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Portrait of desire
There’s nothing conventional about Jordan Jace, except his membership in the exclusive San Diego chapter of the Millionaire Moguls. An acclaimed artist, he’s also a rebel who resists his wealthy family’s attempts to rein him in. Until, at the opening of his latest exhibit, he meets stunning Sasha Charles, a marketing consultant hired to improve his image. He may not need her expertise, but persuading the straitlaced beauty to break some rules is an irresistible challenge.
A casual affair with a client could put Sasha’s professional reputation at risk. Yet she’s drawn to the man who’s a sexy masterpiece in his own right. With Jordan’s guidance, Sasha is living life to the fullest for the first time—enjoying glittering restaurants, colorful local dives and nights of intense pleasure. Their ardent affair may turn out to be a temporary diversion, unless they can discover the art of love—together...
REESE RYAN writes sinfully sweet romance. She challenges her characters with family and career drama and life-changing secrets while treating readers to an emotional love story filled with unexpected twists.
Past president of her local Romance Writers of America chapter and a panelist at the 2017 Los Angeles Times Festival of Books, Reese is an advocate of the romance genre and diversity in fiction.
Born and raised in the Midwest, Reese has lived in the South for nearly a decade and has an accent that confuses folks from both regions. Reese is an avid reader, a music lover and a musical soundtrack addict.
Connect with Reese via Instagram, Facebook or at reeseryan.com.
Also By Reese Ryan
Playing with DesirePlaying with TemptationPlaying with Seduction Never Christmas Without You (with Nana Malone) Seduced in San Diego
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.
Seduced in San Diego
Reese Ryan
www.millsandboon.co.uk
ISBN: 978-1-474-08276-1
SEDUCED IN SAN DIEGO
© 2018 Harlequin Books S.A
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk
They stood in silence, her hand in his, staring at the city across the bay. Her silent comfort wrapped itself around him. Warmed the chill he felt inside. Made him feel whole again, if only for as long as they stood there together in silence.
“Well, I’d better go.” She turned to him finally, slipping her hand from his. “But thank you for the coffee and the tour of your lovely home.”
“The pleasure was mine.” Jordan shoved his hands into his pockets. “Thank you for the ride and the chat.”
There was something in her eyes as they met his. She opened her mouth to say something, then shut it quickly, dropping her gaze.
“Sasha, what is it?”
He should let it go. She’d decided against saying it. He should just leave it at that. But he couldn’t. He needed to know.
She inhaled a deep breath, as if gathering her nerve. When her eyes met his, she leaned in, flattened her palms against his chest and rose on her toes to kiss him.
Dear Reader,
When my son was young, he took weekly art classes at the Cleveland Museum of Art. During his class, I roamed the museum, enchanted by its art and history. Sculpture was among my favorite mediums. So I was thrilled that Jordan Jace—the hero of Seduced in San Diego—is a sculptor.
Writing Jordan and Sasha’s story allowed me to immerse myself in the fascinating world of sculpture, as I hadn’t since I was a regular at the museum.
On the surface, Jordan seems skin-deep. But peel back the layers of this complex character, and you’ll discover a big heart and the secrets weighing on it.
Seduced in San Diego is a fun, glamorous, sexy and emotional ride as Jordan and Sasha find their way to each other.
For series news, reader giveaways and more, join my VIP readers list at reeseryan.com.
Happy reading,
Reese Ryan
Dedicated to all of the remarkable readers I’ve met during my publishing journey. You support African American and multicultural romance with your hard-earned dollars, valuable time, honest reviews and enthusiastic word of mouth. We are nothing without you.
Acknowledgments
Shannon Criss and Keyla Hernandez, it has truly been a pleasure to work with you both. Thank you for your confidence in me, your patience and your enthusiastic support of my career, which has opened the door to additional opportunities within Harlequin.
Thank you to the Kimani editors, copywriters, cover artists and marketing team for your support. It has been an honor to be counted among the ranks of the remarkable Kimani Romance authors I have long admired.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Introduction
Dear Reader
Dedication
Acknowledgments
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
Epilogue
Extract
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Jordan Jace made a hard turn into the car park of the Prescott George headquarters. He got out, slamming the door of his black Karma Revero. Jordan glared at the stone-and-brick building.
He didn’t appreciate being summoned to HQ. Vaughn Ellicott may have been a lieutenant when he served in the navy. But as a civilian, Vaughn was the treasurer of the San Diego chapter of Prescott George, not his commanding officer.
