8 Brand-New Romance Authors
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Heat crawled up the back of her neck and pooled in her cheeks. She pulled her eyes away as he stood and turned to her, staring at the ground as she pulled on her boots.
‘See something you like?’ he asked, his smile indicating it was a rhetorical question.
Dammit.
* * *
He regretted the words as they came out of his mouth, but Jasmine Bell stirred something in him that made him want to bait her. She had this prickly demeanour that he found both frustrating and fascinating.
He was used to swatting the football groupies away with a metaphorical stick. But Jasmine...well, she was a different breed entirely. All long limbs and straight lines, she was sexy as hell in spite of her don’t-mess-with-me attitude. Or maybe that was exactly what he liked about her.
She glared at him as though she were mentally setting his head on fire. Her slender arms were crossed in front of her, as if trying to hide the lithe figure beneath. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of answering his question. There was a small part of him that enjoyed the power struggle; it was a game he liked to play. Moreover, it was a game he liked to win.
Now he’d ticked her off royally, and that was fine by him. He needed to keep his distance. Women were not a permanent fixture in his life...people were not a permanent fixture in his life. The fewer people he saw outside his footy team, the fewer people had the opportunity to use him. So he kept his distance, and he would do the same with her.
‘Did becoming famous cause you to forget your manners, or is that the way you were raised?’
She smiled sweetly, her sarcastic expression stinging him as much as the intentional barb in her words. The tilt in her chin issued a challenge.
‘All I wanted was to play footy; the fame is an unfortunate by-product,’ he said, surprised by his own honesty. Her small rosebud mouth pursed, and her dark brows creased above a button nose. ‘As are the ballet lessons.’
‘Isn’t that what they call a first-world problem?’ She hoisted her bag over her shoulder and walked to the front door. He followed, holding back an amused smile. ‘Like Boo-hoo, I’m famous and it’s such a tough life.’
‘I’d be happy to swap for a day so you can experience it first-hand.’
‘As much as I’d love to see you in here, trying to wrangle a bunch of toddlers, you couldn’t handle my job.’ She held the door open for him, and offered another saccharine smile. ‘Besides, I have the most annoying student to teach.’
Grant couldn’t help it—a hearty laugh burst free. She was prickly, all right, but hot damn if he didn’t enjoy it. ‘Sucks to be you?’
He waited while she locked up, and then they walked to their respective cars. The lights on his Mercedes flashed as he pressed the unlock button. Inside the car was chilly, and the windows took a moment to clear.
By then Jasmine was gone. Within minutes Grant was zipping along the freeway, the street lights blurring orange outside his window as the car tore down the open road. It was late and the city had long cleared its peak hour congestion. He massaged his injured hamstring, the muscle aching under the pressure of his fingers.
Who would have thought something as prissy as ballet would be such a workout? Not that he would dare admit it to Jasmine or any of his team-mates.
His phone buzzed in the mobile-phone holder attached to his windscreen. The goofy face of fellow Victoria Harbour Jaguars player Dennis Porter flashed up. He swiped the answer button.
‘Den.’
‘How are the ballet lessons going?’ Even through the phone line Dennis’s mischievous tone was obvious. ‘I wanted to see if your masculinity is slipping away by the minute.’
Ballet lessons were far from Grant’s idea of fun, but a persistent hamstring injury meant the need for increased flexibility training, and who better to help with that than a ballerina? His physiotherapist had made it sound good in theory, but the reality was proving to be much more irritating—especially since it gave his team-mates more than enough fodder for locker room jokes.
‘Ha!’ Grant scoffed. ‘Even if it was you wouldn’t be in with a chance. You’re not my type.’
‘Yeah, yeah. That’s what all the ladies say. So tell me that at least your teacher is hot?’
‘Hot doesn’t even begin to cover it.’
He’d been expecting someone older, more severe...maybe with a Russian accent. He’d had to keep his mouth firmly shut when a willowy beauty with a long black ponytail and porcelain skin greeted him at the studio.
