at Peter’s chest, twisting out of his embrace—only to fall onto the bed, whimpering as I clutch my temples.

  He leans over me, concern darkening his features. “What’s the matter, ptichka?” he asks, stroking my arm, and I manage to mutter something about a headache before squeezing my eyes shut. What I’m feeling is more along the lines of a migraine, but I’m in too much pain to explain.

  The bed dips as he rises to his feet, and I hear footsteps as he walks out of the room. A couple of minutes later, he returns with Advil and a glass of water. I pry open my swollen eyelids long enough to swallow the medicine, and then I close my eyes again, waiting for the violent drumbeat in my skull to quiet to a manageable roar.

  I expect him to leave then, or to get in bed with me, or whatever he was planning to do, but instead, I hear the bathroom door open, and a minute later, a cool, wet towel covers my eyes and forehead, bringing with it a welcome sliver of relief.

  Once again, he’s taking care of me, giving me comfort when I need it most.

  The tears return, trickling out from under the towel as he tucks the blanket around me and sits on the edge of the bed, his hand slipping under my neck to massage the tense muscles in my nape. It’s torture of a different kind, this tender care of his. It soothes my headache but intensifies the searing pain in my chest. I’ve been fooling myself when I called what we have a sick fantasy. It might be sick, but it’s real, and when he’s gone, I will miss him, just like I missed him when he went to Mexico. It’s not love I feel for him—love can’t be this dark, this illogical and insane—but it is something.

  Something other than hate, something deep and disturbingly addictive.

  A dog barks in the distance, and I hear a car door slam. It’s most likely my neighbors on the next block over, but my heart still jumps, my stomach churning as I picture a SWAT team busting through my door and gunning down Peter at my bedside. It plays like a movie in my mind: the black-clad figures rushing in, the bullets tearing through the bedsheets, the pillows, his chest, his skull…

  Bile surges up my throat, my head all but exploding with agony.

  Oh God, I can’t do it.

  I can’t stay quiet and let it happen.

  “Peter…” My voice trembles as I ball my hands under the blanket. I know I will regret this in a thousand different ways, but I can’t stop the words from spilling out. “You’ve been spotted. They’re coming for you.”

  His hand on my nape stills mid-stroke, then resumes its gentle massage.

  “I know, ptichka,” he murmurs, and I feel his lips brush against my wet cheek as something cold and hard pricks my neck. “I know they are.”

  Lethargy rushes through my veins, and with strange relief, I realize that this is it.

  He knew about the FBI all along.

  He knew, and I’ll never be free again.

  Chapter 45

  Peter

  “Hurry,” Anton hisses from the passenger-side front window as I approach the SUV, carrying Sara’s blanket-wrapped body against my chest. “Did you not get any of my messages? They’re less than ten blocks out.”

  I tighten my grip on my human bundle. “I couldn’t leave until I learned what I needed.”

  “What’s that?” Yan asks, opening the back door from the inside. He scoots over, and I climb in, being careful not to bump Sara’s head as I bring her into the car.

  It’s bad enough she had a headache when I drugged her.

  Ignoring Yan’s question, I settle Sara’s unconscious figure between us and shut the door before catching Ilya’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “To the airport. Make it fast.”

  “On it,” Ilya mutters, slamming on the gas, and we torpedo forward, zooming down the quiet suburban street.

  “What did you need to learn?” Yan persists, glancing at Sara’s face—the only part of her not wrapped in the blanket. With her thick lashes fanning out over pale cheeks, she looks like a sleeping Disney princess, and I don’t blame my teammate for the flicker of interest on his face.

  I don’t blame him, but I still want to kill him.

  “Something to do with her?” he continues, oblivious, then looks up at my face and blanches.

  “Yes.” My voice is jagged ice. “Something to do with her.”

  He nods, wisely looking away, and I wrap my arm around Sara’s shoulders, arranging her comfortably against me. In the distance, I hear sirens, accompanied by the roar of helicopter blades, but despite the approaching danger, I feel calm and content.

  No, more than content—happy.

  Sara warned me.

  She chose me, when she had every reason not to. She might not love me yet, but she doesn’t hate me, and as I hold her tight, breathing in the delicate fragrance of her hair, I’m certain that one day, she will love me—that one day I’ll have all of her.

  She warned me—she chose to be mine—and now she’ll stay that way.

  I love her, and I’m going to keep her.

  No matter what it takes.

  * * *

  Thank you for reading! Peter & Sara’s story continues in Obsession Mine. Please click HERE to get the book. To be notified of my new releases, please sign up for my newsletter at http://www.annazaires.com

  Jack of Spades

  By

  Renee Rose

  Chapter One

  Corey

  Three kinds of gamblers spend big at my roulette table.

  There’s the guy who’s all up in his head. He’s quiet, body language closed. He sits with hunched shoulders and barely meets my eye. He plays odds, usually has a system he sticks to religiously. Like he always plays red and doubles his bet when he loses.