Jordan had joined Prescott George, or the Millionaire Moguls, as they were more commonly known, as a concession to his parents. He was the outlier in a family of wealthy London bankers who also had financial interests here in San Diego. His membership in the Millionaire Moguls was his way of throwing them a bone so they’d let go of their hopes that he’d eventually join the family business.
Jordan caught a glimpse of himself in the glass as he approached the building. Overpriced, tattered jeans. A T-shirt that read Icon. An unbuttoned, blue check shirt. Black motorcycle boots. His thick, curly hair grown out in twists.
He was no bloody banker. Artist. Metal sculptor. Professional badass. Any of the above applied. But a banker?
Not in this lifetime or the next.
Jordan checked his watch. It was nearly one o’clock in the afternoon. The opening for the latest exhibit of his work at his art gallery, Sorella, began in six hours.
Vaughn better make this quick.
Jordan scanned the modern, industrial space. Exposed brick. Concrete floors. Metal railings. Offices with glass walls and doors. Masculine, minimalist, modern furniture. No one was milling about the club.
He entered the building and made his way to the treasurer’s office. There was Vaughn seated behind his glass-and-steel desk.
A career military man, Vaughn carried himself with poise. Stern scowl, confident demeanor, erect posture. But the man fidgeting behind that desk looked as if his seat was littered with thumbtacks, and he couldn’t quite get comfortable.
Something is very wrong.
Whatever it was, Jordan didn’t like it. Nor did he have the time or inclination to deal with any Millionaire Moguls drama today.
His assistant had been ringing his mobile all morning about the opening at the gallery that night. If he didn’t get there soon, Lydia Dyson might need to crank up the dosage on her anxiety meds.
Jordan barged through Vaughn’s partially open office door without knocking. He dropped onto one of the leather guest chairs on the other side of the man’s desk and crossed one ankle over his knee.
“So, what is it you needed to see me about so bloody desperately that it couldn’t wait until after my show tonight?” Jordan studied the man’s reaction.
Vaughn’s face went through a rapid series of emotions. Miffed that Jordan hadn’t knocked. Unnerved about whatever it was he wanted to discuss. Annoyed with Jordan’s cockiness after he read his T-shirt.
All of which deepened Jordan’s smirk.
Vaughn returned his gaze to the paperwork he was reviewing on his desk.
“How long have you been a member of the San Diego chapter of Prescott George, Jordan?”
“Since I hopped across the pond. About a year ago, I guess.”
“And how long were you a member of the London chapter before that?”
“A few years, I suppose. Why does it matter?” Jordan leaned into two fingers, pressed against his temple. “You didn’t bring me down here to complete inconsequential paperwork that could have been handled just as easily via text, did you?”
“No.” Vaughn put down his pen and frowned deeply, his hands steepled over his belly. “But I need to know how you feel about Prescott George.”
Something most definitely isn’t right.
Jordan sat up, clasping his hands in his lap. “Prescott George is a storied organization steeped in history. And over the years it’s done a lot of good.”
There.
He’d told the truth, but just enough of it that he wouldn’t piss anyone off with what he really thought of the idea of an exclusive club for a bunch of wankers who thought themselves better than everyone else.
“But...?” Vaughn wasn’t prepared to accept his textbook response. And he knew enough of Jordan to realize that if he poked a little harder he’d get the unfiltered truth.
“Why is this important? And why is it important now?” Jordan fidgeted in his chair, wired by the energy required to filter his thoughts and restrain his tongue.
Neither of which he was very good at.
“Because. I need to know.” Vaughn narrowed his gaze, his jaw set.
“Fine. You want to know the truth? Then I’ll tell you. Prescott George does quite a lot of good for its members and the community, but I happen to strongly disagree with its elitist, exclusionary nature.”
“We can’t all be principled artists with the luxury of living off our trust funds, now can we?” Vaughn seethed. His words were a direct hit to Jordan’s ego, and he knew it.
It was true. When Jordan had first left college, he’d been dependent on his trust fund. However, he’d quickly made a name for himself on the London art scene and had eventually come to San Diego, purchased a studio and started to grow his brand here.
He wasn’t exactly a household name, yet. However, he had public art installations in various cities in the US and in Europe. And he certainly wasn’t dependent on his family’s money any longer.
“There are plenty of self-made men like Chris Marland here, too,” Vaughn continued, referring to the San Diego chapter president.