‘Maybe I’ll have to pop in to one of your lessons.’
A surprising jolt of emotion raced through Grant’s veins at the thought of letting Den anywhere near Jasmine. He shook off the strange protective urge and forced his mind back to the present. ‘I know you want to see me in action.’
‘The whole country wants to see you in action. It’s going to be a good season. I can feel it.’
‘Me too.’
A drawn-out pause made Grant hold his breath.
‘Do you think all that other stuff is behind you now?’ Den asked.
Part of him wanted to answer truthfully. He didn’t know if it would ever be behind him. How could you forget the moment you almost flushed your life’s work down the toilet? Considering football was all he had, it was a damn scary thought. But Den was only a buddy, a mate...and as one of the more junior guys in the team he was not someone to whom Grant could show weakness.
‘Of course. You know me—I’m practically invincible.’
He hung up the phone and allowed his mind to drift back to Jasmine. She was a curious case, seemingly unaffected by him in the way other women were. How much did she know about his past? Was that why she eyed him with such wariness?
Regret coiled in his stomach. Gritting his teeth, Grant turned up the stereo and shook his head. The beat thundered in his chest and made his eardrums ache, yet he couldn’t drown out the thoughts swimming like sharks in his head. Around and around they circled, occupying the space—scaring off any semblance of peace.
He slammed his palm against the sturdy leather-covered steering wheel. He wasn’t looking forward to the rest of his ballet lessons, even with a teacher who was a walking fantasy. He had better things to do with his time...like figuring out how he was going to get his team to victory.
Given his not-too-distant fall from grace, he had a lot to prove and a reputation to rebuild. In particular he had to convince his coach, his team and the fans that he was at the top of his game again. The last thing he needed was to be distracted by a woman. If it were any other girl he’d simply scratch the itch and move on, but that wasn’t going to be possible given the ongoing nature of their lessons.
Groaning, he pressed his head back against the headrest. He had a bad feeling about her; there was something about her that set his body alight in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time. And the way she’d been staring at him after the lesson...talk about an invitation to sin. Warning bells were going off left, right and centre.
He couldn’t do it—not now that he was finally making progress in clearing the mud from his name. This was going to be his season. Nothing was going to distract him; nothing was going to stand in his way.
* * *
‘No!’
Grant sat bolt upright, rigid as though a steel rod had replaced his spine. Perspiration dripped down the side of his neck, his face, along the length of his spine. He felt around in the dark. The sweat-drenched sheets were bunched in his fists as he held on for dear life.
He was alone.
His breath shook; each gasp was fire in his lungs. His chest heaved as he sucked the air in greedily. More. More.
His eyes adjusted to the dark and he could make out the lines of the furniture around him. City light filtered through the slats of his blinds, creating a pattern on his bed. The apartment was silent; the rest of the world was sleeping while he shook.
Slowly his heartbeat resumed its normal rhythm. The tremors would take a while longer to go away—he knew that from experience. It was only a dream. The dream. The one he had over and over and over—the one that woke him with a fright every single time.
Flashbulbs disorientated him, microphones were shoved in his face.
‘Grant! Grant! Is it true you put a man in hospital? Is it true you beat him to a pulp?’
Shaking his head, he disentangled himself from the bedsheets and strode out to the living room. Starlight streamed in through the window and the city twinkled a silent tune. It was a surreal feeling to be in close proximity to thousands of people and yet be completely and utterly alone.
Opening the lid of his laptop, he settled onto the couch. His personal email showed the same sad scene it did every day: zero new messages. Even Dennis, the closest thing he had to a friend, hadn’t sent him anything...not even a stupid Lolcats photo. He clicked on the folder marked ‘family’ and sighed at the measly three emails that he couldn’t bear to delete. The last one was dated over six months ago.
He checked the spam folder, wondering if—hoping that—maybe a message had got caught in the filter, that maybe someone had reached out to him. No luck. The folder was empty.