  Then there’s the reckless gambler. He’s riding emotion, drugs or alcohol. He’s the opposite of the first kind. No system, totally haphazard. He might ask the woman beside him for her favorite number and bet it.

  Then, there’s the gut gambler, my personal favorite. He carries an electricity with him that often carries the entire table away. It’s the guy who’s found the magic. Lady Luck, mojo, their stars aligning—who knows what it is, but they have an energy they’re following. They stay in the flow, following their intuition and bet right every time.

  Often they appear similar to reckless gamblers: they’re outgoing, social. They engage with the people around them, including me, their croupier.

  The whale—that’s Vegas for big spender—at my table tonight is neither reckless, nor a gut gambler, although he has the personality and style of both. He’s gorgeous with a finely tailored suit and European flair, like he stepped off the pages of an Italian men’s magazine. He flirts shamelessly with me and chats up the people around him.

  I scoop and stack the chips and award the winnings with practiced finesse, doing a one-handed split and stack and m
oving with lightning speed.

  “There she goes, beauty and talent.”

  It’s cheesy, but I flash him a smile. I like having him at my table, love his charm and flair, the big tips, yet my spidey sense keeps sounding. There’s something off about him.

  He’s down two thousand at the moment. He slides his chips out onto the table at the last minute, right as I wave my hand and call no more bets. He sets them up sloppily, too. I can’t tell if he wants them in the box for Third Twelve or Odd.

  “Which one, sir?” I lean forward to get his attention as the wheel spins.

  He’s been drinking quite a bit, but he doesn’t appear intoxicated. His eyes flick to my cleavage—which I still manage to work despite the masculine uniform—then back to my face before he gives me a slow, good-natured grin. “Odds, please. Sorry for that.”

  “No slop,” I warn, and scoot the chips over as the ball settles.

  He wins. He slides two hundred-dollar chips across the table to me as a tip. When I pull his chips in, I see he’s embedded a ten dollar chip in the middle instead of a hundred. I flick my gaze up and see he’s watching me. He winks.

  Asshole.

  I subtly signal for Security to come over.

  It’s not the first time I’ve been propositioned to cheat for a customer. It happens often enough. It sort of boggles my mind that he’d spend two hundred bucks paying me off to make ninety. But I suppose it was a test. Once he found out if I’d give him anything, he would’ve tried it again and again.

  Vincent, the security manager on the floor tonight ambles over and stands close to me, dipping his head to listen.

  “This guy’s playing slop and trying to slip low chips in his stack.”

  Later, I would realize Vincent seemed a little too pleased with me, but it doesn’t register. I’m just ignoring the flutters in my belly as he walks around to escort the dude out. I’m not sorry. I did the right thing, for sure. I’m only disappointed because the guy was attractive and sort of fascinating to me, and I’d fantasized for just a moment about him asking me out.

  But whatever. I’m not going to risk this job, not even for a sexy man in a sharp suit. Working at the Bellissimo is like a job, education and socialization all rolled into one glamorous package. It’s owned by the notorious Nico Tacone, of the Tacone Chicago crime family, who rules the place with an iron fist. I wouldn’t fuck with him. Even if he is in love with my cousin.

  I finish my shift and head toward the employee locker rooms. When I pass the hallway toward the security offices, I stop short.

  Vincent is standing in a relaxed posture, shooting the shit with none other than the sexy suit from my table.

  “Corey,” he grins and beckons me closer. “Come here, I want to introduce you to someone.”

  Oh Jesus. He was a secret shopper. Or whatever you call a security test. I don’t know why it pisses me off, but it does. My stomach tightens up into a knot as I stride over.

  “Corey, meet Stefano Tacone, our new Head of Security.”

  I lift my hand to slap Stefano’s face. I don’t know why I do it. Yes, I have a redhead’s temper and I grew up in a violent family. Still, I should know better.

  He catches my wrist and uses it to pull me right up against him. “I wouldn’t.” His warning is less a growl than a low, smoky rumble. Like he’s dirty-talking me right here in the hallway.

  My body responds immediately, my core turning molten. Of course, my damn cheeks heat, too. And believe me, on a redhead, there’s no mistaking a blush.

  “No one strikes a Tacone without regretting it.” It’s a threat, yet it’s still spoken good-naturedly, with the same heart-stopping charm he used out on the floor, trying to get me to cheat for him.

  Shit. Did I actually just lift a hand to a mob boss? A chill slithers down my back.

  I’m so going to lose my job.

  Except Stefano doesn’t look angry. He looks like he wants to eat me for lunch.

  I figure my best bet is to own my mistake. “Forgive me.”

  #

  Stefano

  The beauty in my arms—well, not quite in my arms, more at my mercy—meets my gaze with courage.

  I see neither fear nor defiance in the bright blue eyes, merely bald curiosity, almost a hint of fascination.