“And I admire such men.” Jordan forced a smile. He refused to give Vaughn the satisfaction of knowing how peeved he was by his dig about him being a trust fund baby. “But we also have a great many members whose primary reason for joining the club is to enjoy the orgasmic pleasure of having someone else stroke their egos for a change.” Jordan’s smirk deepened when Vaughn scowled at his crude reference.
“Then why join the club at all?”
“Us nonconforming, trust fund babies must find some way to keep the parents happy, now mustn’t we?” Jordan checked his watch again and frowned. He put both feet on the floor and clasped his hands between his knees. “Now, are you going to tell me what this is all about or not? I’m in no mood for a guessing game today, mate. Out with it already.”
Vaughn cleared his throat and tipped his chin, his eyes meeting Jordan’s. “Got the initial report on the recent break-in here.”
“All right.” Jordan leaned forward. “What’ve you learned about the robbery?”
Vaughn released a long sigh as he reviewed the document again. “There was evidence of a residue left behind, quite possibly by the perpetrator.”
“What kind of residue?” Jordan was losing patience with Vaughn’s deliberate evasiveness.
He met Jordan’s gaze. “It was a powder often used in metalworking. The kind of thing a metal sculptor might use.”
It took a few moments for Jordan to get his meaning. Not because he was daft, but because he was gobsmacked that the man could even think of making such an accusation.
“You can’t possibly be accusing me of having anything to do with such a pedestrian prank? No, you must surely be having a laugh at my expense.” Jordan shot to his feet. “Any other day, perhaps I’d find it amusing. But today I’ve got no time for joking, mate. Got an exhibition at the gallery tonight, or have you forgotten?”
“I’m afraid it’s no joke.” Vaughn looked pained by the entire ordeal.
“You’re mad as a bag of ferrets if you believe this bollocks.” Jordan paced the floor. He gestured around the office. “Nothing here is worth my time. If I wanted it, I’d simply purchase it for myself.”
“Since you have such a love-hate relationship with the club, perhaps you did it as a joke. Or maybe as a way to piss everyone here off.”
“Do I look the sort of tosser that would risk getting nicked for a practical joke?”
“Then how do you explain the metalworking powder residue found at the scene?” Vaughn kept his voice calm. Controlled. Rather than settling him, it only made him want to punch the man in his smug face.
“That’s not my job, now is it?” Jordan folded his arms defiantly, then blew an exasperated breath as he flopped into the chair again. “Innocent until proven guilty and all that.”
“True.” Vaughn nodded sagely, tapping a pen on the blasted investigative report. He raised his eyes to meet Jordan’s again. “But then there’s the anonymous reports received by a local gossip blog.”
“Naming me as the culprit?”
“Hinting that the heist was an inside job.” Vaughn put the pen down and studied his reaction. “Put the residue and the news that it’s an inside job together and—”
“You and the wanker who set you on to this idea are completely barmy. So what if there was residue from my metalworking? I’m in here often enough, aren’t I?”
“I agree that you’re not a very likely suspect. You may be a pompous ass, but I doubt that you’re a thief.” Vaughn seemed relieved. “Still, I had to ask.”
“I understand.” Jordan hadn’t realized his heart was racing. His breathing slowed and he nodded. “So who do you suspect?”
“That’s just it.” Vaughn shrugged. “I don’t have any idea why someone inside our club would do this. Especially now...when we’ve been nominated as Prescott George’s Chapter of the Year. The timing couldn’t be worse.”
“True. That still puts us no closer to knowing exactly who the dodgy prat is who’d do something like this.”
“I just printed out a few copies of our membership list.” Vaughn shoved some papers across his desk at Jordan. “Got a few minutes to go over it with me? I’d love a second opinion on who might be responsible.”
Jordan groaned and checked his Devon Tread watch. He honestly didn’t have time for this tosh. But perhaps he should show some gratitude for Vaughn’s confidence in him.
He picked up the stack of names and pored over them. After a half an hour of comparing notes on various members of the club, Jordan’s phone rang again. This time it was his father. His mother had rang a handful of times earlier in the day.
Jordan sent the call to voice mail. He didn’t want to hear either of their excuses about why they wouldn’t be able to make tonight’s exhibition this time.
“This round of who’s the barmy bastard has been fun.” Jordan shoved his phone back into his pocket and stood. “But I’ve got a show to put on tonight. Shall I expect you and your lovely wife to be in attendance?”
“Miranda and I have a previous engagement tonight. I’m sorry we’ll miss it.” Vaughn settled back in his seat. “And I hope there are no hard feelings about our conversation today.”