He’d never regretted leaving the small country town where he’d grown up to pursue football and success in the big smoke, despite the verbal smack-down he’d got from his father. He could remember with clarity the vein bulging in his father’s forehead as his voice boomed through their modest country property. Those three little words: How could you? How could he desert them? How could he abandon the family business? How could he put a pipe dream before his father and sister?
Those wounds had only started healing, with the tentative phone calls and texts increasing between him and his sister. The old bonds had been there, frayed and worn but not completely broken. Not completely beyond repair. Even his father had provided a gruff enquiry as to Grant’s life in the city.
But all that was gone now. Those fragile threads of reconciliation had been ripped apart when he’d brought shame to the family name. They were his father’s words but he couldn’t dispute them. He didn’t have the right to be mad. He was alone because of his own actions, because of the mess he’d made. And, knowing his father, he wouldn’t get a second chance.
All the more reason to make sure the Jaguars were on top this year. If his career was all he had left he’d give it everything. He would not fail.
Slamming the lid of the laptop shut, he abandoned the couch to grab a drink from the fridge. If sleep was going to be elusive he might as well do something to pass the time.
Copyright © 2014 by Stefanie London
A Deal Before the Altar
Rachael Thomas
‘I can see only one way to secure their happiness …’ Georgina paused, refusing to be drawn. ‘And to satisfy your insatiable need for business success.’
Santos leant forward at his desk. ‘And that is?’
‘You get married first, inherit the business, leaving them to enjoy a happy married life together.’
He looked at her, his handsome face set in a mask so emotionless she blinked in shock. Did this man not have any compassion in his heart?
‘As you seem to have it all worked out, who do you suggest I marry?’ The question came out slowly, as if he was sure he’d foiled her plan.
She took a deep breath and looked directly into his eyes. She mustn’t show any nerves, any fear. He was like a predatory lion and she knew he’d smell it.
‘Me.’
RACHAEL THOMAS was born in Cheltenham, but grew up in Worcester. As a young child she loved to read and make up stories. For as long as she can remember she’s wanted to be a writer. As a teenager she became an avid reader of Mills & Boon®, borrowing endless copies from her local library—a place she loved to be.
In her early twenties she moved to Wales, where she met and married her own hero—which meant embarking on the biggest learning curve of her life as she settled in to her new role as a farmer’s wife. When her two children were in primary school she decided it was time to rekindle her dreams of being a writer.
It took almost seven years to realise those dreams, but along the way she’s met some wonderful people, travelled to amazing places and had a fabulous time. When she entered her story into Harlequin’s So You Think You Can Write contest she never for one moment imagined a publishing contract would be the result. Now she’s thrilled to have achieved her dream, and to be writing for her favourite Mills & Boon line is the icing on the cake.
She loves to contrast her daily life on the farm by spending time creating irresistible heroes and determined heroines whose love affairs play out in glamorous settings. You can visit her website at www.rachaelthomas.co.uk
This is Rachael’s debut story— we hope you love it as much as we do!
To my family and friends, who have supported me always as I’ve pursued my dream,
and to the wonderful friendships I’ve made along the way.
CHAPTER ONE
GEORGINA ENTERED THE sleek luxury of the office and knew she was being watched. Her every step scrutinised by a man who was revered and feared by businessmen and women alike.
‘Ms Henshaw.’ His deep voice, with a hint of accent, was firm and commanding. ‘I don’t think I need to ask why you are here.’
He leant against his desk, arms folded across his broad chest, as if he’d already decided he didn’t want to hear what she had to say. His black hair gleamed, but the intensity in his eyes nearly robbed her of the ability to speak.
‘I’m sure you don’t, Mr Ramirez.’ She injected as much firmness into her voice as she could, determined she wouldn’t be dismissed before she’d said all she had to say. ‘You are, after all, the cause of the problem.’
‘Am I indeed?’ Santos Lopez Ramirez locked his gaze with hers and for a moment she almost lost her nerve. Almost.
She studied his face, looking for a hint of compassion, but there was nothing. His mouth was set in a firm line that highlighted the harsh angles of his cheekbones, softened only slightly by his tanned complexion. His jaw was cleanshaven, but she didn’t miss the way he clenched it, as if biting back his words.