  Likewise, bella.

  I picked her table for a reason, and it wasn’t because anyone suspected her of cheating. Quite the opposite. The floor manager says she always attracts a crowd of gentlemen, earns big tips. She’s fast and showy, exuding just the right balance of cool professional and warm invitation in any game she deals. I tested her because we need a dealer for private games upstairs.

  Now, though, I want to play all kinds of private games with her and none of them involve a deck of cards or a roulette wheel.

  “I don’t like being humiliated,” she says. For a moment, I think she’s speaking to my thoughts, and then I realize it’s her justification for trying to slap me. She turns her wrist in my hand, attempting to get free.

  I don’t allow it, pulling her small hand up to my mouth to brush my lips across her knuckles. “I’ll remember that,” I murmur.

  She goes still, throat working on a swallow. She’s so close I sense the heat of her lanky body, notice the slight tremble in her fingers, despite the evenness of her gaze.

  There goes the blush again, giving her away. I want to keep holding her tight against my body, watching those electric blue eyes dilate every time I speak, but if I do, I’ll end up shoving her against the wall and having my way with the tits she wields like weapons.

  No other female croupier looks like this one. The new uniform is a white oxford, crimson vest, and a bow tie, for God’s sake.

  Corey manages to make the outfit sinful, though. The short black skirt hugs every curve of her ass, hips and waist, setting off a pair of long slender legs. She has the blouse unbuttoned and open to the vest, the bow tie worn on the inside like a lover’s collar. How I’d love to put a collar and leash on this beautiful creature and bring her to heel; she’d take some training, too. The coupe de grace of the outfit is her vest. She chose one two sizes too small, making it appear more like a bustier or corset, cinching below her breasts and pushing them in and up until they’re begging to spill from her blouse. I can’t tell with the vest if her nipples are hard, but judging from her parted lips and short breath, I’d guess they are.

  I know I sprouted a chub just from getting rough with her. Which would probably be a good reason to let her go. I force a little self-control and release her.

  “Come into my office, let’s have a little chat.” I wave my arm to indicate my new office.

  Again, she holds her head high, tossing her long thick waves over her shoulder as she precedes me to the closed door.

  She waits for me to open it, presumably because it’s my office, but I take distinct satisfaction in reaching past her to hold it open, like we’re on some kind of classy date instead of interview.

  “Have a seat, Corey.”

  She shoots me a wary glance as she takes a seat opposite me at my desk. “Did Nico sic you on me?”

  I arch a brow. “You’re on a first-name basis with my brother?”

  “Mr. Tacone,” she amends with a slight flush. I love her blushes because they are so at odds with her natural confidence. “No, sorry, not at all. He’s dating my cousin, so I just—”

  “Ah, yes. The woman. The reason Nico called me back from Sicily.”

  Corey appears taken aback. “What do you mean?”

  I wink. “I’m here because he was in danger of losing her—working too many hours. I haven’t met her yet, this cousin of yours.” I let my gaze travel across Corey’s face, down to her enticing cleavage and back. “I can see why he might be enchanted.”

  No blush this time. In fact, I think she suppressed an eye roll. I really do like this girl. Taming her would be so fun.

  “What’s her name?”

  She crosses her long legs, ease creeping into her
posture. “Sondra. And you probably won’t meet her. She’s gone.”

  I knew this already. It’s a good thing I arrived when I did because Nico’s been completely off the rails since his woman walked out on him. I have yet to see the guy, but I know he’s flown home to Chicago to figure out his arranged marriage and other shit with our father.

  She tries to take back the lead in the conversation, “So why target me? I’m a good dealer. I keep my nose clean.”

  My lips twitch. I love her spirit. She’s going to be perfect for upstairs. I’ll just have to make sure no one touches her because I’m already starting to feel a bit proprietary over the looker. “Your supervisors like you, yes. The ones who aren’t jealous.” I noticed the female supervisor gave her much lower marks than the males.

  The corner of Corey’s lips tug up. I like the easy recognition she gives to my statement. She already has correctly interpreted my words and isn’t bothered by them. I’ve already made up my mind—she’s smart. Confident. Easy on the eyes. She’s perfect.

  “We’re switching you to higher stakes games. Private ones.” I’m not asking; I’m telling. This is the way Tacones do business.

  Now I caught her off-guard. Her crimson lips part, and for a moment, no sound comes out. “That sounds dangerous.” Her voice strangles slightly on the last word.

  I raise a brow, both curious and impressed by her conclusion. “It’s not. I’ll be there for every game. I won’t let anything happen to you.” When she remains still, I say, “Or is it me you’re worried about?”

  Slight blush tells me she’s definitely interested, but she shakes her head. “No. Yes. I guess I mean it sounds… illegal.”

  There it is. I so appreciate people who can be direct.

  I spread my hands. “This is Las Vegas. We have a gambling license. It’s the reason my brother moved here.”