“You didn’t have much of a choice, I s’pose.” Jordan shrugged. “But I can’t promise to be so forgiving if it should ever happen again.”
Jordan put on his shades and made his way back to his car. Time to focus on tonight’s event. The only thing he really cared about.
Chapter 2
Sasha Charles read the invitation to the Jordan Jace exhibition at his gallery, Sorella, for the third time. She scanned the website for the gallery and studied his handsome face.
Smooth brown skin. Intense, mesmerizing eyes. A brilliant, mischievous smile. There was something about the man that made her want to know more about him. Then there was his art. Public installations that stood several stories high against the San Diego skyline.
Powerful. Intriguing. Enigmatic.
Much like the man himself from what she’d been able to gather.
Sasha walked through her closet in search of the perfect dress. Something that was all business, but would still capture Jordan Jace’s eye when she walked into his gallery.
She lifted a dress custom made for her by one of her clients—a local fashion designer.
Sasha had been waiting for the right occasion to wear the dress. The navy, off-shoulder dress had a mermaid silhouette. The top was made of lace and there was a lace detail on the train.
Sasha held the dress against her and nodded. A sly smile curved the corner of her mouth.
Absolutely perfect. Jordan Jace won’t know what hit him.
Sasha laid the dress out on her bed, kicked off her shoes and got ready for the night ahead.
* * *
Jordan stood on the second level of his art gallery and surveyed the space. Tried to see it as a first-time visitor or potential client would.
He loved everything about Sorella. From its name to the raw elements that comprised the site. Exposed brick walls. Restored original wood floors. An open loft and staircase constructed of black steel.
The spare feel of the showroom allowed the art to be the real star. The paintings of some of San Diego’s best upcoming artists adorned the walls of the gallery. Sculptures cast in bronze, copper, steel, marble and clay anchored the space. And today a variety of his pieces took center stage on both levels.
Jordan worked with found elements of metal and reclaimed wood to create works of art that were truly unique. Pieces each viewer interpreted differently.
It was an honor to have public art installations in San Diego and the UK. To share his art with an entire community. Yet, there was something truly intimate about a buyer falling in love with one of his sculptures and making it part of their home or office.
It was a tremendous feeling his parents would never understand. Not that they’d ever tried. Instead, they’d treated his art as if it were a teenage indulgence. Something he needed to work out of his system before he finally gave it up and took a “real” job in their family business.
“How does everything look?” Lydia shoved her glasses up the bridge of her nose as she stood beside him.
“Brilliant. You’ve done a bang-up job, Lydia.” Arms still folded, he glanced at the woman quickly, then returned to surveying the gallery for any missed details.
“Is there anything I’ve forgotten?” She stood ready with a notebook and pen.
“Is the bar completely stocked?”
Guests would be offered complimentary champagne and hors d’oeuvres. But they could order anything they desired from the bar anchoring the center of the room.
“Yes. They have all of the top-shelf spirits you requested.”
“Did we get that wine in from—”
“The wineries you visited in Baja last month during the Prescott George tour?” Lydia finished his thought. “Yes.”
“Very good. Has the caterer arrived yet?”
“She’s setting up now.”
“You’re remarkable, as always.” Jordan turned to face the woman. Lydia’s title was assistant, but truthfully, she did it all. She handled paperwork, managed the gallery, assisted with the curation of artwork and generally kept him on track. All without complaint. “And you look smashing tonight. As always,” he added with a broad smile that made her blue eyes twinkle.
Per his parents’ voice mails and text messages filled with excuses, neither of them would be in attendance tonight, though they were both in town. But an impressive list of wealthy and well-known residents of San Diego would be on hand. Along with a few out-of-towners who’d flown in just for the event.
Tonight would be memorable—regardless of whether his parents deemed the event worthy of their presence.
* * *
Jordan flashed his biggest smile for a wealthy patron who’d bought several of his sculptures for her homes in London and Los Angeles. Vivian Avery had been the first person to purchase a major piece from him who hadn’t been connected to or referred by a member of his family or Prescott George. Ten years later, she was still one of his most ardent supporters.
Tonight the older woman was in the market for a smaller scale piece right for her lavish New York apartment.
Jordan chatted with a few other patrons milling about the gallery. He talked with two other gallery owners who’d been pressing him to collaborate on a local arts festival. They hoped the project would bring a wider range of visitors to all three galleries. Jordan wasn’t willing to commit on the project just yet. But he was personable and showed just enough interest to keep the two other gallery owners’ hopes alive.