‘You know you are.’ She paused briefly before continuing. ‘You are the one person who is preventing Emma and Carlo from doing what they want.’
‘So what are you going to do about it, Ms Henshaw?’
As he raised his brows in question a flutter of nerves took flight in her stomach. But now was the time to be the woman the world thought she was—the cold and manipulative woman who took exactly what she wanted in life and discarded what she didn’t.
‘I will do whatever it takes to make it happen, Mr Ramirez.’
The butterflies dissipated as she thought of Emma, of all the dreams of a fairytale wedding her younger sister so often spoke about. Her own ideas of love and happiness had long since been shattered, but she wanted her sister to find that dream.
‘That’s a very bold statement.’
Bold. Stupid. It didn’t matter what he thought. All she cared about was Emma’s happiness—happiness was something neither of them had experienced much of in recent years.
‘I’m a very bold woman, Mr Ramirez.’
He smiled. An indolent smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. Her breath caught in her throat and nerves almost swarmed over her as he unfolded his arms and took a purposeful step towards her.
‘I admire that in a woman.’
Tall and unyielding, he stood before her. And despite the spacious office, the wall of windows and the sparse furnishings, he dominated the room.
She stood her ground, refusing to move, to be intimidated. ‘Your admiration is not the reason I’m here.’
‘I don’t have time for games, Ms Henshaw.’
‘I have a deal to put to you, Mr Ramirez.’ He couldn’t dismiss her yet. It had been hard enough getting past his secretary, and she didn’t intend to waste the opportunity.
‘A deal?’
‘I meant what I said.’ She spoke firmly, determined he should never know just how anxious she was, how desperate to achieve her aim. ‘I will do whatever it takes.’
* * *
Santos took in the determined jut of the brunette’s chin. She looked so arrogantly sure of herself that he wondered if she was going to start the Paso Doble right there in his office.
Lust hurtled through his body at the images such thoughts brought to mind.
‘And why would you want to do that?’
Santos returned to his chair and sat down, his gaze running over her body. The charcoal skirt and jacket, although professional and businesslike, did little to disguise her womanly figure. The tantalising hint of a lace camisole beneath the jacket caught his eye, but it was the heels she wore that stole the show. Her designer leopard print heels not only spoke volumes about the real woman, but showcased the most fantastic pair of legs he’d seen in ages. He was entranced, but it was the attitude radiating from her glorious body that really intrigued him.
‘Emma is my sister and I want her to be happy.’
The intensity of her gaze as she spoke only aroused his interest further.
‘I’ll do anything to achieve that.’
He rose from his chair, his body suddenly restless, to stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office. He surveyed the view of London glinting in the autumn sunshine, recalling all he’d discovered about the sister of quiet and demure Emma, the woman his half-brother Carlo was currently dating. A situation that had thrown everything into turmoil.
This woman certainly had a reputation. Widowed at twenty-three, and having been left a substantial fortune, she now led a socialite lifestyle and was never short of male company. A mercenary woman, if the circumstances of her marriage were to be believed.
‘And just how far are you prepared to go in the name of sisterly love?’
Behind him he heard her intake of breath and knew he’d touched a nerve. A stab of desire shot through him as he imagined her sighing in pleasure as he kissed her. Quickly he regained control. Now was not a good time to find himself attracted to a woman—especially one with such a tarnished and scandalous reputation. He had a business to run. One that was a contentious issue between himself and Carlo. One he had to find a solution to quickly. Time was running out.
‘As I have already said, Mr Ramirez, I will do whatever it takes.’ Her voice had a slightly husky quality to it, which threatened to undo his control, so he remained focused on the view of London a moment longer.
Finally he turned to face her, strode across the thick carpet until he stood at her side, his right arm almost touching her shoulder. He looked sideways down at her, catching her light floral scent as he did so. Not the sort usually favoured by a woman of her reputation—it was soft and very feminine.
‘So you agree with their plans to marry...your sister and my brother?’
She stood firm, like a soldier on parade being inspected by a commanding officer. He walked slowly round behind her, admiration building. She didn’t flinch, didn’t move. His gaze was drawn to the streaks of fiery red which entwined in her hair and again he thought of her in his bed, hair wildly fanned out across the pillow.
‘Why shouldn’t they get married?’
Her words drew him sharply back. ‘They are young,’ he said quietly, and walked away from her. Being close distracted him, took his mind from the current problem to more primal matters. ‘Too young.’
‘They are in love.’ The words flew at him across the room with such passion that he stopped to look at her, wondering if she was as indifferent and in control as she wanted him to think. He looked at her beautiful face, the firm set of her full lips and the haughty rise of her brows. Had he just imagined that spark of passion? Conjured it up because of the direction his thoughts had gone? He must have done. As she stood before him she was not only sculpted from ice but frozen to the core.
A challenge indeed.
‘And you believe in love, do you?’ All through his younger years he’d been introduced to an endless stream of his father’s girlfriends. Then as a teenager he’d watched from the sidelines as his father had fallen under the spell of a younger woman. The love they’d shared and later bestowed on Carlo, his new brother, had been incomprehensible to him. It had done little to instil ideas of love and happiness in him.
‘About as much as you do.’
Her gaze met his, stubbornly holding it, provoking him to deny it.
‘Very perceptive, Ms Henshaw. We are, then, kindred spirits, able to enjoy the opposite sex without the drama of emotional attachment.’
This was always the attitude he’d adopted, and one that had begun to feel less and less favourable. But the idea of being so captivated by a woman, so completely under her spell it would make a man turn his back on his son, was even less appealing.
‘Put like that, then, yes, I suppose we are.’
* * *
Georgina cringed inwardly, knowing exactly what he was referring to. Was he really going to drag up her past, use it as a reason to stop his brother from marrying Emma? She wouldn’t let him—not when she now knew the real reason he didn’t want them to marry. She had to change his mind.
For a moment her nerves almost got the better of her. There was only one option she could think of to secure her sister’s happiness, and although it didn’t sit well with her she had to persuade him it was possible.
‘What exactly is it you want, Ms Henshaw?’
A distanced, almost bored tone had entered his voice and she watched him stalk back to the windows, looking more like a caged animal than a businessman.
‘I want to put a business proposition to you.’
He turned instantly, his interest piqued, and she stifled a smile of triumph. She was now talking his language. Business was what made this man tick. That was obvious.
‘A proposition? You?’
He moved back to his desk and gestured her to sit, the muscles of his arm rippling beneath his white shirt snagging her attention. Mentally she shook herself. Getting distracted by his good looks would not help her through this. And hadn’t she told herself months ago that relationships were not what she needed?
‘I’d prefer to stand,’ she said firmly, not missing the quirk of his dark brows.
‘As you wish.’
He sat behind his desk, his dark eyes watching her. She wouldn’t let him intimidate her. She had to remain as calm and detached as possible. So much was riding on her being able to deliver her proposition in an efficient, businesslike manner.
‘I want my sister to be happy, and Carlo makes her happy.’ She tried to keep her voice steady and devoid of emotion. This hard businessman obviously believed all that was written about her in the press. He believed she was cast from the same mould as him. ‘From my understanding of the situation, there is only one solution.’
He didn’t say a word, waiting for her to continue. His silence unnerved her, but she had to stay strong, remain focused.
Quickly she pressed on. ‘I know about the condition in your father’s will.’
‘You are very well informed of my affairs, Ms Henshaw, but I fail to see what business of yours that is.’
His hard expression gave her a glimpse of the formidable businessman he was. She’d done her research on him. ‘I know you have built your business up to the international concern it is today since your father passed away, and that once either you or Carlo marry the business will pass solely to that brother.’ She paused, almost wanting to give up as she looked at him, his dark eyes as bleak as a starless night.
‘Full marks for research,’ he said, his voice as emotionless as she hoped hers was.